13918	----	[Illustration: MOSELEY HALL, STAFFORDSHIRE] SECRET CHAMBERS AND HIDING-PLACES HISTORIC, ROMANTIC, & LEGENDARY STORIES & TRADITIONS ABOUT HIDING-HOLES, SECRET CHAMBERS, ETC. BY ALLAN FEA AUTHOR OF "THE FLIGHT OF THE KING," "KING MONMOUTH," ETC. WITH EIGHTY ILLUSTRATIONS THIRD AND REVISED EDITION CONTENTS CHAPTER I A GREAT DEVISER OF "PRIEST'S HOLES" CHAPTER II HINDLIP HALL CHAPTER III PRIEST-HUNTING AT BRADDOCKS CHAPTER IV THE GUNPOWDER PLOT CONSPIRATORS CHAPTER V HARVINGTON, UFTON, AND INGATESTONE CHAPTER VI COMPTON WINYATES, SALFORD PRIOR, SAWSTON, OXBURGH, PARHAM, PAXHILL, ETC. CHAPTER VII KING-HUNTING: BOSCOBEL, MOSELEY, TRENT, AND HEALE CHAPTER VIII CAVALIER-HUNTING, ETC. CHAPTER IX JAMES II.'S ESCAPES CHAPTER X JAMES II.'S ESCAPES (_continued_): HAM HOUSE, AND "ABDICATION HOUSE" CHAPTER XI MYSTERIOUS ROOMS, DEADLY PITS, ETC. CHAPTER XII HIDING-PLACES IN JACOBITE DWELLINGS AND IN SCOTTISH CASTLES AND MANSIONS CHAPTER XIII CONCEALED DOORS, SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGES, ETC. CHAPTER XIV MINIATURE HIDING-HOLES FOR VALUABLES, ETC. CHAPTER XV HIDING-PLACES OF SMUGGLERS AND THIEVES CHAPTER XVI THE SCOTTISH HIDING-PLACES OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS MOSELEY HALL, STAFFORDSHIRE HINDLIP HALL, WORCESTERSHIRE BRADDOCKS, ESSEX FIREPLACE AT BRADDOCKS ASHBY ST. LEDGERS, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE THE PLOT ROOM, ASHBY ST. LEDGERS HUDDINGTON COURT, WORCESTERSHIRE ENTRANCE PORCH, HUDDINGTON COURT ENTRANCE TO "PRIEST'S HOLE," HARVINGTON HALL HARVINGTON HALL, WORCESTERSHIRE UFTON COURT, BERKSHIRE " " GARDEN TERRACE, BERKSHIRE HIDING-PLACE, UFTON COURT " " " INGATESTONE HALL, ESSEX " " " "PRIEST'S HOLE," SAWSTON HALL SCOTNEY CASTLE, SUSSEX COMPTON WINYATES, WARWICKSHIRE THE MINSTRELS' GALLERY, COMPTON WINYATES SAWSTON HALL, CAMBRIDGESHIRE PICKERSLEIGH COURT, WORCESTERSHIRE SALFORD PRIOR HALL, WARWICKSHIRE " " " " HIDING-PLACE, SALFORD PRIOR SHOWING ENTRANCE TO HIDING PLACE, SALFORD PRIOR OXBURGH HALL, NORFOLK ENTRANCE TO HIDING-PLACE, PARHAM HALL PAXHILL, SUSSEX CLEEVE PRIOR MANOR HOUSE, WORCESTERSHIRE BADDESLEY CLINTON HALL, WARWICKSHIRE HIDING-PLACE BENEATH "THE CHAPEL," BOSCOBEL, SALOP HIDING-PLACE IN "THE SQUIRE'S BEDROOM," BOSCOBEL ENTRANCE TO HIDING-PLACE IN THE GARRET, OR "CHAPEL," BOSCOBEL SECRET PANEL, TRENT HOUSE, SOMERSETSHIRE BOSCOBEL ENTRANCE TO HIDING-PLACE, TRENT HOUSE HIDING-PLACE, TRENT HOUSE TRENT HOUSE IN 1864 HEALE HOUSE, WILTSHIRE MADELEY COURT, SHROPSHIRE " " THE COURTYARD, SHROPSHIRE " " SHROPSHIRE ENTRANCE TO "PRIEST'S HOLE," THE UPPER HOUSE, MADELEY, SHROPSHIRE INTERIOR OF "PRIEST'S HOLE," MOSELEY HALL, STAFFORDSHIRE SECRET PANEL AT SALISBURY SECRET CHAMBER, CHASTLETON, OXFORDSHIRE OLD SUMMER HOUSE, SALISBURY CHASTLETON, OXFORDSHIRE " FRONT ENTRANCE, OXFORDSHIRE BROUGHTON HALL, STAFFORDSHIRE ST. JOHN'S HOSPITAL, WARWICK STAIRCASE, BROUGHTON HALL SHIPTON COURT, OXFORDSHIRE BROUGHTON CASTLE, OXFORDSHIRE ENTRANCE GATE, BRADSHAWE HALL, DERBYSHIRE MOYLES COURT, HAMPSHIRE TODDINGTON MANOR HOUSE, BEDFORDSHIRE, IN 1806 "RAT'S CASTLE," ELMLEY KING'S HILL FARM, ELMLEY, KENT ENTRANCE TO SECRET PASSAGE, "ABDICATION HOUSE," ROCHESTER "ABDICATION HOUSE," ROCHESTER MONUMENT OF SIR RICHARD HEAD "RESTORATION HOUSE," ROCHESTER ARMSCOT MANOR HOUSE, WORCHESTERSHIRE ENTRANCE GATE, ARMSCOT MANOR HOUSE WOODSTOCK PALACE, OXFORDSHIRE MARKYATE CELL, HERTFORDSHIRE BIRTSMORTON COURT, WORCESTERSHIRE PORCH AT CHELVEY COURT, SOMERSETSHIRE HURSTMONCEAUX CASTLE, SUSSEX BOVEY HOUSE, SOUTH DEVON MAPLEDURHAM HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE " " " ENTRANCE TO SECRET STAIRCASE, PARTINGDALE HOUSE, MILL HILL, MIDDLESEX INTRODUCTION The secret chamber is unrivalled even by the haunted house for the mystery and romance surrounding it. Volumes have been written about the haunted house, while the secret chamber has found but few exponents. The ancestral ghost has had his day, and to all intents and purposes is dead, notwithstanding the existence of the Psychical Society and the investigations of Mr. Stead and the late Lord Bute. "Alas! poor ghost!" he is treated with scorn and derision by the multitude in these advanced days of modern enlightenment. The search-light of science has penetrated even into his sacred haunts, until, no longer having a leg to stand upon, he has fallen from the exalted position he occupied for centuries, and fallen moreover into ridicule! In the secret chamber, however, we have something tangible to deal with--a subject not only keenly interesting from an antiquarian point of view, but one deserving the attention of the general reader; for in exploring the gloomy hiding-holes, concealed apartments, passages, and staircases in our old halls and manor houses we probe, as it were, into the very groundwork of romance. We find actuality to support the weird and mysterious stories of fiction, which those of us who are honest enough to admit a lingering love of the marvellous must now doubly appreciate, from the fact that our school-day impressions of such things are not only revived, but are strengthened with the semblance of truth. Truly Bishop Copleston wrote: "If the things we hear told be avowedly fictitious, and yet curious or affecting or entertaining, we may indeed admire the author of the fiction, and may take pleasure in contemplating the exercise of his skill. But this is a pleasure of another kind--a pleasure wholly distinct from that which is derived from discovering what was _unknown_, or clearing up what was _doubtful_. And even when the narrative is in its own nature, such as to please us and to engage our attention, how, greatly is the interest increased if we place entire confidence in its _truth_! Who has not heard from a child when listening to a tale of deep interest--who has not often heard the artless and eager question, 'Is it true?'" From Horace Walpole, Mrs. Radcliffe, Scott, Victor Hugo, Dumas, Lytton, Ainsworth, Le Fanu, and Mrs. Henry Wood, down to the latest up-to-date novelists of to-day, the secret chamber (an ingenious _necessity_ of the "good old times") has afforded invaluable "property"--indeed, in many instances the whole vitality of a plot is, like its ingenious opening, hinged upon the masked wall, behind which lay concealed what hidden mysteries, what undreamed-of revelations! The thread of the story, like Fair Rosamond's silken clue, leads up to and at length reveals the buried secret, and (unlike the above comparison in this instance) all ends happily! Bulwer Lytton honestly confesses that the spirit of romance in his novels "was greatly due to their having been written at my ancestral home, Knebworth, Herts. How could I help writing romances," he says, "after living amongst the secret panels and hiding-places of our dear old home? How often have I trembled with fear at the sound of my own footsteps when I ventured into the picture gallery! How fearfully have I glanced at the faces of my ancestors as I peered into the shadowy abysses of the 'secret chamber.' It was years before I could venture inside without my hair literally bristling with terror." What would _Woodstock_ be without the mysterious picture, _Peveril of the Peak_ without the sliding panel, the Castlewood of _Esmond_ without Father Holt's concealed apartments, _Ninety-Three, Marguerite de Valois, The Tower of London, Guy Fawkes_, and countless other novels of the same type, without the convenient contrivances of which the _dramatis personæ_ make such effectual use? Apart, however, from the importance of the secret chamber in fiction, it is closely associated with many an important historical event. The stories of the Gunpowder Plot, Charles II.'s escape from Worcester, the Jacobite risings of 1715 and 1745, and many another stirring episode in the annals of our country, speak of the service it rendered to fugitives in the last extremity of danger. When we inspect the actual walls of these confined spaces that saved the lives of our ancestors, how vividly we can realise the hardships they must have endured; and in wondering at the mingled ingenuity and simplicity of construction, there is also a certain amount of comfort to be derived from drawing a comparison between those troublous and our own more peaceful times. SECRET CHAMBERS AND HIDING-PLACES CHAPTER I A GREAT DEVISER OF "PRIEST'S HOLES" During the deadly feuds which existed in the Middle Ages, when no man was secure from spies and traitors even within the walls of his own house, it is no matter of wonder that the castles and mansions of the powerful and wealthy were usually provided with some precaution in the event of a sudden surprise--_viz._ a secret means of concealment or escape that could be used at a moment's notice; but the majority of secret chambers and hiding-places in our ancient buildings owe their origin to religious persecution, particularly during the reign of Elizabeth, when the most stringent laws and oppressive burdens were inflicted upon all persons who professed the tenets of the Church of Rome. In the first years of the virgin Queen's reign all who clung to the older forms of the Catholic faith were mercifully connived at, so long as they solemnised their own religious rites within their private dwelling-houses; but after the Roman Catholic rising in the north and numerous other Popish plots, the utmost severity of the law was enforced, particularly against seminarists, whose chief object was, as was generally believed, to stir up their disciples in England against the Protestant Queen. An Act was passed prohibiting a member of the Church of Rome from celebrating the rites of his religion on pain of forfeiture for the first offence, a year's imprisonment for the second, and imprisonment for life for the third.[1] All those who refused to take the Oath of Supremacy were called "recusants" and were guilty of high treason. A law was also enacted which provided that if any Papist should convert a Protestant to the Church of Rome, both should suffer death, as for high treason. [Footnote 1: In December, 1591, a priest was hanged before the door of a house in Gray's Inn Fields for having there said Mass the month previously.] The sanguinary laws against seminary priests and "recusants" were enforced with the greatest severity after the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot. These were revived for a period in Charles II.'s reign, when Oates's plot worked up a fanatical hatred against all professors of the ancient faith. In the mansions of the old Roman Catholic families we often find an apartment in a secluded part of the house or garret in the roof named "the chapel," where religious rites could be performed with the utmost privacy, and close handy was usually an artfully contrived hiding-place, not only for the officiating priest to slip into in case of emergency, but also where the vestments, sacred vessels, and altar furniture could be put away at a moment's notice. It appears from the writings of Father Tanner[1] that most of the hiding-places for priests, usually called "priests' holes," were invented and constructed by the Jesuit Nicholas Owen, a servant of Father Garnet, who devoted the greater part of his life to constructing these places in the principal Roman Catholic houses all over England. [Footnote 1: _Vita et Mors_ (1675), p. 75.] "With incomparable skill," says an authority, "he knew how to conduct priests to a place of safety along subterranean passages, to hide them between walls and bury them in impenetrable recesses, and to entangle them in labyrinths and a thousand windings. But what was much more difficult of accomplishment, he so disguised the entrances to these as to make them most unlike what they really were. Moreover, he kept these places so close a secret with himself that he would never disclose to another the place of concealment of any Catholic. He alone was both their architect and their builder, working at them with inexhaustible industry and labour, for generally the thickest walls had to be broken into and large stones excavated, requiring stronger arms than were attached to a body so diminutive as to give him the nickname of 'Little John,' and by this his skill many priests were preserved from the prey of persecutors. Nor is it easy to find anyone who had not often been indebted for his life to Owen's hiding-places." How effectually "Little John's" peculiar ingenuity baffled the exhaustive searches of the "pursuivants," or priest-hunters, has been shown by contemporary accounts of the searches that took place frequently in suspected houses. Father Gerard, in his Autobiography, has handed down to us many curious details of the mode of procedure upon these occasions--how the search-party would bring with them skilled carpenters and masons and try every possible expedient, from systematic measurements and soundings to bodily tearing down the panelling and pulling up the floors. It was not an uncommon thing for a rigid search to last a fortnight and for the "pursuivants" to go away empty handed, while perhaps the object of the search was hidden the whole time within a wall's thickness of his pursuers, half starved, cramped and sore with prolonged confinement, and almost afraid to breathe, lest the least sound should throw suspicion upon the particular spot where he lay immured. After the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot, "Little John" and his master, Father Garnet, were arrested at Hindlip Hall, Worcestershire, from information given to the Government by Catesby's servant Bates. Cecil, who was well aware of Owen's skill in constructing hiding-places, wrote exultingly: "Great joy was caused all through the kingdom by the arrest of Owen, knowing his skill in constructing hiding-places, and the innumerable number of these dark holes which he had schemed for hiding priests throughout the kingdom." He hoped that "great booty of priests" might be taken in consequence of the secrets Owen would be made to reveal, and directed that first he should "be coaxed if he be willing to contract for his life," but that "the secret is to be wrung from him." The horrors of the rack, however, failed in its purpose. His terrible death is thus briefly recorded by the Governor of the Tower at that time: "The man is dead--he died in our hands"; and perhaps it is as well the ghastly details did not transpire in his report. The curious old mansion Hindlip Hall (pulled down in the early part of the last century) was erected in 1572 by John Abingdon, or Habington, whose son Thomas (the brother-in-law of Lord Monteagle) was deeply involved in the numerous plots against the reformed religion. A long imprisonment in the Tower for his futile efforts to set Mary Queen of Scots at liberty, far from curing the dangerous schemes of this zealous partisan of the luckless Stuart heroine, only kept him out of mischief for a time. No sooner had he obtained his freedom than he set his mind to work to turn his house in Worcestershire into a harbour of refuge for the followers of the older rites. In the quaint irregularities of the masonry free scope was given to "Little John's" ingenuity; indeed, there is every proof that some of his masterpieces were constructed here. A few years before the "Powder Plot" was discovered, it was a hanging matter for a priest to be caught celebrating the Mass. Yet with the facilities at Hindlip he might do so with comfort, with every assurance that he had the means of evading the law. The walls of the mansion were literally riddled with secret chambers and passages. There was little fear of being run to earth with hidden exits everywhere. Wainscoting, solid brickwork, or stone hearth were equally accommodating, and would swallow up fugitives wholesale, and close over them, to "Open, Sesame!" again only at the hider's pleasure. CHAPTER II HINDLIP HALL The capture of Father Garnet and "Little John" with two others, Hall and Chambers, at Hindlip, as detailed in a curious manuscript in the British Museum, gives us an insight into the search-proof merits of Abingdon's mansion. The document is headed: "_A true discovery of the service performed at Hindlip, the house of Mr. Thomas Abbingdon, for the apprehension of Mr. Henry Garnet, alias Wolley, provincial of the Jesuits, and other dangerous persons, there found in January last,_ 1605," and runs on:-- "After the king's royal promise of bountiful reward to such as would apprehend the traitors concerned in the Powder Conspiracy, and much expectation of subject-like duty, but no return made thereof in so important a matter, a warrant was directed to the right worthy and worshipful knight, Sir Henry Bromlie; and the proclamation delivered therewith, describing the features and shapes of the men, for the better discovering them. He, not neglecting so a weighty a business, horsing himself with a seemly troop of his own attendants, and calling to his assistance so many as in discretion was thought meet, having likewise in his company Sir Edward Bromlie, on Monday, Jan. 20 last, by break of day, did engirt and round beat the house of Mayster Thomas Abbingdon, at Hindlip, near Worcester. Mr. Abbingdon, not being then at home, but ridden abroad about some occasions best known to himself; the house being goodlie, and of great receipt, it required the more diligent labour and pains in the searching. It appeared there was no want; and Mr. Abbingdon himself coming home that night, the commission and proclamation being shown unto him, he denied any such men to be in his house, and voluntarily to die at his own gate, if any such were to be found in his house, or in that shire. But this liberal or rather rash speech could not cause the search so slightly to be given over; the cause enforced more respect than words of that or any such like nature; and proceeding on according to the trust reposed in him in the gallery over the gate there were found two cunning and very artificial conveyances in the main brick-wall, so ingeniously framed, and with such art, as it cost much labour ere they could be found. Three other secret places, contrived by no less skill and industry, were found in and about the chimneys, in one whereof two of the traitors were close concealed. These chimney-conveyances being so strangely formed, having the entrances into them so curiously covered over with brick, mortared and made fast to planks of wood, and coloured black, like the other parts of the chimney, that very diligent inquisition might well have passed by, without throwing the least suspicion upon such unsuspicious places. And whereas divers funnels are usually made to chimneys according as they are combined together, and serve for necessary use in several rooms, so here were some that exceeded common expectation, seeming outwardly fit for carrying forth smoke; but being further examined and seen into, their service was to no such purpose but only to lend air and light downward into the concealments, where such as were concealed in them, at any time should be hidden. Eleven secret corners and conveyances were found in the said house, all of them having books, Massing stuff, and Popish trumpery in them, only two excepted, which appeared to have been found on former searches, and therefore had now the less credit given to them; but Mayster Abbingdon would take no knowledge of any of these places, nor that the books, or Massing stuff, were any of his, until at length the deeds of his lands being found in one of them, whose custody doubtless he would not commit to any place of neglect, or where he should have no intelligence of them, whereto he could [not] then devise any sufficient excuse. [Illustration: HINDLIP HALL, WORCESTERSHIRE] Three days had been wholly spent, and no man found there all this while; but upon the fourth day, in the morning, from behind the wainscot in the galleries, came forth two men of their own voluntary accord, as being no longer able there to conceal themselves; for they confessed that they had but one apple between them, which was all the sustenance they had received during the time they were thus hidden. One of them was named Owen, who afterwards murdered himself in the Tower; and the other Chambers; but they would take no other knowledge of any other men's being in the house. On the eighth day the before-mentioned place in the chimney was found, according as they had all been at several times, one after another, though before set down together, for expressing the just number of them. "Forth of this secret and most cunning conveyance came Henry Garnet, the Jesuit, sought for, and another with him, named Hall; marmalade and other sweetmeats were found there lying by them; but their better maintenance had been by a quill or reed, through a little hole in the chimney that backed another chimney into the gentlewoman's chamber; and by that passage candles, broths, and warm drinks had been conveyed in unto them. "Now in regard the place was in so close... and did much annoy them that made entrance in upon them, to whom they confessed that they had not been able to hold out one whole day longer, but either they must have squeeled, or perished in the place. The whole service endured the space of eleven nights and twelve days, and no more persons being there found, in company with Mayster Abbingdon himself, Garnet, Hill [Hall], Owen, and Chambers, were brought up to London to understand further of his highness's pleasure." That the Government had good grounds for suspecting Hindlip and its numerous hiding-places may be gathered from the official instructions the Worcestershire Justice of the Peace and his search-party had to follow. The wainscoting in the east part of the parlour and in the dining-room, being suspected of screening "a vault" or passage, was to be removed, the walls and floors were to be pierced in all directions, comparative measurements were to be taken between the upper and the lower rooms, and in particular the chimneys, and the roof had to be minutely examined and measurements taken, which might bring to light some unaccounted-for space that had been turned to good account by the unfortunate inventor, who was eventually starved out of one of his clever contrivances. Only shortly before Owen had had a very narrow escape at Stoke Poges while engaged in constructing "priests' holes" at the Manor House. The secluded position of this building adapted it for the purpose for which a Roman Catholic zealot had taken it. But this was not the only advantage. The walls were of vast thickness and offered every facility for turning them to account. While "Little John" was busily engaged burrowing into the masonry the dreaded "pursuivants" arrived; but somehow or other he slipped between their fingers and got away under cover of the surrounding woods. The wing of this old mansion which has survived to see the twentieth century witnessed many strange events. It has welcomed good Queen Bess, guarded the Martyr King, and refused admittance to Dutch William. A couple of centuries after it had sheltered hunted Jesuits, a descendant of William Penn became possessed of it, and cleared away many of the massive walls, in some of which--who can tell?--were locked up secrets that the rack failed to reveal--secrets by which Owen "murdered himself" in the Tower! One of the hiding-places at Hindlip, it will be remembered, could be supplied with broth, wine, or any liquid nourishment through a small aperture in the wall of the adjoining room. A very good example of such an arrangement may still be seen at Irnham Hall, in Lincolnshire.[1] A large hiding-place could thus be accommodated, but detection of the narrow iron tube by which the imprisoned fugitive could be kept alive was practically impossible. A solid oak beam, forming a step between two bedrooms, concealed a panel into which the tube was cunningly fitted and the step was so arranged that it could be removed and replaced with the greatest ease.[2] [Footnote 1: The fire which destroyed a wing of Irnham Hall a few years ago fortunately did not touch that part of the building containing a hiding-place.] [Footnote 2: Harvington Hall, mentioned hereafter, has a contrivance of this kind.] The hiding-place at Irnham (which measures eight feet by five, and about five feet six inches in height) was discovered by a tell-tale chimney that was not in the least blackened by soot or smoke. This originally gave the clue to the secret, and when the shaft of the chimney was examined, it was found to lead direct to the priest's hole, to which it afforded air and light. Had not the particular hiding-place in which Garnet and his companions sought shelter been discovered, they could well have held out the twelve days' search. As a rule, a small stock of provisions was kept in these places, as the visits of the search parties were necessarily very sudden and unexpected. The way down into these hidden quarters was from the floor above, through the hearth of a fireplace, which could be raised an lowered like a trap-door.[1] [Footnote 1: See Fowlis's _Romish Treasons._] In a letter from Garnet to Ann Vaux, preserved in the Record Office, he thus describes his precarious situation: "After we had been in the hoale seven days and seven nights and some odd hours, every man may well think we were well wearyed, and indeed so it was, for we generally satte, save that some times we could half stretch ourselves, the place not being high eno', and we had our legges so straitened that we could not, sitting, find place for them, so that we both were in continuous paine of our legges, and both our legges, especially mine, were much swollen. We were very merry and content within, and heard the searchers every day most curious over us, which made me indeed think the place would be found. When we came forth we appeared like ghosts."[2] [Footnote 2: _State Papers_, Domestic (James I.).] There is an old timber-framed cottage near the modern mansion of Hindlip which is said to have had its share in sheltering the plotters. A room is pointed out where Digby and Catesby concealed themselves, and from one of the chimneys at some time or another a priest was captured and led to execution. CHAPTER III PRIEST-HUNTING AT BRADDOCKS In the parish of Wimbish, about six miles from Saffron Walden, stand the remains of a fine old Tudor house named Broad Oaks, or Braddocks, which in Elizabeth's reign was a noted house for priest-hunting. Wandering through its ancient rooms, the imagination readily carries us back to the drama enacted here three centuries ago with a vividness as if the events recorded had happened yesterday. "The chapel" and priests' holes may still be seen, and a fine old stone fireplace that was stripped of its overmantel, etc., of carved oak by the "pursuivants" in their vain efforts when Father Gerard was concealed in the house. [Illustration: BRADDOCKS, ESSEX] [Illustration: FIREPLACE AT BRADDOCKS] The old Essex family of Wiseman of Braddocks were staunch Romanists, and their home, being a noted resort for priests, received from time to time sudden visits. The dreaded Topcliffe had upon one occasion nearly brought the head of the family, an aged widow lady, to the horrors of the press-yard, but her punishment eventually took the form of imprisonment. Searches at Braddocks had brought forth hiding-places, priests, compromising papers, and armour and weapons. Let us see with what success the house was explored in the Easter of the year 1594. Gerard gives his exciting experiences as follows[1]:-- [Footnote 1: See Autobiography of Father John Gerard.] "The searchers broke down the door, and forcing their way in, spread through the house with great noise and racket. "Their first step was to lock up the mistress of the house[2] in her own room with her two daughters, and the Catholic servants they kept locked up in divers places in the same part of the house. [Footnote 2: Jane Wiseman, wife of William Wiseman. N.B.--The late Cardinal Wiseman was descended from a junior branch of this family. See Life of Father John Gerard, by John Morris.] "They then took to themselves the whole house, which was of a good size, and made a thorough search in every part, not forgetting even to look under the tiles of the roof. The darkest corners they examined with the help of candles. Finding nothing whatever they began to break down certain places that they suspected. They measured the walls with long rods, so that if they did not tally they might pierce the part not accounted for. Then they sounded the walls and all the floors to find out and break into any hollow places there might be. "They spent two days in this work without finding anything. Thinking therefore that I had gone on Easter Sunday, the two magistrates went away on the second day, leaving the pursuivants to take the mistress of the house and all her Catholic servants of both sexes to London to be examined and imprisoned. They meant to leave some who were not Catholics to keep the house, the traitor (one of the servants of the house) being one of them. "The good lady was pleased at this, for she hoped that he would be the means of freeing me and rescuing me from death; for she knew that I had made up my mind to suffer and die of starvation between two walls, rather than come forth and save my own life at the expense of others. "In fact, during those four days that I lay hid I had nothing to eat but a biscuit or two and a little quince jelly, which my hostess had at hand and gave me as I was going in. "She did not look for any more, as she supposed that the search would not last beyond a day. But now that two days were gone and she was to be carried off on the third with all her trusty servants, she began to be afraid of my dying of sheer hunger. She bethought herself then of the traitor who she heard was to be left behind. He had made a great fuss and show of eagerness in withstanding the searchers when they first forced their way in. For all that she would not have let him know of the hiding-places, had she not been in such straits. Thinking it better, however, to rescue me from certain death, even at some risk to herself, she charged him, when she was taken away and everyone had gone, to go into a certain room, call me by my wonted name, and tell me that the others had been taken to prison, but that he was left to deliver me. I would then answer, she said, from behind the lath and plaster where I lay concealed. The traitor promised to obey faithfully; but he was faithful only to the faithless, for he unfolded the whole matter to the ruffians who had remained behind. "No sooner had they heard it than they called back the magistrates who had departed. These returned early in the morning and renewed the search. "They measured and sounded everywhere much more carefully than before, especially in the chamber above mentioned, in order to find out some hollow place. But finding nothing whatever during the whole of the third day, they proposed on the morrow to strip off the wainscot of that room. "Meanwhile, they set guards in all the rooms about to watch all night, lest I should escape. I heard from my hiding-place the password which the captain of the band gave to his soldiers, and I might have got off by using it, were it not that they would have seen me issuing from my retreat, for there were two on guard in the chapel where I got into my hiding-place, and several also in the large wainscoted room which had been pointed out to them. "But mark the wonderful Providence of God. Here was I in my hiding-place. The way I got into it was by taking up the floor, made of wood and bricks, under the fireplace. The place was so constructed that a fire could not be lit in it without damaging the house; though we made a point of keeping wood there, as if it were meant for a fire. "Well, the men on the night watch lit a fire in this very grate and began chatting together close to it. Soon the bricks which had not bricks but wood underneath them got loose, and nearly fell out of their places as the wood gave way. On noticing this and probing the place with a stick, they found that the bottom was made of wood, whereupon they remarked that this was something curious. I thought that they were going there and then to break open the place and enter, but they made up their minds at last to put off further examination till next day. "Next morning, therefore, they renewed the search most carefully, everywhere except in the top chamber which served as a chapel, and in which the two watchmen had made a fire over my head and had noticed the strange make of the grate. God had blotted out of their memory all remembrance of the thing. Nay, none of the searchers entered the place the whole day, though it was the one that was most open to suspicion, and if they had entered, they would have found me without any search; rather, I should say, they would have seen me, for the fire had burnt a great hole in my hiding-place, and had I not got a little out of the way, the hot embers would have fallen on me. "The searchers, forgetting or not caring about this room, busied themselves in ransacking the rooms below, in one of which I was said to be. In fact, they found the other hiding-place which I thought of going into, as I mentioned before. It was not far off, so I could hear their shouts of joy when they first found it. But after joy comes grief; and so it was with them. The only thing that they found was a goodly store of provision laid up. Hence they may have thought that this was the place that the mistress of the house meant; in fact, an answer might have been given from it to the call of a person in the room mentioned by her. "They stuck to their purpose, however, of stripping off all the wainscot of the other large room. So they set a man to work near the ceiling, close to the place where I was: for the lower part of the walls was covered with tapestry, not with wainscot. So they stripped off the wainscot all round till they came again to the very place where I lay, and there they lost heart and gave up the search. "My hiding-place was in a thick wall of the chimney behind a finely inlaid and carved mantelpiece. They could not well take the carving down without risk of breaking it. Broken, however, it would have been, and that into a thousand pieces, had they any conception that I could be concealed behind it. But knowing that there were two flues, they did not think that there could be room enough there for a man. "Nay, before this, on the second day of the search, they had gone into the room above, and tried the fireplace through which I had got into my hole. They then got into the chimney by a ladder to sound with their hammers. One said to another in my hearing, 'Might there not be a place here for a person to get down into the wall of the chimney below by lifting up this hearth?' 'No,' answered one of the pursuivants, whose voice I knew, 'you could not get down that way into the chimney underneath, but there might easily be an entrance at the back of this chimney.' So saying he gave the place a knock. I was afraid that he would hear the hollow sound of the hole where I was. "Seeing that their toil availed them nought, they thought that I had escaped somehow, and so they went away at the end of the four days, leaving the mistress and her servants free. The yet unbetrayed traitor stayed after the searchers were gone. As soon as the doors of the house were made fast, the mistress came to call me, another four days buried Lazarus, from what would have been my tomb, had the search continued a little longer. For I was all wasted and weakened as well with hunger as with want of sleep and with having to sit so long in such a narrow space. After coming out I was seen by the traitor, whose treachery was still unknown to us. He did nothing then, not even to send after the searchers, as he knew that I meant to be off before they could be recalled." The Wisemans had another house at North End, a few miles to the south-east of Dunmow. Here were also "priests' holes," one of which (in a chimney) secreted a certain Father Brewster during a rigid search in December, 1593.[1] [Footnote 1: _State Papers_, Dom. (Eliz.), December, 1593. See also Life of Father John Gerard, p. 138.] Great Harrowden, near Wellingborough, the ancient seat of the Vaux family, was another notorious sanctuary for persecuted recusants. Gerard spent much of his time here in apartments specially constructed for his use, and upon more than one occasion had to have recourse to the hiding-places. Some four or five years after his experiences at Braddocks he narrowly escaped his pursuers in this way; and in 1605, when the "pursuivants" were scouring the country for him, as he was supposed to be privy to the Gunpowder Plot, he owed his life to a secret chamber at Harrowden. The search-party remained for nine days. Night and day men were posted round the house, and every approach was guarded within a radius of three miles. With the hope of getting rid of her unwelcome guests, Lady Vaux revealed one of the "priests' holes" to prove there was nothing in her house beyond a few prohibited books; but this did not have the desired effect, so the unfortunate inmate of the hiding-place had to continue in a cramped position, there being no room to stand up, for four or five days more. His hostess, however, managed to bring him food, and moments were seized during the latter days of the search to get him out that he might warm his benumbed limbs by a fire. While these things were going on at Harrowden, another priest, little thinking into whose hands the well-known sanctuary had fallen, came thither to seek shelter; but was seized and carried to an inn, whence it was intended he should be removed to London on the following day. But he managed to outwit his captors. To evade suspicion he threw off his cloak and sword, and under a pretext of giving his horse drink at a stream close by the stable, seized a lucky moment, mounted, and dashed into the water, swam across, and galloped off to the nearest house that could offer the convenience of a hiding-place.[1] [Footnote 1: See Life of John Gerard, p. 386.] At Hackney the Vaux family had another, residence with its chapel and "priest's hole," the latter having a masked entrance high up in the wall, which led to a space under a gable projection of the roof. For double security this contained yet an inner hiding-place. In the existing Brooke House are incorporated the modernised remains of this mansion. CHAPTER IV THE GUNPOWDER PLOT CONSPIRATORS Lord Vaux of Harrowden, Sir William Catesby of Ashby St. Ledgers, and Sir Thomas Tresham of Rushton Hall (all in Northamptonshire) were upon more than one occasion arraigned before the Court of the Star Chamber for harbouring Jesuits. The old mansions Ashby St. Ledgers and Rushton fortunately still remain intact and preserve many traditions of Romanist plots. Sir William Catesby's son Robert, the chief conspirator, is said to have held secret meetings in the curious oak-panelled room over the gate-house of the former, which goes by the name of "the Plot Room." Once upon a time it was provided with a secret means of escape. At Rushton Hall a hiding-place was discovered in 1832 behind a lintel over a doorway; it was full of bundles of manuscripts, prohibited books, and incriminating correspondence of the conspirator Tresham. Another place of concealment was situated in the chimney of the great hall and in this Father Oldcorn was hidden for a time. Gayhurst, or Gothurst, in Buckinghamshire, the seat of Sir Everard Digby, also remains intact, one of the finest late Tudor buildings in the country; unfortunately, however, only recently a remarkable "priest's hole" that was here has been destroyed in consequence of modern improvements. It was a double hiding-place, one situated beneath the other; the lower one being so arranged as to receive light and air from the bottom portion of a large mullioned window--a most ingenious device. A secret passage in the hall had communication with it, and entrance was obtained through part of the flooring of an apartment, the movable part of the boards revolving upon pivots and sufficiently solid to vanquish any suspicion as to a hollow space beneath. [Illustration: ASHBY ST. LEDGERS, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE] [Illustration: THE PLOT ROOM, ASHBY ST. LEGERS] As may be supposed, tradition says that at the time of Digby's arrest he was dragged forth from this hole, but history shows that he was taken prisoner at Holbeach House (where, it will be remembered, the conspirators Catesby and Percy were shot), and led to execution. For a time Digby sought security at Coughton Court, the seat of the Throckmortons, in Warwickshire. The house of this old Roman Catholic family, of course, had its hiding-holes, one of which remains to this day. Holbeach as well as Hagley Hall, the homes of the Litteltons, have been rebuilt. The latter was pulled down in the middle of the eighteenth century. Here it was that Stephen Littleton and Robert Winter were captured through the treachery of the cook. Grant's house, Norbrook, in Warwickshire, has also given way to a modern one. Ambrose Rookwood's seat, Coldham Hall, near Bury St. Edmunds, exists and retains its secret chapel and hiding-places. There are three of the latter; one of them, now a small withdrawing-room, is entered from the oak wainscoted hall. When the house was in the market a few years ago, the "priests' holes" duly figured in the advertisements with the rest of the apartments and offices. It read a little odd, this juxtaposition of modern conveniences with what is essentially romantic, and we simply mention the fact to show that the auctioneer is well aware of the monetary value of such things. At the time of the Gunpowder Conspiracy Rookwood rented Clopton Hall, near Stratford-on-Avon. This house also has its little chapel in the roof with adjacent "priests' holes," but many alterations have taken place from time to time. Who does not remember William Howitt's delightful description--or, to be correct, the description of a lady correspondent--of the old mansion before these restorations. "There was the old Catholic chapel," she wrote, "with a chaplain's room which had been walled up and forgotten till within the last few years. I went in on my hands and knees, for the entrance was very low. I recollect little in the chapel; but in the chaplain's room were old and I should think rare editions of many books, mostly folios. A large yellow paper copy of Dryden's _All for Love, or the World Well Lost_, date 1686, caught my eye, and is the only one I particularly remember."[1] [Footnote 1: Howitt's _Visits to Remarkable Places_.] Huddington Court, the picturesque old home of the Winters (of whom Robert and Thomas lost their lives for their share in the Plot), stands a few miles from Droitwich. A considerable quantity of arms and ammunition were stored in the hiding-places here in 1605 in readiness for general rising. [Illustration: HUDDINGTON COURT, WORCESTERSHIRE] [Illustration: ENTRANCE PORCH, HUDDINGTON COURT] Two other houses may be mentioned in connection with the memorable Plot--houses that were rented by the conspirators as convenient places of rendezvous an account of their hiding-places and masked exits for escape. One of them stood in the vicinity of the Strand, in the fields behind St. Clement's Inn. Father Gerard had taken it some time previous to the discovery of the Plot, and with Owen's aid some very secure hiding-places were arranged. This he had done with two or three other London residences, so that he and his brother priests might use them upon hazardous occasions; and to one of these he owed his life when the hue and cry after him was at its highest pitch. By removing from one to the other they avoided detection, though they had many narrow escapes. One priest was celebrating Mass when the Lord Mayor and constables suddenly burst in. But the surprise party was disappointed: nothing could be detected beyond the smoke of the extinguished candles; and in addition to the hole where the fugitive crouched there were two other secret chambers, neither of which was discovered. On another occasion a priest was left shut up in a wall; his friends were taken prisoners, and he was in danger of starvation, until at length he was rescued from his perilous position, carried to one of the other houses, and again immured in the vault or chimney. The other house was "White Webb's," on the confines of Enfield Chase. In the Record Office there is a document describing how, many Popish books and relics were discovered when the latter was searched. The building was full of trap-doors and secret passages. Some vestiges of the out-buildings of "White Webb's" may still be seen in a quaint little inn called "The King and Tinker." But of all the narrow escapes perhaps Father Blount's experiences at Scotney Castle were the most thrilling. This old house of the Darrells, situated on the border of Kent and Sussex, like Hindlip and Braddocks and most of the residences of the Roman Catholic gentry, contained the usual lurking-places for priests. The structure as it now stands is in the main modern, having undergone from time to time considerable alterations. A vivid account of Blount's hazardous escape here is preserved among the muniments at Stonyhurst--a transcript of the original formerly at St. Omers. One Christmas night towards the close of Elizabeth's reign the castle was seized by a party of priest-hunters, who, with their usual mode of procedure, locked up the members of the family securely before starting on their operations. In the inner quadrangle of the mansion was a very remarkable and ingenious device. A large stone of the solid wall could be pushed aside. Though of immense weight, it was so nicely balanced and adjusted that it required only a slight pressure upon one side to effect an entrance to the hiding-place within. Those who have visited the grounds at Chatsworth may remember a huge piece of solid rock which can be swung round in the same easy manner. Upon the approach of the enemy, Father Blount and his servant hastened to the courtyard and entered the vault; but in their hurry to close the weighty door a small portion of one of their girdles got jammed in, so that a part was visible from the outside. Fortunately for the fugitives, someone in the secret, in passing the spot, happened to catch sight of this tell-tale fragment and immediately cut it off; but as a particle still showed, they called gently to those within to endeavour to pull it in, which they eventually succeeded in doing. At this moment the pursuivants were at work in another part of the castle, but hearing the voice in the courtyard, rushed into it and commenced battering the walls, and at times upon the very door of the hiding-place, which would have given way had not those within put their combined weight against it to keep it from yielding. It was a pitchy dark night, and it was pelting with rain, so after a time, discouraged at finding nothing and wet to the skin, the soldiers put off further search until the following morning, and proceeded to dry and refresh themselves by the fire in the great hall. When all was at rest, Father Blount and his man, not caring to risk another day's hunting, cautiously crept forth bare-footed, and after managing to scale some high walls, dropt into the moat and swam across. And it was as well for them that they decided to quit their hiding-hole, for next morning it was discovered. The fugitives found temporary security at another recusant house a few miles from Scotney, possibly the old half-timber house of Twissenden, where a secret chapel and adjacent "priests' holes" are still pointed out. The original manuscript account of the search at Scotney was written by one of the Darrell family, who was in the castle at the time of the events recorded.[1] [Footnote 1: See Morris's _Troubles of our Catholic Forefathers._] CHAPTER V HARVINGTON, UFTON, AND INGATESTONE We will now go in search of some of the most curious hiding-places in existence. There are numerous known examples all over the country, and perhaps as many again exist, which will preserve their secret for ever. For more than three hundred years they have remained buried, and unless some accident reveals their locked-up mysteries, they will crumble away with the walls which contain them; unless, indeed, fire, the doom of so many of our ancestral halls, reduces them to ashes and swallows up the weird stories they might have told. In many cases not until an ancient building is pulled down are such strange discoveries made; but, alas! there are as many instances where structural alterations have wantonly destroyed these interesting historical landmarks. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO "PRIEST'S HOLE," HARVINGTON HALL] [Illustration: HARVINGTON HALL, WORCESTERSHIRE] Unaccounted-for spaces, when detected, are readily utilised. Passages are bodily run through the heart of many a secret device, with little veneration for the mechanical ingenuity that has been displayed in their construction. The builder of to-day, as a rule, knows nothing of and cares less, for such things, and so they are swept away without a thought. To such vandals we can only emphasise the remarks we have already made about the market value of a "priest-hole" nowadays. A little to the right of the Kidderminster road, and about two miles from the pretty village of Chaddesley Corbet, with its old timber houses and inn, stands the ghostly old hall of Harvington. The ancient red-brick pile rises out of its reed-grown moat with that air of mystery which age and seeming neglect only can impart. Coming upon it unexpectedly, especially towards dusk, one is struck with the strange, dignified melancholy pervading it. Surely Hood's _Haunted House_ or Poe's _House of Usher_ stands before us, and we cannot get away from the impression that a mystery is wrapped within its walls. Harvington Hall dates from the reign of Henry VIII., but it has undergone various changes, so it is difficult to affix any particular period or style to its architecture; indeed, it is this medley of different styles which forms such a poetically picturesque outline. In its day Harvington could doubtless hold its own with the finest mansions in the country, but now it is forgotten, deserted, and crumbling to pieces. Its very history appears to be lost to the world, as those who go to the county histories and general topographical works for information will find. Inside the mansion, like the exterior, the hand of decay is perceptible on every side; the rooms are ruined, the windows broken, the floors unsafe (excepting, by the way, a small portion of the building which is habitable). A ponderous broad oak staircase leads to a dismantled state-room, shorn of the principal part of its panelling, carving, and chimney-pieces.[1] Other desolate apartments retain their names as if in mockery; "the drawing-room," "the chapel," "Lady Yates's nursery," and so forth. At the top of the staircase, however, we must look around carefully, for beneath the stairs is a remarkable hiding-place. [Footnote 1: Most of the interior fittings were removed to Coughton Court, Warwickshire.] With a slight stretch of the imagination we can see an indistinct form stealthily remove the floorboard of one of the stairs and creep beneath it. This particular step of a short flight running from the landing into a garret is, upon closer inspection, indeed movable, and beneath gapes a dark cavity about five feet square, on the floor of which still remains the piece of sedge matting whereon a certain Father Wall rested his aching limbs a few days prior to his capture and execution in August, 1679. The unfortunate man was taken at Rushock Court, a few miles away where he was traced after leaving Harvington. There is a communication between the hiding-place and "the banqueting-room" through, a small concealed aperture in the wainscoting large enough to admit of a tube, through which a straw could be thrust for the unhappy occupant to suck up any liquid his friends might be able to supply. In a gloomy corridor leading from the tower to "the reception-room" is another "priest's hole" beneath the floor, and entered by a trap-door artfully hidden in the boards; this black recess is some seven feet in depth, and can be made secure from within. Supposing the searchers had tracked a fugitive priest as far as this corridor, the odds are in favour that they would have passed over his head in their haste to reach the tower, where they would make sure, in their own minds at least, of discovering him. Again, here there is a communication with the outside world. An oblong aperture in the top oak beam of the entrance gateway to the house, measuring about four inches across, is the secret opening--small enough to escape the most inquisitive eye, yet large enough to allow of a written note to pass between the captive and those upon the alert watching his interests.[1] [Footnote 1: N.B.--In addition to the above hiding-places at Harvington, one was discovered so recently as 1894; at least, so we have been informed. This was some years after our visit to the old Hall.] A subterranean passage is said to run under the moat from a former hiding-place, but this is doubtful; at any rate, there are no evidences of it nowadays. [Illustration: UFTON COURT, BERKSHIRE] [Illustration: GARDEN TERRACE, UFTON COURT] Altogether, Harvington is far from cheerful, even to a pond hard by called "Gallows Pool"! The tragic legend associated with this is beyond the province of the present work, so we will bid adieu to this weird old hall, and turn our attention to another obscure house situated in the south-east corner of Berkshire. The curious, many-gabled mansion Ufton Court both from its secluded situation and quaint internal construction, appears to have been peculiarly suitable for the secretion of persecuted priests. Here are ample means for concealment and escape into the surrounding woods; and so carefully have the ingenious bolts and locks of the various hiding-places been preserved, that one would almost imagine that there was still actual necessity for their use in these matter-of-fact days! A remarkable place for concealment exists in one of the gables close to the ceiling. It is triangular in shape, and is opened by a spring-bolt that can be unlatched by pulling a string which runs through a tiny hole pierced in the framework of the door of the adjoining room. The door of the hiding-place swings upon a pivot, and externally is thickly covered with plaster, so as to resemble the rest of the wall, and is so solid that when sounded there is no hollow sound from the cavity behind, where, no doubt the crucifix and sacred vessels were secreted. [Illustration: HIDING-PLACE, UFTON COURT] [Illustration: HIDING PLACE, UFTON COURT] Not far off, in an upper garret, is a hiding-place in the thickness of the wall, large enough to contain a man standing upright. Like the other, the door, or entrance, forms part of the plaster wall, intersected by thick oak beams, into which it exactly fits, disguising any appearance of an opening. Again, in one of the passages of this curious old mansion are further evidences of the hardships to which Romish priests were subjected--a trap in the floor, which can only be opened by pulling up what exteriorly appears to be the head of one of the nails of the flooring; by raising this a spring is released and a trap-door opened, revealing a large hole with a narrow ladder leading down into it. When this hiding-place was discovered in 1830, its contents were significant--_viz._ a crucifix and two ancient petronels. Apartments known as "the chapel" and "the priest's vestry" are still pointed out. The walls throughout the house appear to be intersected with passages and masked spaces, and old residents claim to have worked their way by these means right through from the garrets to the basement, though now the several hiding-places do not communicate one with another. There are said to be no less than twelve places of concealment in various parts of the building. A shaft in the cellar is supposed to be one of the means of exit from "the dining-room," and at the back of the house a subterranean passage may still be traced a considerable distance under the terrace. [Illustration: INGATESTONE HALL, ESSEX] [Illustration: INGATESTONE HALL] An interesting discovery was made some years ago at Ingatestone Hall, Essex, the ancient seat of the Petres. The late Rev. Canon Last, who had resided there as private chaplain for over sixty years, described to us the incidents of this curious "find," to which he was an eye-witness. Some of the floor-boards in the south-east corner of a small ante-room adjoining what was once "the host's bedroom," facing the south front, broke away, rotten with age, while some children were playing there. These being removed, a second layer of boards was brought to light within a foot of the old flooring, and in this a trap-door was found which, when opened, discovered a large "priest's hole," measuring fourteen feet long, ten feet high, and two feet wide. A twelve-step ladder led down into it, and the floor being on a level with the basement of the house was covered with a layer of dry sand to the depth of nearly a foot, so as to absorb any moisture from the ground.[1] In the sand a few bones of a bird were found, possibly the remains of food supplied to some unfortunate priest. Those who climb down into this hole will find much that is interesting to repay them their trouble. From the wall projects a candle-holder, rudely modelled out of clay. An examination of the brick-work in the interior of the "priest's hole" proves it to be of later construction than the rest of the house (which dates from the early part of the sixteenth century), so in all likelihood "Little John" was the manufacturer. [Footnote 1: At Moorcroft House, near Hillingdon, Middlesex, now modernised and occupied as a private lunatic asylum, ten priests were once concealed for four days in a hiding-place, the floor of which was covered some inches in water. This was one of the many comforts of a "priest's hole"!] Standing in the same position as when first opened, and supported by two blocks of oak, is an old chest or packing-case made of yew, covered with leather, and bound with bands of iron, wherein formerly the vestments, utensils, etc., for the Mass were kept. Upon it, in faded and antiquated writing, was the following direction: "For the Right Hon. the Lady Petre at Ingatestone Hall, in Essex." The Petres had quitted the old mansion as a residence for considerably over a century when the discovery was made. [Illustration: PRIEST'S HOLE, SAWSTON HALL] CHAPTER VI COMPTON WINYATES, SALFORD PRIOR, SAWSTON, OXBURGH, PARHAM, PAXHILL, ETC. Of all the ancient mansions in the United Kingdom, and there is still, happily, a large selection, none perhaps is so picturesque and quaintly original in its architecture as the secluded Warwickshire house Compton Winyates. The general impression of its vast complication of gable ends and twisted chimneys is that some enchanted palace has found its way out of one of the fairy-tale books of our early youth and concealed itself deep down in a sequestered hollow among the woods and hills. We say concealed itself, for indeed it is no easy matter to find it, for anything in the shape of a road seems rather to lead _away from_, than _to_ it; indeed, there is no direct road from anywhere, and if we are fortunate enough to alight upon a footpath, that also in a very short time fades away into oblivion! So solitary also is the valley in which the mansion lies and so shut in with thick clustering trees, that one unacquainted with the locality might pass within fifty yards of it over and over again without observing a trace of it. When, however, we do discover the beautiful old structure, we are well repaid for what trouble we may have encountered. To locate the spot within a couple of miles, we may state that Brailes is its nearest village; the nearest town is Banbury, some nine miles away to the east. Perhaps if we were to analyse the peculiar charm this venerable pile conveys, we should find that it is the wonderful _colour_, the harmonies of greys and greens and reds which pervade its countless chimney clusters and curious step-gables. We will be content, however, with the fascinating results, no matter how accomplished, without inquiring into the why and wherefore; and pondering over the possibilities of the marvellous in such a building see, if the interior can carry out such a supposition. [Illustration: SCOTNEY HALL, SUSSEX] [Illustration: COMPTON WINYATES, WARWICKSHIRE] Wending our way to the top of the house, past countless old-world rooms and corridors, we soon discover evidences of the days of priest-hunting. A "Protestant" chapel is on the ground floor (with a grotesquely carved screen of great beauty), but up in the roof we discover another--a "Popish" chapel. From this there are numerous ways of escape, by staircases and passages leading in all directions, for even in the almost impenetrable seclusion of this house the profoundest secrecy was necessary for those who wished to celebrate the rites of the forbidden religion. Should the priest be surprised and not have time to descend one of the many staircases and effect his escape by the ready means in the lower part of the house, there are secret closets between the timber beams of the roof and the wainscot into which he could creep. Curious rooms run along each side in the roof round the quadrangle, called "the barracks," into which it would be possible to pack away a whole regiment of soldiers. Not far away are "the false floors," a typical Amy Robsart death-trap! A place of security here, once upon a time, could only be reached by a ladder; later, however, it was made easier of access by a dark passage, but it was as secure as ever from intrusion. The fugitive had the ready means of isolating himself by removing a large portion of the floor-boards; supposing, therefore, his lurking-place had been traced, he had only to arrange this deadly gap, and his pursuers would run headlong to their fate. Many other strange rooms there are, not the least interesting of which is a tiny apartment away from everywhere called "the Devil's chamber," and another little chamber whose window is _invariably found open in the morning, though securely fastened on the previous night!_ Various finds have been made from time to time at Compton Winyates. Not many years ago a bricked-up space was found in a wall containing a perfect skeleton!--at another an antique box full of papers belonging to the past history of the family (the Comptons) was discovered in a secret cavity beneath one of the windows. [Illustration: MINSTREL'S GALLERY, COMPTON WINYATES] The "false floors" to which we have alluded suggests a hiding-place that was put to very practical use by two old maiden ladies some years ago at an ancient building near Malvern, Pickersleigh Court. Each night before retiring to rest some floor-boards of a passage, originally the entrance to a "priest's hole," were removed. This passage led to their bedroom, so that they were protected much in the same way as the fugitive at Compton Winyates, by a yawning gap. Local tradition does not record how many would-be burglars were trapped in this way, but it is certain that should anyone ever have ventured along that passage, they would have been precipitated with more speed than ceremony into a cellar below. Pickersleigh, it may be pointed out, is erroneously shown in connection with the wanderings of Charles II. after the battle Worcester.[1] [Footnote 1: See _The Flight of the King._] Salford Prior Hall (otherwise known as "the Nunnery," or Abbots Salford), not far from Evesham, is another mansion remarkable for its picturesqueness as well as for its capacity for hiding. It not only has its Roman Catholic chapel, but a resident priest holds services there to this day. Up in the garret is the "priest's hole," ready, it would seem, for some present emergency, so well is it concealed and in such perfect working order; and even when its position is pointed out, nothing is to be seen but the most innocent-looking of cupboards. By removing a hidden peg, however, the whole back of it, shelves and all, swings backwards into a dismal recess some four feet in depth. This deceitful swing door may be secured on the inside by a stout wooden bolt provided for that purpose. [Illustration: COMPTON WINYATES, WARWICKSHIRE] [Illustration: SAWSTON HALL, CAMBRIDGESHIRE] [Illustration: PICKERSLEIGH COURT, WORCESTERSHIRE] [Illustration: SALFORD PRIOR HALL, WARWICKSHIRE] [Illustration: SALFORD PRIOR HALL] [Illustration: HIDING-PLACE, SALFORD PRIOR] [Illustration: HIDING-PLACE, SALFORD PRIOR (SHEWING ENTRANCE)] Another hiding place as artfully contrived and as little changed since the day it was manufactured is one at Sawston, the ancestral seat of the old family of Huddleston. Sawston Hall is a typical Elizabethan building. The one which preceded it was burnt to the ground by the adherents of Lady Jane Grey, as the Huddleston of that day, upon the death of King Edward VI., received his sister Mary under his protection, and contrived her escape to Framlingham Castle, where she was carried in disguise, riding pillion behind a servant. The secret chamber, as at Harvington, is on the top landing of the staircase, and the entrance is so cleverly arranged that it slants into the masonry of a circular tower without showing the least perceptible sign from the exterior of a space capable of holding a baby, far less a man. A particular board in the landing is raised, and beneath it, in a corner of the cavity, is found a stone slab containing a circular aperture, something after the manner of our modern urban receptacles for coal. From this hole a tunnel slants downwards at an angle into the adjacent wall, where there is an apartment some twelve feet in depth, and wide enough to contain half a dozen people--that is to say, not bulky ones, for the circular entrance is far from large. Blocks of oak fixed upon the inside of the movable floor-board fit with great nicety into their firm oak sockets in the beams, which run at right angles and support the landing, so that the opening is so massive and firm that, unless pointed out, the particular floor-board could never be detected, and when secured from the inside would defy a battering-ram. [Illustration: OXBURGH HALL, NORFOLK] The Huddlestons, or rather their connections the Thornboroughs, have an old house at Leyburn, in Yorkshire, named "The Grove," which also contained its hiding-place, but unfortunately this is one of those instances where alterations and modern conveniences have destroyed what can never be replaced. The priest, Father John Huddleston (who aided King Charles II. to escape, and who, it will be remembered, was introduced to that monarch's death-bed by way of a _secret staircase_ in the palace of Whitehall), lived in this house some time during the seventeenth century. One of the most ingenious hiding-places extant is to be seen at Oxburgh Hall, near Stoke Ferry, the grand old moated mansion of the ancient Bedingfield family. In solidity and compactness it is unique. Up in one of the turrets of the entrance gateway is a tiny closet, the floor of which is composed of brickwork fixed into a wooden frame. Upon pressure being applied to one side of this floor, the opposite side heaves up with a groan at its own weight. Beneath lies a hollow, seven feet square, where a priest might lie concealed with the gratifying knowledge that, however the ponderous trap-door be hammered from above, there would be no tell-tale hollowness as a response. Having bolted himself in, he might to all intents and purposes be imbedded in a rock (though truly a toad so situated is not always safe from intrusion). Three centuries have rolled away and thirteen sovereigns have reigned since the construction of this hiding-place, but the mechanism of this masterpiece of ingenuity remains as perfect as if it had been made yesterday! Those who may be privileged with permission to inspect the interesting hall will find other surprises where least expected. An oak-panelled passage upon the basement of the aforesaid entrance gateway contains a secret door that gives admittance into the living-rooms in the most eccentric manner. A priest's hole beneath the floor of a small oratory adjoining "the chapel" (now a bedroom) at Borwick Hall, Lancashire, has an opening devised much in the same fashion as that at Oxburgh. By leaning his weight upon a certain portion of the boards, a fugitive could slide into a convenient gap, while the floor would adjust itself above his head and leave no trace of his where-abouts. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO HIDING-PLACE, PARHAM HALL, SUSSEX] Window-seats not uncommonly formed the entrance to holes beneath the level of the floor. In the long gallery of Parham Hall, Sussex, an example of this may be seen. It is not far from "the chapel," and the officiating priest in this instance would withdraw a panel whose position is now occupied by a door; but the entrance to the hiding-place within the projecting bay of the window is much the same as it ever was. After the failure of the Babington conspiracy one Charles Paget was concealed here for some days. The Tudor house of Tusmore, in Oxfordshire, also had a secret chamber, approached through a fixed settle in "the parlour" window. A tradition in the neighbourhood says that the great fish-pond near the site of the old house was dug by a priest and his servant in the days of religious persecution, constituting their daily occupation for twelve years! Paxhill, in Sussex, the ancient seat of the Bordes, has a priest's hole behind a window-shutter, and it is large enough to hold several persons; there is another large hiding-hole in the ceiling of a room on the ground floor, which is reached through a trap-door in the floor above. It is provided with a stone bench. In castles and even ecclesiastical buildings sections of massive stone columns have been found to rotate and reveal a hole in an adjacent wall--even an altar has occasionally been put to use for concealing purposes. At Naworth Castle, for instance, in "Lord William's Tower," there is an oratory behind the altar, in which fugitives not only could be hidden but could see anything that transpired in its vicinity. In Chichester Cathedral there is a room called Lollards' Prison, which is approached by a sliding panel in the old consistory-room situated over the south porch. The manor house of Great Chalfield, in Wiltshire, has a unique device by which any suspected person could be watched. The eye of a stone mask in the masonry is hollowed out and through this a suspicious lord of the manor could, unseen, be a witness to any treachery on the part of his retainers or guests. [Illustration: PAXHILL, SUSSEX] [Illustration: CLEEVE PRIOR MANOR HOUSE, WORCESTERSHIRE] The old moated hall Baddesley Clinton, in Warwickshire, the ancient seat of the Ferrers, has a stone well or shaft near "the chapel." There were formerly projections or steps by which a fugitive could reach a secret passage extending round nearly two sides of the house to a small water-gate by the moat, where a boat was kept in readiness. Adjoining the "banqueting-room" on the east side of the building is a secret chamber six feet square with a bench all round it. It is now walled up, but the narrow staircase, behind the wainscoting, leading up to it is unaltered. Cleeve Prior Manor House, in Worcestershire (though close upon the border of Warwickshire)) famous for its unique yew avenue, has a priest's hole, a cramped space five feet by two, in which it is necessary to lie down. As at Ingatestone, it is below the floor of a small chamber adjoining the principal bedroom, and is entered by removing one of the floor-boards. Wollas Hall, an Elizabethan mansion on Bredon Hill, near Pershore (held uninterruptedly by the Hanford family since the sixteenth century), has a chapel in the upper part of the house, and a secret chamber, or priest's hole, provided with a diminutive fire-place. When the officiating priest was about to celebrate Mass, it was the custom here to spread linen upon the hedges as a sign to those in the adjacent villages who wished to attend. A hiding-place at Treago, Herefordshire (an unique specimen of a thirteenth-century fortified mansion) inhabited by the Mynor family for more than four hundred years), has quite luxurious accommodation--a sleeping-place and a reading-desk. It is called "Pope's Hole." The walls on the south-east side of the house are of immense thickness, and there are many indications of secret passages within them. [Illustration: BADDESLEY CLINTON, WARWICKSHIRE] Some fifty years ago a hiding-hole was opened in a chimney adjoining "the chapel" of Lydiate Hall, Lancashire; and since then one was discovered behind the rafters of the roof. Another ancient house close by contained a priest's hole where were found some religious books and an old carved oak chair. Myddleton Lodge, near Ilkley, had a secret chapel in the roof, which is now divided up into several apartments. In the grounds is to be seen a curious maze of thickly planted evergreens in the shape of a cross. From the fact that at one end remain three wooden crosses, there is but little doubt that at the time of religious persecution the privacy of the maze was used for secret worship. When Slindon House, Sussex, was undergoing some restorations, a "priest's hole" communicating with the roof was discovered. It contained some ancient devotional books, and against the walls were hung stout leathern straps, by which a person could let himself down. The internal arrangements at Plowden Hall, Shropshire, give one a good idea of the feeling of insecurity that must have been so prevalent in those "good old days." Running from the top of the house there is in the thickness of the wall, a concealed circular shoot about a couple of feet in diameter, through which a person could lower himself, if necessary, to the ground floor by the aid of a rope. Here also, beneath the floor-boards of a cupboard in one of the bedrooms, is a concealed chamber with a fixed shelf, presumably provided to act as a sort of table for the unfortunate individual who was forced to occupy the narrow limits of the room. Years before this hiding-place was opened to the light of day (in the course of some alterations to the house), its existence and actual position was well known; still, strange to say, the way into it had never been discovered. CHAPTER VII KING-HUNTING: BOSCOBEL, MOSELEY, TRENT, AND HEALE When the Civil War was raging, many a defeated cavalier owed his preservation to the "priests' holes" and secret chambers of the old Roman Catholic houses all over the country. Did not Charles II. himself owe his life to the conveniences offered at Boscobel, Moseley, Trent, and Heale? We have elsewhere[1] gone minutely into the young king's hair-breadth adventures; but the story is so closely connected with the present subject that we must record something of his sojourn at these four old houses, as from an historical point of view they are of exceptional interest, if one but considers how the order of things would have been changed had either of these hiding-places been discovered at the time "his Sacred Majesty" occupied them. It is vain to speculate upon the probabilities; still, there is no ignoring the fact that had Charles been captured he would have shared the fate of his father. [Footnote 1: See _The Flight of the King_.] [Illustration: HIDING-PLACE BENEATH "THE CHAPEL," BOSCOBEL, SALOP] [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO HIDING-PLACE IN "THE GARRET" OR "CHAPEL," BOSCOBEL] [Illustration: HIDING-PLACE IN "THE SQUIRE'S BEDROOM," BOSCOBEL] [Illustration: SECRET PANEL, TRENT HOUSE, SOMERSETSHIRE] [Illustration: BOSCOBEL, SALOP] [Illustration: HIDING-PLACE, TRENT HOUSE] [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO HIDING-PLACE, TRENT HOUSE] [Illustration: TRENT HOUSE IN 1864] [Illustration: HEALE HOUSE, WILTSHIRE] After the defeat of Wigan, the gallant Earl of Derby sought refuge at the isolated, wood-surrounded hunting-lodge of Boscobel, and after remaining there concealed for two days, proceeded to Gatacre Park, now rebuilt, but then and for long after famous for its secret chambers. Here he remained hidden prior to the disastrous battle of Worcester. Upon the close of that eventful third of September, 1651, the Earl, at the time that the King and his advisers knew not which way to turn for safety, recounted his recent experiences, and called attention to the loyalty of the brothers Penderel. It was speedily resolved, therefore, to hasten northwards towards Brewood Forest, upon the borders of Staffordshire and Salop. "As soon as I was disguised," says Charles, "I took with me a country fellow whose name was Richard Penderell.... He was a Roman Catholic, and I chose to trust them [the Penderells] because I knew they had hiding-holes for priests that I thought I might make use of in case of need." Before taking up his quarters in the house, however, the idea of escaping into Wales occured to Charles, so, when night set in, he quitted Boscobel Wood, where he had been hidden all the day, and started on foot with his rustic guide in a westerly direction with the object of getting over the river Severn, but various hardships and obstacles induced Penderel to suggest a halt at a house at Madeley, near the river, where they might rest during the day and continue the journey under cover of darkness on the following night; the house further had the attraction of "priests' holes." "We continued our way on to the village upon the Severn," resumes the King, "where the fellow told me there was an honest gentleman, one Mr. Woolfe, that lived in that town, where I might be with great safety, for he had hiding-holes for priests.... So I came into the house a back way, where I found Mr. Woolfe, an old gentleman, who told me he was very sorry to see me there, because there was two companies of the militia foot at that time in arms in the town, and kept a guard at the ferry, to examine everybody that came that way in expectation of catching some that might be making their escape that way; and that he durst not put me into any of the hiding-holes of his house, because they had been discovered, and consequently, if any search should be made, they would certainly repair to these holes, and that therefore I had no other way of security but to go into his barn and there lie behind his corn and hay." [Illustration: MADELEY COURT, SHROPSHIRE] [Illustration: THE COURTYARD, MADELEY COURT] [Illustration: MADELEY COURT] [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO "PRIEST'S HOLE," THE UPPER HOUSE, MADELEY] The Madeley "priest's hole" which was considered unsafe is still extant. It is in one of the attics of "the Upper House," but the entrance is now very palpable. Those who are curious enough to climb up into this black hole will discover a rude wooden bench within it--a luxury compared with some hiding-places! The river Severn being strictly guarded everywhere, Charles and his companions retraced their steps the next night towards Boscobel. After a day spent up in the branches of the famous _Royal Oak_, the fugitive monarch made his resting-place the secret chamber behind the wainscoting of what is called "the Squire's Bedroom." There is another hiding-place, however, hard by in a garret which may have been the one selected. The latter lies beneath the floor of this garret, or "Popish chapel," as it was once termed. At the top of a flight of steps leading to it is a small trap-door, and when this is removed a step-ladder may be seen leading down into the recess.[1] The other place behind the wainscot is situated in a chimney stack and is more roomy in its proportions. Here again is an inner hiding-place, entered through a trap-door in the floor, with a narrow staircase leading to an exit in the basement. So much for Boscobel. [Footnote 1: The hiding-place in the garret measures about 5 feet 2 inches in depth by 3-1/2 or 4-1/2 feet in width.] Moseley Hall is thus referred to by the King: "I... sent Penderell's brother to Mr. Pitchcroft's [Whitgreaves] to know whether my Lord Wilmot was there or no, and had word brought me by him at night that my lord was there, that there was a _very secure hiding-hole_ in Mr. Pitchcroft's house, and that he desired me to come thither to him." It was while at Moseley the King had a very narrow escape. A search-party arrived on the scene and demanded admittance. Charles's host himself gives the account of this adventure: "In the afternoon [the King] reposing himself on his bed in the parlour chamber and inclineing to sleep, as I was watching at the window, one of the neighbours I saw come running in, who told the maid soldiers were comeing to search, who thereupon presentlie came running to the staires head, and cried, 'Soldiers, soldiers are coming,' which his majestie hearing presentlie started out of his bedd and run to _his privacie, where I secured him the best I could_, and then leaving him, went forth into the street to meet the soldiers who were comeing to search, who as soon as they saw and knew who I was were readie to pull mee to pieces, and take me away with them, saying I was come from the Worcester fight; but after much dispute with them, and by the neighbours being informed of their false information that I was not there, being very ill a great while, they let mee goe; but till I saw them clearly all gone forth of the town I returned not; but as soon as they were, I returned to release him and did acquaint him with my stay, which hee thought long, and then hee began to bee very chearful again. In the interim, whilst I was disputing with the soldiers, one of them called Southall came in the ffould and asked a smith, as hee was shooing horses there, if he could tell where the King was, and he should have "a thousand pounds for his payns...." This Southall was a great priest-catcher. [Illustration: "PRIEST'S HOLE," MOSELEY HALL, STAFFORDSHIRE] The hiding-place is located beneath the floor of a cupboard, adjoining the quaint old panelled bedroom the King occupied while he was at Moseley. Even "the merry monarch" must have felt depressed in such a dismal hole as this, and we can picture his anxious expression, as he sat upon the rude seat of brick which occupies one end of it, awaiting the result of the sudden alarm. The cupboard orginally was screened with wainscoting, a panel of which could be opened and closed by a spring. Family tradition also says there was a outlet from the hiding-place in a brew-house chimney. Situated in a gable end of the building, near the old chapel, in a garret, there is another "priest's hole" large enough only to admit of a person lying down full length. Before the old seat of the Whitgreaves was restored some fifteen or twenty years ago it was one of the most picturesque half-timber houses, not only in Staffordshire, but in England. It had remained practically untouched since the day above alluded to (September 9th, 1651). Before reaching Trent, in Somersetshire, the much sought-for king had many hardships to undergo and many strange experiences. We must, however, confine our remarks to those of the old buildings which offered him an asylum that could boast a hiding-place. Trent House was one of these. The very fact that it originally belonged to the recusant Gerard family is sufficient evidence. From the Gerards it passed by marriage to the Wyndhams, who were in residence in the year we speak of. That his Majesty spent much of his time in the actual hiding-place at Trent is very doubtful. Altogether he was safely housed here for over a fortnight, and during that time doubtless occasional alarms drove him, as at Moseley, into his sanctuary; but a secluded room was set apart for his use, where he had ample space to move about, and from which he could reach his hiding-place at a moment's notice. The black oak panelling and beams of this cosy apartment, with its deep window recesses, readily carries the mind back to the time when its royal inmate wiled away the weary hours by cooking his meals and amusing himself as best he could--indeed a hardship for one, such as he, so fond of outdoor exercise. Close to the fireplace are two small, square secret panels, at one time used for the secretion of sacred books or vessels, valuables or compromising deeds, but pointed out to visitors as a kind of buttery hatch through which Charles II. received his food. The King by day, also according to local tradition, is said to have kept up communication with his friends in the house by means of a string suspended in the kitchen chimney. That apartment is immediately beneath, and has a fireplace of huge dimensions. An old Tudor doorway leading into this part of the house is said to have been screened from observation by a load of hay. Now for the hiding-place. Between this and "my Lady Wyndham's chamber" (the aforesaid panelled room that was kept exclusively for Charles's use) was a small ante-room, long since demolished, its position being now occupied by a rudely constructed staircase, from the landing of which the hiding-place is now entered. The small secret apartment is approached through a triangular hole in the wall, something after the fashion of that at Ufton Court; but when one has squeezed through this aperture he will find plenty of room to stretch his limbs. The hole, which was close up against the rafters of the roof of the staircase landing, when viewed from the inside of the apartment, is situated at the base of a blocked-up stone Tudor doorway. Beneath the boards of the floor--as at Boscobel and Moseley--is an inner hiding-place, from which it was formerly possible to find an exit through the brew-house chimney. It was from Trent House that Charles visited the Dorsetshire coast in the hopes of getting clear of England; but a complication of misadventures induced him to hasten back with all speed to the pretty little village of Trent, to seek once, more shelter beneath the roof of the Royalist Colonel Wyndham. To resume the King's account:-- "As soon as we came to Frank Windham's I sent away presently to Colonel Robert Philips [Phelips], who lived then at Salisbury, to see what he could do for the getting me a ship; which he undertook very willingly, and had got one at Southampton, but by misfortune she was amongst others prest to transport their soldiers to Jersey, by which she failed us also. "Upon this, I sent further into Sussex, where Robin Philips knew one Colonel Gunter, to see whether he could hire a ship anywhere upon that coast. And not thinking it convenient for me to stay much longer at Frank Windham's (where I had been in all about a fortnight, and was become known to very many), I went directly away to a widow gentlewoman's house, one Mrs. Hyde, some four or five miles from Salisbury, where I came into the house just as it was almost dark, with Robin Philips only, not intending at first to make myself known. But just as I alighted at the door, Mrs. Hyde knew me, though she had never seen me but once in her life, and that was with the king, my father, in the army, when we marched by Salisbury some years before, in the time of the war; but she, being a discreet woman, took no notice at that time of me, I passing only for a friend of Robin Philips', by whose advice I went thither. "At supper there was with us Frederick Hyde, since a judge, and his sister-in-law, a widow, Robin Philips, myself, and Dr. Henshaw [Henchman], since Bishop of London, whom I had appointed to meet me there. "While we were at slipper, I observed Mrs. Hyde and her brother Frederick to look a little earnestly at me, which led me to believe they might know me. But I was not at all startled by it, it having been my purpose to let her know who I was; and, accordingly, after supper Mrs. Hyde came to me, and I discovered myself to her, who told me she had a very safe place to hide me in, till we knew whether our ship was ready or no. But she said it was not safe for her to trust anybody but herself and her sister, and therefore advised me to take my horse next morning and make as if I quitted the house, and return again about night; for she would order it so that all her servants and everybody should be out of the house but herself and her sister, whose name I remember not. "So Robin Philips and I took our horses and went as far as Stonehenge; and there we staid looking upon the stones for some time, and returned back again to Hale [Heale] (the place where Mrs. Hyde lived) about the hour she appointed; where I went up into the hiding-hole, that was very convenient and safe, and staid there all alone (Robin Philips then going away to Salisbury) some four or five days." Both exterior and interior of Heale House as it stands to-day point to a later date than 1651, though there are here and there vestiges of architecture anterior to the middle of the seventeenth century; the hiding-place, however, is not among these, and looks nothing beyond a very deep cupboard adjoining one of the bedrooms, with nothing peculiar to distinguish it from ordinary cupboards. But for all its modern innovations there is something about Heale which suggests a house with a history. Whether it is its environment of winding river and ancient cedar-trees, its venerable stables and imposing entrance gate, or the fact that it is one of those distinguished houses that have saved the life of an English king, we will not undertake to fathom. CHAPTER VIII CAVALIER-HUNTING, ETC. An old mansion in the precincts of the cathedral at Salisbury is said to have been a favourite hiding-place for fugitive cavaliers at the time of the Civil War. There is an inn immediately opposite this house, just outside the close, where the landlord (formerly a servant to the family who lived in the mansion) during the troublous times acted as a secret agent for those who were concealed, and proved invaluable by conveying messages and in other ways aiding those Royalists whose lives were in danger. [Illustration: SECRET PANEL AT SALISBURY] There are still certain "priests' holes" in the house, but the most interesting hiding-place is situated in the most innocent-looking of summer-houses in the grounds. The interior of this little structure is wainscoted round with large panels like most of the summer-houses, pavilions, or music-rooms of the seventeenth century, and nothing uncommon or mysterious was discovered until some twenty-five years ago. By the merest accident one of the panels was found to open, revealing what appeared to be an ordinary cupboard with shelves. Further investigations, however, proved its real object. By sliding one of the shelves out of the grooves into which it is fixed, a very narrow, disguised door, a little over a foot in width, in the side of the cupboard and in the thickness of the wall can be opened. This again reveals a narrow passage, or staircase, leading up to the joists above the ceiling, and thence to a recess situated immediately behind the carved ornamental facing over the entrance door of the summer-house. In this there is a narrow chink or peep-hole, from which the fugitive could keep on the look-out either for danger or for the friendly Royalist agent of the "King's Arms." When it was first discovered there were evidences of its last occupant--_viz._ a Jacobean horn tumbler, a mattress, and a handsomely worked velvet pillow; the last two articles, provided no doubt for the comfort of some hunted cavalier, upon being handled, fell to pieces. It may be mentioned that the inner door of the cupboard can be securely fastened from the inside by an iron hook and staple for that purpose. Hewitt, mine host of the "King's Arms," was not idle at the time transactions were in progress to transfer Charles II. from Trent to Heale, and received within his house Lord Wilmot, Colonel Phelips, and other of the King's friends who were actively engaged in making preparations for the memorable journey. This old inn, with its oak-panelled rooms and rambling corridors, makes a very suitable neighbour to the more dignified old brick mansion opposite, with which it is so closely associated. [Illustration: SECRET CHAMBER, CHASTLETON, OXFORDSHIRE] [Illustration: OLD SUMMER HOUSE, SALISBURY (SHEWING CARVING IN WHICH IS A PEEP-HOLE FOR HIDING-PLACE BEHIND)] Many are the exciting stories related of the defeated Royalists, especially after the Worcester fight. One of them, Lord Talbot, hastened to his paternal home of Longford, near Newport (Salop), and had just time to conceal himself ere his pursuers arrived, who, finding his horse saddled, concluded that the rider could not be far off. They therefore searched the house minutely for four or five days, and the fugitive would have perished for want of food, had not one of the servants contrived, at great personal risk, to pay him nocturnal visits and supply him with nourishment. The grey old Jacobean mansion Chastleton preserves in its oak-panelled hall the sword and portrait of the gallant cavalier Captain Arthur Jones, who, narrowly escaping from the battlefield, speeded homewards with some of Cromwell's soldiers at his heels; and his wife, a lady of great courage, had scarcely concealed him in the secret chamber when the enemy arrived to search the house. Little daunted, the lady, with great presence of mind, made no objection whatever--indeed, facilitated their operations by personally conducting them over the mansion. Here, as in so many other instances, the secret room was entered from the principal bedroom, and in inspecting the latter the suspicion of the Roundheads was in some way or another aroused, so here they determined to remain for the rest of the night. An ample supper and a good store of wine (which, by the way, had been carefully drugged) was sent up to the unwelcome visitors, and in due course the drink effected its purpose--its victims dropped off one by one, until the whole party lay like logs upon the floor. Mrs. Arthur Jones then crept in, having even to step over the bodies of the inanimate Roundheads, released her husband, and a fresh horse being in readiness, by the time the effects of the wine had worn off the Royalist captain was far beyond their reach. The secret room is located in the front of the building, and has now been converted into a very, comfortable little dressing-room, preserving its original oak panelling, and otherwise but little altered, with the exception of the entry to it, which is now an ordinary door. Chastleton is the beau ideal of an ancestral hall. The grand old gabled house, with its lofty square towers, its Jacobean entrance gateway and dovecote, and the fantastically clipped box-trees and sun-dial of its quaint old-fashioned garden, possesses a charm which few other ancient mansions can boast, and this charm lies in its perfectly unaltered state throughout, even to the minutest detail. Interior and exterior alike, everything presents an appearance exactly as it did when it was erected and furnished by Walter Jones, Esquire, between the years 1603 and 1630. The estate originally was held by Robert Catesby, who sold the house to provide funds for carrying on the notorious conspiracy. Among its most valued relics is a Bible given by Charles I. when on the scaffold to Bishop Juxon, who lived at Little Compton manor house, near Chastleton. This Bible was always used by the bishop at the Divine services, which at one time were held in the great hall of the latter house. Other relics of the martyr-king used to be at Little Compton--_viz._ some beams of the Whitehall scaffold, whose exact position has occasioned so much controversy. The velvet armchair and footstool used by the King during his memorable trial were also preserved here, but of late years have found a home at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, some six miles away. Visitors to that interesting collection shown in London some years ago--the Stuart Exhibition--may remember this venerable armchair of such sad association. [Illustration: CHASTLETON] [Illustration: ENTRANCE DOOR, CHASTLETON] It may be here stated that after Charles I.'s execution, Juxon lived for a time in Sussex at an old mansion still extant, Albourne Place, not far from Hurstpierpoint. We mention this from the fact that a priest's hole was discovered there some few years ago. It was found in opening a communication between two rooms, and originally it could only be reached by steps projecting from the inner walls of a chimney. Not many miles from Albourne stands Street Place, an Elizabethan Sussex house of some note. A remarkable story of cavalier-hunting is told here. A hiding-place is said to have existed in the wide open fireplace of the great hall. Tradition has it that a horseman, hard pressed by the Parliamentary troopers, galloped into this hall, but upon the arrival of his pursuers, no clue could be found of either man or horse! The gallant Prince Rupert himself, upon one occasion, is said to have had recourse to a hiding hole, at least so the story runs, at the beautiful old black-and-white timber mansion, Park Hall, near Oswestry. A certain "false floor" which led to it is pointed out in a cupboard of a bedroom, the hiding-place itself being situated immediately above the dining-room fireplace. A concealed chamber something after the same description is to be seen at the old seat of the Fenwicks, Wallington, in Northumberland--a small room eight feet long by sixteen feet high, situated at the back of the dining-room fireplace, and approached through the back of a cupboard. Behind one of the large panels of "the hall" of an old building in Warwick called St. John's Hospital is a hiding-place, and in a bedroom of the same house there is a little apartment, now converted into a dressing-room, which formerly could only be reached through a sliding panel over the fireplace. The manor house of Dinsdale-on-Tees, Durham, has another example, but to reach it it is necessary to pass through a trap-door in the attics, crawl along under the roof, and drop down into the, space in the wall behind a bedroom fireplace, where for extra security there is a second trap-door. [Illustration: BROUGHTON HALL, STAFFORDSHIRE] [Illustration: ST. JOHN'S HOSPITAL, WARWICK] Full-length panel portraits of the Salwey family at Stanford Court, Worcestershire (unfortunately burned down in 1882), concealed hidden recesses and screened passages leading up to an exit in the leads of the roof. In one of these recesses curious seventeenth-century manuscripts were found, among them, the household book of a certain "Joyce Jeffereys" during the Civil War. The old Jacobean mansion Broughton Hall, Staffordshire, had a curious hiding-hole over a fireplace and situated in the wall between the dining-room and the great hall; over its entrance used to hang a portrait of a man in antique costume which went by the name of "Red Stockings." At Lyme Hall, Cheshire, the ancient seat of the Leghs, high up in the wall of the hall is a sombre portrait which by ingenious mechanism swings out of its frame, a fixture, and gives admittance to a room on the first floor, or rather affords a means of looking down into the hall.[1] We mention this portrait more especially because it has been supposed that Scott got his idea here of the ghostly picture which figures in _Woodstock_. A _bonâ-fide_ hiding-place, however, is to be seen in another part of the mansion in a very haunted-looking bedroom called "the Knight's Chamber," entered through a trap-door in the floor of a cupboard, with a short flight of steps leading into it. [Footnote 1: A large panel in the long gallery of Hatfield can be pushed aside, giving a view into the great hall, and at Ockwells and other ancient mansions this device may also be seen.] Referring to Scott's novel, a word may be said about Fair Rosamond's famous "bower" at the old palace of Woodstock, surely the most elaborate and complicated hiding-place ever devised. The ruins of the labyrinth leading to the "bower" existed in Drayton's time, who described them as "vaults, arched and walled with stone and brick, almost inextricably wound within one another, by which, if at any time her [Rosamond's] lodging were laid about by the Queen, she might easily avoid peril imminent, and, if need be, by secret issues take the air abroad many furlongs about Woodstock." [Illustration: STAIRCASE, BROUGHTON HALL] In a survey taken in 1660, it is stated that foundation signs remained about a bow-shot southwest of the gate: "_The form and circuit both of the place and ruins show it to have been a house of one pile, and probably was filled with secret places of recess and avenues to hide or convey away such persons as were not willing to be found if narrowly sought after._" Ghostly gambols, such as those actually practised upon the Parliamentary Commissioners at the old palace of Woodstock, were for years carried on without detection by the servants at the old house of Hinton-Ampner, Hampshire; and when it was pulled down in the year 1797, it became very obvious how the mysteries, which gave the house the reputation of being haunted, were managed, for numerous secret stairs and passages, not known to exist were brought to light which had offered peculiar facilities for the deception. About the middle of the eighteenth century the mansion passed out of the hands of its old possessors, the Stewkeleys, and shortly afterwards became notorious for the unaccountable noises which disturbed the peace of mind of the new tenants. Not only were there violent knocks, hammerings, groanings, and sounds of footsteps in the ceilings and walls, out strange sights frightened the servants out of their wits. A ghostly visitant dressed in drab would appear and disappear mysteriously, a female figure was often seen to rush through the apartments, and other supernatural occurrences at length became so intolerable that the inmates of the house sought refuge in flight. Later successive tenants fared the same. A hundred pounds reward was offered to any who should run the ghosts to earth; but nothing resulted from it, and after thirty years or more of hauntings, the house was razed to the ground. Secret passages and chambers were then brought to light; but those who had carried on the deception for so long took the secret with them to their graves.[1] [Footnote 1: A full account of the supernatural occurrences at Hinton-Ampner will be found in the Life of Richard Barham.] It is well known that the huge, carved oak bedsteads of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were often provided with secret accommodation for valuables. One particular instance we can call to mind of a hidden cupboard at the base of the bedpost which contained a short rapier. But of these small hiding-places we shall speak presently. It is with the head of the bed we have now to do, as it was sometimes used as an opening into the wall at the back. Occasionally, in old houses, unmeaning gaps and spaces are met with in the upper rooms midway between floor and ceiling, which possibly at one time were used as bed-head hiding-places. Shipton Court, Oxon, and Hill Hall, Essex, may be given as examples. Dunster Castle, Somersetshire, also, has at the back of a bedstead in one of the rooms a long, narrow place of concealment, extending the width of the apartment, and provided with a stone seat. Sir Ralph Verney, while in exile in France in 1645, wrote to his brother at Claydon House, Buckinghamshire, concerning "the odd things in the room my mother kept herself--_the iron chest in the little room between her bed's-head and the back stairs._" This old seat of the Verneys had another secret chamber in the middle storey, entered through a trap-door in "the muniment-room" at the top of the house. Here also was a small private staircase in the wall, possibly the "back stairs" mentioned in Sir Ralph's letters.[1] [Footnote 1: See _Memoirs of the Verney Family._] [Illustration: SHIPTON COURT, OXFORDSHIRE] [Illustration: BROUGHTON CASTLE, OXFORDSHIRE] Before the breaking out of the Civil War, Hampden, Pym, Lord Brooke, and other of the Parliamentary leaders, held secret meetings at Broughton Castle, oxon, the seat of Lord Saye and Sele, to organise a resistance to the arbitrary measures of the king. In this beautiful old fortified and moated mansion the secret stairs may yet be seen that led up to the little isolated chamber, with massive casemated walls for the exclusion of sound. Anthony Wood, alluding to the secret councils, says: "Several years before the Civil War began, Lord Saye, being looked upon as the godfather of that party, had meetings of them in his house at Broughton, where was a room and passage thereunto which his servants were prohibited to come near."[1] There is also a hiding-hole behind a window shutter in the wall of a corridor, with an air-hole ingeniously devised in the masonry. [Footnote 1: _Memorials of Hampden._] The old dower-house of Fawsley, not many miles to the north-east of Broughton, in the adjoining county of Northamptonshire, had a secret room over the hall, where a private press was kept for the purpose of printing political tracts at this time, when the country was working up into a state of turmoil. When the regicides were being hunted out in the early part of Charles II.'s reign, Judge Mayne[1] secreted himself at his house, Dinton Hall, Bucks, but eventually gave himself up. The hiding-hole at Dinton was beneath the staircase, and accessible by removing three of the steps. A narrow passage which led from it to a space behind the beams of the roof had its sides or walls thickly lined with cloth, so as to muffle all sound. [Footnote 1: There is a tradition that it was a servant of Mayne who acted as Charles I.'s executioner.] Bradshawe Hall, in north-west Derbyshire (once the seat of the family of that name of which the notorious President was a member), has or had a concealed chamber high up in the wall of a room on the ground floor which was capable of holding three persons. Of course tradition says the "wicked judge was hidden here." [Illustration: ENTRANCE GATE, BRADSHAWE HALL, DERBYSHIRE] The regicides Colonels Whalley and Goffe had many narrow escapes in America, whither they were traced. What is known as "Judge's Cave," in the West Rock some two miles from the town of New Haven, Conn., afforded them sanctuary. For some days they were concealed in an old house belonging to a certain Mrs. Eyers, in a secret chamber behind the wainscoting, the entrance to which was most ingeniously devised. The house was narrowly searched on May 14th, 1661, at the time they were in hiding.[1] [Footnote 1: Stiles's _Judges_, p. 64] Upon the discovery of the Rye House Plot in 1683, suspicion falling upon one of the conspirators, William, third Lord Howard of Escrick, the Sergeant-at-Arms was despatched with a squadron of horse to his house at Knights-bridge, and after a long search he was discovered concealed in a hiding-place constructed in a chimney at the back of a tall cupboard, and the chances are that he would not have been arrested had it not been evident, by the warmth of his bed and his clothes scattered about, that he had only just risen and could not have got away unobserved, except to some concealed lurking-place. When discovered he had on no clothing beyond his shirt, so it may be imagined with what precipitate haste he had to hide himself upon the unexpected arrival of the soldiers.[1] [Footnote 1: See Roger North's _Examen_.] Numerous other houses were searched for arms and suspicious papers, particularly in the counties of Cheshire and Lancashire, where the Duke of Monmouth was known to have many influential friends, marked enemies to the throne.[2] [Footnote 2: See Oulton Hall MSS., Hist. MSS. Com. Rep. iii. p. 245.] Monmouth's lurking-place was known at Whitehall, and those who revealed it went the wrong way to work to win Court favour. Apart from the attractions of Lady Wentworth, whose companionship made the fugitive's enforced seclusion at Toddington, in Bedfordshire, far from tedious, the mansion was desirable at that particular time on account of its hiding facilities. An anonymous letter sent to the Secretary of State failed not to point out "that vastness and intricacy that without a most diligent search it's impossible to discover _all the lurking holes in it, there being severall trap dores on the leads and in closetts, into places to which there is no other access._"[1] The easy-going king had to make some external show towards an attempt to capture his erring son, therefore instructions were given with this purpose, but to a courtier and diplomatist who valued his own interests. Toddington Place, therefore, was _not_ explored. [Footnote 1: Vide King _Monmouth_.] [Illustration: MOYLES COURT, HAMPSHIRE] [Illustration: TODDINGTON MANOR HOUSE, BEDFORDSHIRE, IN 1806 (FROM AN OLD DRAWING)] Few hiding-places are associated with so tragic a story as that at Moyles Court, Hants, where the venerable Lady Alice Lisle, in pure charity, hid two partisans of Monmouth, John Hickes and Richard Nelthorpe, after the battle of Sedgemoor, for which humane action she was condemned to be burned alive by Judge Jeffreys--a sentence commuted afterwards to beheading. It is difficult to associate this peaceful old Jacobean mansion, and the simple tomb in the churchyard hard by, with so terrible a history. A dark hole in the wall of the kitchen is traditionally said to be the place of concealment of the fugitives, who threw themselves on Lady Alice's mercy; but a dungeon-like cellar not unlike that represented in E. M. Ward's well-known picture looks a much more likely place. It was in an underground vault at Lady Place, Hurley, the old seat of the Lovelaces, that secret conferences were held by the adherents of the Prince of Orange. Three years after the execution of the Duke of Monmouth, his boon companion and supporter, John, third Lord Lovelace, organised treasonable meetings in this tomb-like chamber. Tradition asserts that certain important documents in favour of the Revolution were actually signed in the Hurley vault. Be this as it may, King William III. failed not, in after years, when visiting his former secret agent, to inspect the subterranean apartment with very tender regard. CHAPTER IX JAMES II.'S ESCAPES We have spoken of the old houses associated with Charles II.'s escapes, let us see what history has to record of his unpopular brother James. The Stuarts seem to have been doomed, at one time or another, to evade their enemies by secret flight, and in some measure this may account for the romance always surrounding that ill-fated line of kings and queens. James V. of Scotland was wont to amuse himself by donning a disguise, but his successors appear to have been doomed by fate to follow his example, not for recreation, but to preserve their lives. Mary, Queen of Scots, upon one occasion had to impersonate a laundress. Her grandson and great-grandson both were forced to masquerade as servants, and her great-great-grandson Prince James Frederick Edward passed through France disguised as an abbé. The escapades of his son the "Bonnie Prince" will require our attention presently; we will, therefore, for the moment confine our thoughts to James II. With the surrender of Oxford the young Prince James found himself Fairfax's prisoner. His elder brother Charles had been more fortunate, having left the city shortly before for the western counties, and after effecting his escape to Scilly, he sought refuge in Jersey, whence he removed to the Hague. The Duke of Gloucester and the Princess Elizabeth already had been placed under the custody of the Earl of Northumberland at St. James's Palace, so the Duke of York was sent there also. This was in 1646. Some nine months elapsed, and James, after two ineffectual attempts to regain his liberty, eventually succeeded in the following manner. Though prisoners, the royal children were permitted to amuse themselves within the walls of the palace much as they pleased, and among the juvenile games with which they passed away the time, "hide-and-seek" was first favourite. James, doubtless with an eye to the future, soon acquired a reputation as an expert hider, and his brother and sister and the playmates with whom they associated would frequently search the odd nooks and corners of the old mansion in vain for an hour at a stretch. It was, therefore, no extraordinary occurrence on the night of April 20th, 1647, that the Prince, after a prolonged search, was missing. The youngsters, more than usually perplexed, presently persuaded the adults of the prison establishment to join in the game, which, when their suspicions were aroused, they did in real earnest. But all in vain, and at length a messenger was despatched to Whitehall with the intelligence that James, Duke of York, had effected his escape. Everything was in a turmoil. Orders were hurriedly dispatched for all seaport towns to be on the alert, and every exit out of London was strictly watched; meanwhile, it is scarcely necessary to add, the young fugitive was well clear of the city, speeding on his way to the Continent. The plot had been skilfully planned. A key, or rather a duplicate key, had given admittance through the gardens into St. James's Park, where the Royalist, though outwardly professed Parliamentarian, Colonel Bamfield was in readiness with a periwig and cloak to effect a speedy disguise. When at length the fugitive made his appearance, minus his shoes and coat, he was hurried into a coach and conveyed to the Strand by Salisbury House, where the two alighted, and passing down Ivy Lane, reached the river, and after James's disguise had been perfected, boat was taken to Lyon Quay in Lower Thames Street, where a barge lay in readiness to carry them down stream. So far all went well, but on the way to Gravesend the master of the vessel, doubtless with a view to increasing his reward, raised some objections. The fugitive was now in female attire, and the objection was that nothing had been said about a woman coming aboard; but he was at length pacified, indeed ere long guessed the truth, for the Prince's lack of female decorum, as in the case of his grandson "the Bonnie Prince" nearly a century afterwards, made him guess how matters really stood. Beyond Gravesend the fugitives got aboard a Dutch vessel and were carried safely to Middleburg. We will now shift the scene to Whitehall in the year 1688, when, after a brief reign of three years, betrayed and deserted on all sides, the unhappy Stuart king was contemplating his second flight out of England. The weather-cock that had been set up on the banqueting hall to show when the wind "blew Protestant" had duly recorded the dreaded approach of Dutch William, who now was steadily advancing towards the capital. On Tuesday, December 10th, soon after midnight, James left the Palace by way of Chiffinch's secret stairs of notorious fame, and disguised as the servant of Sir Edward Hales, with Ralph Sheldon--La Badie--a page, and Dick Smith, a groom, attending him, crossed the river to Lambeth, dropping the great seal in the water on the way, and took horse, avoiding the main roads, towards Farnborough and thence to Chislehurst. Leaving Maidstone to the south-west, a brief halt was made at Pennenden Heath for refreshment. The old inn, "the Woolpack," where the party stopped for their hurried repast, remains, at least in name, for the building itself has of late years been replaced by a modern structure. Crossing the Dover road, the party now directed their course towards Milton Creek, to the north-east of Sittingbourne, where a small fishing-craft lay in readiness, which had been chartered by Sir Edward Hales, whose seat at Tunstall[1] was close by. [Footnote 1: The principal seat of the Hales, near Canterbury, is now occupied as a Jesuit College. The old manor house of Tunstall, Grove End Farm, presents both externally and internally many features of interest. The family was last represented by a maid lady who died a few years since.] One or two old buildings in the desolate marsh district of Elmley, claim the distinction of having received a visit of the deposed monarch prior to the mishaps which were shortly to follow. King's Hill Farm, once a house of some importance, preserves this tradition, as does also an ancient cottage, in the last stage of decay, known as "Rats' Castle." [Illustration: "RATS' CASTLE," ELMLEY, KENT] [Illustration: KING'S HILL FARM, ELMLEY, KENT] At Elmley Ferry, which crosses the river Swale, the king got aboard, but scarcely had the moorings been cast than further progress was arrested by a party of over-zealous fishermen on the look out for fugitive Jesuit priests. The story of the rough handling to which the poor king was subjected is a somewhat hackneyed school-book anecdote, but some interesting details have been handed down by one Captain Marsh, by James's natural son the Duke of Berwick, and by the Earl of Ailesbury. From these accounts we gather that in the disturbance that ensued a blow was aimed at the King, but that a Canterbury innkeeper named Platt threw himself in the way and received the blow himself. It is recorded, to James II.'s credit, that when he was recognised and his stolen money and jewels offered back to him, he declined the former, desiring that his health might be drunk by the mob. Among the valuables were the King's watch, his coronation ring, and medals commemorating the births of his son the Chevalier St. George and of his brother Charles II. The King was taken ashore at a spot called "the Stool," close to the little village of Oare, to the north-west of Faversham, to which town he was conveyed by coach, attended by a score of Kentish gentlemen on horseback. The royal prisoner was first carried to the "Queen's Arms Inn," which still exists under the name of the "Ship Hotel." From here he was taken to the mayor's house in Court Street (an old building recently pulled down to make way for a new brewery) and placed under a strict guard, and from the window of his prison the unfortunate King had to listen to the proclamation of the Prince of Orange, read by order of the mayor, who subsequently was rewarded for the zeal he displayed upon the occasion. The hardships of the last twenty-four hours had told severely upon James. He was sick and feeble and weakened by profuse bleeding of the nose, to which he, like his brother Charles, was subject when unduly excited. Sir Edward Hales, in the meantime, was lodged in the old Court Hall (since partially rebuilt), whence he was removed to Maidstone gaol, and to the Tower. Bishop Burnet was at Windsor with the Prince of Orange when two gentlemen arrived there from Faversham with the news of the King's capture. "They told me," he says, "of the accident at Faversham, and desired to know the Prince's pleasure upon it. I was affected with this dismal reverse of the fortunes of a great prince, more than I think fit to express. I went immediately to Bentinck and wakened him, and got him to go in to the Prince, and let him know what had happened, that some order might be presently given for the security of the King's person, and for taking him out of the hands of a rude multitude who said they would obey no orders but such as came from the Prince." Upon receiving the news, William at once directed that his father-in-law should have his liberty, and that assistance should be sent down to him immediately; but by this time the story had reached the metropolis, and a hurried meeting of the Council directed the Earl of Feversham to go to the rescue with a company of Life Guards. The faithful Earl of Ailesbury also hastened to the King's assistance. In five hours he accomplished the journey from London to Faversham. So rapidly had the reports been circulated of supposed ravages of the Irish Papists, that when the Earl reached Rochester, the entire town was in a state of panic, and the alarmed inhabitants were busily engaged in demolishing the bridge to prevent the dreaded incursion. But to return to James at Faversham. The mariners who had handled him so roughly now took his part--in addition to his property--and insisted upon sleeping in the adjoining room to that in which he was incarcerated, to protect him from further harm. Early on Saturday morning the Earl of Feversham made his appearance; and after some little hesitation on the King's side, he was at length persuaded to return to London. So he set out on horseback, breaking the journey at Rochester, where he slept on the Saturday night at Sir Richard Head's house. On the Sunday he rode on to Dartford, where he took coach to Southwark and Whitehall. A temporary reaction had now set in, and the cordial reception which greeted his reappearance revived his hopes and spirits. This reaction, however, was but short-lived, for no sooner had the poor King retired to the privacy of his bed-chamber at Whitehall Palace, than an imperious message from his son-in-law ordered him to remove without delay to Ham House, Petersham. [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO SECRET PASSAGE, "ABDICATION HOUSE," ROCHESTER] [Illustration: "ABDICATION HOUSE," ROCHESTER] James objected strongly to this; the place, he said, was damp and unfurnished (which, by the way, was not the case if we may judge from Evelyn, who visited the mansion not long before, when it was "furnished like a great Prince's"--indeed, the same furniture remains intact to this day), and a message was sent back that if he must quit Whitehall he would prefer to retire to Rochester, which wish was readily accorded him. CHAPTER X JAMES II.'S ESCAPES (_continued_), HAM HOUSE, AND "ABDICATION HOUSE" Tradition, regardless of fact, associates the grand old seat of the Lauderdales and Dysarts with King James's escape from England. A certain secret staircase is still pointed out by which the dethroned monarch is said to have made his exit, and visitors to the Stuart Exhibition a few years ago will remember a sword which, with the King's hat and cloak, is said to have been left behind when he quitted the mansion. Now there existed, not many miles away, also close to the river Thames, _another_ Ham House, which was closely associated with James II., and it seems, therefore, possible, in fact probable, that the past associations of the one house have attached themselves to the other. In Ham House, Weybridge, lived for some years the King's discarded mistress Catherine Sedley, Countess of Dorchester. At the actual time of James's abdication this lady was in France, but in the earlier part of his reign the King was a frequent visitor here. In Charles II.'s time the house belonged to Jane Bickerton, the mistress and afterwards wife of the sixth Duke of Norfolk. Evelyn dined there soon after this marriage had been solemnised. "The Duke," he says, "leading me about the house made no scruple of showing me all the hiding-places for the Popish priests and where they said Masse, for he was no bigoted Papist." At the Duke's death "the palace" was sold to the Countess of Dorchester, whose descendants pulled it down some fifty years ago. The oak-panelled rooms were richly parquetted with "cedar and cyprus." One of them until the last retained the name of "the King's Bedroom." It had a private communication with a little Roman Catholic chapel in the building. The attics, as at Compton Winyates, were called "the Barracks," tradition associating them with the King's guards, who are said to have been lodged there. Upon the walls hung portraits of the Duchesses of Leeds and Dorset, of Nell Gwyn and the Countess herself, and of Earl Portmore, who married her daughter. Here also formerly was Holbein's famous picture, Bluff King Hal and the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk dancing a minuet with Anne Boleyn and the Dowager-Queens of France and Scotland. Evelyn saw the painting in August, 1678, and records "the sprightly motion" and "amorous countenances of the ladies." (This picture is now, or was recently, in the possession of Major-General Sotheby.) A few years after James's abdication, the Earl of Ailesbury rented the house from the Countess, who lived meanwhile in a small house adjacent, and was in the habit of coming into the gardens of the palace by a key of admittance she kept for that purpose. Upon one of these occasions the Earl and she had a disagreement about the lease, and so forcible were the lady's coarse expressions, for she never could restrain the licence of her tongue, that she had to be ejected from the premises, whereupon, says Ailesbury, "she bade me go to my----King James," with the assurance that "she would make King William spit on me." [Illustration: MONUMENT OF SIR RICHARD HEAD] [Illustration: "RESTORATION HOUSE," ROCHESTER] But to follow James II.'s ill-fortunes to Rochester, where he was conveyed on the Tuesday at noon by royal barge, with an escort of Dutch soldiers, with Lords Arran, Dumbarton, etc., in attendance--"a sad sight," says Evelyn, who witnessed the departure. The King recognised among those set to guard him an old lieutenant of the Horse who had fought under him, when Duke of York, at the battle of Dunkirk. Colonel Wycke, in command of the King's escort, was a nephew of the court painter Sir Peter Lely, who had owed his success to the patronage of Charles II. and his brother. The part the Colonel had to act was a painful one, and he begged the King's pardon. The royal prisoner was lodged for the night at Gravesend, at the house of a lawyer, and next morning the journey was continued to Rochester. The royalist Sir Richard Head again had the honour of acting as the King's host, and his guest was allowed to go in and out of the house as he pleased, for diplomatic William of Orange had arranged that no opportunity should be lost for James to make use of a passport which the Duke of Berwick had obtained for "a certain gentleman and two servants." James's movements, therefore, were hampered in no way. But the King, ever suspicious, planned his escape from Rochester with the greatest caution and secrecy, and many of his most attached and loyal adherents were kept in ignorance of his final departure. James's little court consisted of the Earls of Arran, Lichfield, Middleton, Dumbarton, and Ailesbury, the Duke of Berwick, Sir Stephen Fox, Major-General Sackville, Mr. Grahame, Fenton, and a few others. On the evening of the King's flight the company dispersed as was customary, when Ailesbury intimated, by removing his Majesty's stockings, that the King was about to seek his couch. The Earl of Dumbarton retired with James to his apartment, who, when the house was quiet for the night, got up, dressed, and "by way of the back stairs," according to the Stuart Papers, passed "through the garden, where Macdonald stayed for him, with the Duke of Berwick and Mr. Biddulph, to show him the way to Trevanion's boat. About twelve at night they rowed down to the smack, which was waiting without the fort at Sheerness. It blew so hard right ahead, and ebb tide being done before they got to the Salt Pans, that it was near six before they got to the smack. Captain Trevanion not being able to trust the officers of his ship, they got on board the _Eagle_ fireship, commanded by Captain Welford, on which, the wind and tide being against them, they stayed till daybreak, when the King went on board the smack." On Christmas Day James landed at Ambleteuse. Thus the old town of Rochester witnessed the departure of the last male representative of the Stuart line who wore a crown. Twenty-eight years before, every window and gable end had been gaily bedecked with many coloured ribbons, banners, and flowers to welcome in the restored monarch. The picturesque old red brick "Restoration House" still stands to carry us back to the eventful night when "his sacred Majesty" slept within its walls upon his way from Dover to London--a striking contrast to "Abdication House," the gloomy abode of Sir Richard Head, of more melancholy associations. Much altered and modernised, this old mansion also remains. It is in the High Street, and is now, or was recently, occupied as a draper's shop. Here may be seen the "presence-chamber" where the dethroned King heard Mass, and the royal bedchamber where, after his secret departure, a letter was found on the table addressed to Lord Middleton, for both he and Lord Ailesbury were kept in ignorance of James II.'s final movements. The old garden may be seen with the steps leading down to the river, much as it was a couple of centuries ago, though the river now no longer flows in near proximity, owing to the drainage of the marshes and the "subsequent improvements" of later days. The hidden passage in the staircase wall may also be seen, and the trap-door leading to it from the attics above. Tradition says the King made use of these; and if he did so, the probability is that it was done more to avoid his host's over-zealous neighbours, than from fear of arrest through the vigilance of the spies of his son-in-law.[1] [Footnote 1: It may be of interest to state that the illustrations we give of the house were originally exhibited at the Stuart Exhibition by Sir Robert G. Head, the living representative of the old Royalist family] Exactly three months after James left England he made his reappearance at Kinsale and entered Dublin in triumphal state. The siege of Londonderry and the decisive battle of the Boyne followed, and for a third and last time James II. was a fugitive from his realms. The melancholy story is graphically told in Mr. A. C. Gow's dramatic picture, an engraving of which I understand has recently been published. How the unfortunate King rode from Dublin to Duncannon Fort, leaving his faithful followers and ill-fortunes behind him; got aboard the French vessel anchored there for his safety; and returned once more to the protection of the Grande Monarque at the palace of St. Germain, is an oft-told story of Stuart ingratitude. [Illustration: ARMSCOT MANOR HOUSE, WORCESTERSHIRE] [Illustration: ENTRANCE GATE, ARMSCOT MANOR HOUSE] CHAPTER XI MYSTERIOUS ROOMS, DEADLY PITS, ETC. At the "Restoration House" previously mentioned there is a secret passage in the wall of an upper room; but though the Merry Monarch is, according to popular tradition, credited with a monopoly of hiding-places all over England, it is more than doubtful whether he had recourse to these exploits, in which he was so successful in 1651, upon such a joyful occasion, except, indeed, through sheer force of habit. Even Cromwell's name is connected with hiding-places! But it is difficult to conjecture upon what occasions his Excellency found it convenient to secrete himself, unless it was in his later days, when he went about in fear of assassination. Hale House, Islington, pulled down in 1853, had a concealed recess behind the wainscot over the mantel-piece, formed by the curve of the chimney. In this, tradition says, the Lord Protector was hidden. Nor is this the solitary instance, for a dark hole in one of the gable ends of Cromwell House, Mortlake (taken down in 1860), locally known as "Old Noll's Hole," is said to have afforded him temporary accommodation when his was life in danger.[1] The residence of his son-in-law Ireton (Cromwell House) at Highgate contained a large secret chamber at the back of a cupboard in one of the upper rooms, and extended back twelve or fourteen feet, but the cupboard has now been removed and the space at the back converted into a passage. [Footnote 1: See Faulkner's _History of Islington_.] The ancient manor house of Armscot, in an old-world corner of Worcestershire, contains in one of its gables a hiding-place entered through a narrow opening in the plaster wall, not unlike that at Ufton Court, and capable of holding many people. From the fact that George Fox was arrested in this house on October 17th, 1673, when he was being persecuted by the county magistrates, the story has come down to the yokels of the neighbourhood that "old Guy Fawkes, the first Quaker," was hidden here! In his journal Fox mentions his arrest at Armscot after a "very large and precious meeting" in the barn close by; but we have no allusion to the hiding-place, for he appears to have been sitting in the parlour when Henry Parker, the Justice, arrived--indeed, George Fox was not the sort of man to have recourse to concealments, and owe his escape to a "priest's hole." The suggestion of a sudden reverse in religious persecution driving a Quaker to such an extremity calls to mind an old farmstead where a political change from monarchy to commonwealth forced Puritan and cavalier consecutively to seek refuge in the secret chamber. This narrow hiding-place, beside the spacious fire-place, is pointed out in an ancient house in the parish of Hinchford, in Eastern Essex. Even the notorious Judge Jeffreys had in his house facilities for concealment and escape. His old residence in Delahay Street, Westminster, demolished a few years ago, had its secret panel in the wainscoting, but in what way the cruel Lord Chancellor made use of it does not transpire; possibly it may have been utilised at the time of James II.'s flight from Whitehall. A remarkable discovery was made early in the last century at the Elizabethan manor house of Bourton-on-the-Water, Gloucestershire, only a portion of which remains incorporated in a modern structure. Upon removing some of the wallpaper of a passage on the second floor, the entrance to a room hitherto unknown was laid bare. It was a small apartment about eight feet square, and presented the appearance as if some occupant had just quitted it. A chair and a table within, each bore evidence of the last inmate. Over the back of the former hung a priest's black cassock, carelessly flung there a century or more ago, while on the table stood an antique tea-pot, cup, and silver spoon, the very tea leaves crumbled to dust with age. On the same storey were two rooms known as "the chapel" and the "priest's room," the names of which signify the former use of the concealed apartment. Sir Walter Scott records a curious "find," similar in many respects to that at Bourton. In the course of some structural alterations to an ancient house near Edinburgh three unknown rooms were brought to light, bearing testimony of their last inmate. One of them had been occupied as a bedroom. The clothing of the bed was disarranged, as if it had been slept in only a few hours previously, and close by was an antique dressing-gown. How interesting it would be to know some particulars of the sudden surprise which evidently drove the owner of the garment from his snug quarters--whether he effected his escape, or whether he was captured! The walls of this buried chamber, if they could speak, had some curious story to relate. Not many years ago the late squire of East Hendred House, Berkshire, discovered the existence of a secret chamber in casually glancing over some ancient papers belonging to the house. "The little room," as it was called, from its proximity to the chapel, had no doubt been turned to good account during the penal laws of Elizabeth's reign, as the chamber itself and other parts of the house date from a much earlier period. Long after the palatial Sussex mansion of Cowdray was burnt down, the habitable remains (the keeper's lodge, in the centre of the park) contained an ingenious hiding-place behind a fireplace in a bedroom, which was reached by a movable panel in a cupboard, communicating with the roof by a slender flight of steps. It was very high, reaching up two storeys, but extremely narrow, so much so that directly opposite a stone bench which stood in a recess for a seat, the wall was hollowed out to admit of the knees. When this secret chamber was discovered, it contained an iron chair, a quaint old brass lamp, and some manuscripts of the Montague family. The Cowdray tradition says that the fifth Viscount was concealed in this hiding-place for a considerable period, owing to some dark crime he is supposed to have committed, though he was generally believed to have fled abroad. Secret nocturnal interviews took place between Lord Montague and his wife in "My Lady's Walk," an isolated spot in Cowdray Park. The Montagues, now extinct, are said to have been very chary with reference to their Roman Catholic forefathers, and never allowed the secret chamber to be shown.[1] [Footnote 1: See _History of a Great English House_.] A weird story clings to the ruins of Minster Lovel Manor House, Oxfordshire, the ancient seat of the Lords Lovel. After the battle of Stoke, Francis, the last Viscount, who had sided with the cause of Simnel against King Henry VII., fled back to his house in disguise, but from the night of his return was never seen or heard of again, and for nearly two centuries his disappearance remained a mystery. In the meantime the manor house had been dismantled and the remains tenanted by a farmer; but a strange discovery was made in the year 1708. A concealed vault was found, and in it, seated before a table, with a prayer-book lying open upon it, was the entire skeleton of a man. In the secret chamber were certain barrels and jars which had contained food sufficient to last perhaps some weeks; but the mansion having been seized by the King, soon after the unfortunate Lord Lovel is supposed to have concealed himself, the probability is that, unable to regain his liberty, the neglect or treachery of a servant or tenant brought about this tragic end. A discovery of this nature was made in 1785 in a hidden vault at the foot of a stone staircase at Brandon Hall, Suffolk. Kingerby Hall, Lincolnshire, has a ghostly tradition of an unfortunate occupant of the hiding-hole near a fireplace being intentionally fastened in so that he was stifled with the heat and smoke; the skeleton was found years afterwards in this horrible death-chamber. Bayons Manor, in the same county, has some very curious arrangements for the sake of secretion and defence. There is a room in one of the barbican towers occupying its entire circumference, but so effectually hidden that its existence would never be suspected. In two of the towers are curious concealed stairs, and approaching "the Bishop's Tower" from the outer court or ballium, part of a flight of steps can be raised like a drawbridge to prevent sudden intrusion.[1] [Footnote 1: See Burke's _Visitation of Seats_, vol. i.] A contributor to that excellent little journal _The Rambler_, unfortunately now extinct, mentions another very strange and weird device for security. "In the state-room of my castle," says the owner of this death-trap, "is the family shield, which on a part being touched, revolves, and a flight of steps becomes visible. The first, third, fifth, and all odd steps are to be trusted, but to tread any of the others is to set in motion some concealed machinery which causes the staircase to collapse, disclosing a vault some seventy feet in depth, down which the unwary are precipitated." At Tyttenhanger House, Hertfordshire, and in the old manor house of Newport, Isle of Wight (where the captive King Charles I. spent some of his last melancholy days), there are rooms with passages in the walls running completely round them. Similar passages were found some years ago while making alterations to Highclere Castle Hampshire. The once magnificent Madeley Court, Salop[1] (now, alas! in the last stage of desolation and decay, surrounded by coal-fields and undermined by pits), is honeycombed with places for concealment and escape. A ruinous apartment at the top of the house, known as "the chapel" (only a few years ago wainscoted to the ceiling and divided by fine old oak screen), contained a secret chamber behind one of the panels. This could be fastened on the inside by a strong bolt. The walls of the mansion are of immense thickness, and the recesses and nooks noticeable everywhere were evidently at one time places of concealment; one long triangular recess extends between two ruinous chambers (mere skeletons of past grandeur), and was no doubt for the purpose of reaching the basement from the first floor other than by the staircases. In the upper part of the house a dismal pit or well extends to the ground level, where it slants off in an oblique direction below the building, and terminates in a large pool or lake, after the fashion of that already described at Baddesley Clinton, in Warwickshire. [Footnote 1: This house must not be confused with "the Upper House," connected with Charles II.'s wanderings.] Everything points to the former magnificence of this mansion; the elaborate gate-house, the handsome stone porch, and even the colossal sundial, which last, for quaint design, can hold its own with those of the greatest baronial castles in Scotland. The arms of the Brooke family are to be seen emblazoned on the walls, a member of whom, Sir Basil, was he who christened the hunting-lodge of the Giffards "Boscobel," from the Italian words "bos co bello," on account of its woody situation. It is long since the Brookes migrated from Madeley--now close upon two centuries. The deadly looking pits occasionally seen in ancient buildings are dangerous, to say the least of it. They may be likened to the shaft of our modern lift, with the car at the bottom and nothing above to prevent one from taking a step into eternity! A friend at Twickenham sends us a curious account of a recent exploration of what was once the manor house, "Arragon Towers." We cannot do better than quote his words, written in answer to a request for particulars. "I did not," he says, "make sufficient examination of the hiding-place in the old manor house of Twickenham to give a detailed description of it, and I have no one here whom I could get to accompany me in exploring it now. It is not a thing to do by one's self, as one might make a false step, and have no one to assist in retrieving it. The entrance is in the top room of the one remaining turret by means of a movable panel in the wall opposite the window. The panel displaced, you see the top of a thick wall (almost on a line with the floor of the room). The width of the aperture is, I should think, nearly three feet; that of the wall-top about a foot and a half; the remaining space between the wall-top and the outer wall of the house is what you might perhaps term 'a chasm'--it is a sheer drop to the cellars of the house. I was told by the workmen that by walking the length of the wall-top (some fifteen feet) I should reach a stairway conducting to the vaults below, and that on reaching the bottom, a passage led off in the direction of the river, the tradition being that it actually went beneath the river to Ham House." CHAPTER XII HIDING-PLACES IN JACOBITE DWELLINGS AND IN SCOTTISH CASTLES AND MANSIONS During the Jacobite risings of 1715 and 1745 some of the "priest's holes" in the old Roman Catholic houses, especially in the north of England and in Scotland, came into requisition not only for storing arms and ammunition, but, after the failure of each enterprise, for concealing adherents of the luckless House of Stuart. In the earlier mansion of Worksop, Nottinghamshire (burnt down in 1761), there was a large concealed chamber provided with a fireplace and a bed, which could only be entered by removing the sheets of lead forming the roofing. Beneath was a trap-door opening to a precipitous flight of narrow steps in the thickness of a wall. This led to a secret chamber, that had an inner hiding-place at the back of a sliding panel. A witness in a trial succeeding "the '45" declared to having seen a large quantity of arms there in readiness for the insurrection. The last days of the notorious Lord Lovat are associated with some of the old houses in the north. Cawdor Castle, Nairnshire, and Netherwhitton, in Northumberland, claim the honour of hiding this double-faced traitor prior to his arrest. At the former is a small chamber near the roof, and in the latter is a hiding-place measuring eight feet by three and ten feet high. Nor must be forgotten the tradition of Mistress Beatrice Cope, behind the walls of whose bedroom Lovat (so goes the story) was concealed, and the fugitive, being asthmatical, would have revealed his whereabouts to the soldiers in search of him, had not Mistress Cope herself kept up a persistent and violent fit of coughing to drown the noise. A secret room in the old Tudor house Ty Mawr, Monmouthshire, is associated with the Jacobite risings. It is at the back of "the parlour" fireplace, and is entered through a square stone slab at the foot of the staircase. The chamber is provided with a small fireplace, the flue of which is connected with the ordinary chimney, so as to conceal the smoke. The same sort of thing may be seen at Bisham Abbey, Berks. Early in the last century a large hiding-place was found at Danby Hall, Yorkshire. It contained a large quantity of swords and pistols. Upwards of fifty sets of harness of untanned leather of the early part of the eighteenth century were further discovered, all of them in so good a state of preservation that they were afterwards used as cart-horse gear upon the farm. No less than nine of the followers of "Bonnie Prince Charlie" are said to have been concealed in a secret chamber at Fetternear, Kemnay, Aberdeenshire, an old seat of the Leslys of Balquhane. It was situated in the wall behind a large bookcase with a glazed front, a fixture in the room, the back of which could be made to slide back and give admittance to the recess. Quite by accident an opening was discovered in a corner cupboard at an old house near Darlington. Certain alterations were in progress which necessitated the removal of the shelves, but upon this being attempted, they descended in some mysterious manner. The back of the cavity could then be pushed aside (that is to say, when the secret of its mechanism was discovered), and a hiding-place opened out to view. It contained some tawdry ornaments of Highland dress, which at one time, it was conjectured, belonged to an adherent of Prince Charlie. The old mansion of Stonyhurst, Lancashire, contained eight hiding-places. One of them, exactly like that at Fetternear, was at the back of a bookcase. A secret spring was discovered which opened a concealed door in the wall. In the space behind, a quantity of James II. guineas, a bed, a mattress, and a flask of rum were found. A former student of this famous Jesuit college, who was instrumental in the discovery of a "priest's hole," has provided us with the following particulars: "It would be too long to tell you how I first discovered that in the floor of my bedroom, in the recess of the huge Elizabethan bay window, was a trap-door concealed by a thin veneering of oak; suffice it say that with a companion I devoted a delightful half-holiday to stripping off the veneering and breaking the lock of the trap-door. Between my floor and the ceiling of the long gallery below, was contrived a small room about five feet in height and the size and shape of the bay window recess. In one corner of this hiding-hole was what seemed a walled-up doorway, and it occurred to my companion and myself that we had heard some vague old tradition that all this part of the house was riddled with secret passages leading from one concealed chamber to another, but we did not seek to explore any farther." In pulling down a portion of the college, a hollow beam was discovered that opened upon concealed hinges, used formerly for secreting articles of value or sacred books and vessels; and during some alterations to the central tower, over the main entrance to the mansion, a "priest's hole" was found, containing seven horse pistols, ready loaded and some of them richly ornamented with silver. A view could be obtained from the interior of the hiding-place, in the same manner as that which we have described in the old summer-house at Salisbury; a small hole being devised in the design of the Sherburn arms upon the marble shield over the gateway. This was the only provision for air and light. The quaint discovery of rum at Stonyhurst suggests the story of a hiding-place in an old house at Bishops Middleham, near Durham, mentioned by Southey in his _Commonplace Book_. The house was occupied for years by a supposed total abstainer; but a "priest's hole" in his bedroom, discovered after his death full of strong liquor, revealed the fact that by utilising the receptacle as a cellar he had been able to imbibe secretly to his heart's content. A large quantity or Georgian gold coins were found some years ago in a small hiding-place under the oaken sill of a bedroom window at Gawthorp Hall, Lancashire, placed there, it is supposed, for the use of Prince Charles's army in passing through the country in 1745. The laird of Belucraig (an old mansion in the parish of Aboyne, Aberdeenshire) was concealed after "the '45" in his own house, while his wife, like the hostess of Chastleton, hospitably entertained the soldiers who were in search of him. The secret chamber where he was concealed was found some years ago in making some alterations to the roof. In it were a quantity of Jacobite papers and a curious old arm-chair. The original entry was through a panel at the back of a "box bed" in the wainscot of a small, isolated bedroom at the top of the house. The room itself could only be reached by a secret staircase from a corridor below. The hiding-place was therefore doubly secure, and was a stronghold in case of greatest emergency. The Innes of Drumgersk and Belucraig were always staunch Roman Catholics and Jacobites. Their representatives lived in the old house until 1850. In another old Aberdeenshire mansion, Dalpersie House, a hiding-hole or recess may be seen in one of the upper chambers, where was arrested a Gordon, one of the last victims executed after "the 45." The ancient castles of Fyvie, Elphinstone, and Kemnay House have their secret chambers. The first of these is, with the exception of Glamis, perhaps, the most picturesque example of the tall-roofed and cone-topped turret style of architecture introduced from France in the days of James VI. A small space marked "the armoury" in an old plan of the building could in no way be accounted for, it possessing neither door, window, nor fireplace; a trap-door, however, was at length found in the floor immediately above its supposed locality which led to its identification. At Kemnay (Aberdeenshire) the hiding-place is in the dining-room chimney; and at Elphinstone (East Lothian), in the bay of a window of the great hall, is a masked entrance to a narrow stair in the thickness of the wall leading to a little room situated in the northeast angle of the tower; it further has an exit through a trap-door in the floor of a passage in the upper part of the building. The now ruinous castle of Towie Barclay, near Banff, has evidences of secret ways and contrivances. Adjoining the fireplace of the great hall is a small room constructed for this purpose. In the wall of the same apartment is also a recess only to be reached by a narrow stairway in the thickness of the masonry, and approached from the flooring above the hall. A similar contrivance exists between the outer and inner walls of the dining hall of Carew Castle, Pembrokeshire. Coxton Tower, near Elgin, contains a singular provision for communication from the top of the building to the basement, perfectly independent of the staircase. In the centre of each floor is a square stone which, when removed, reveals an opening from the summit to the base of the tower, through which a person could be lowered. Another curious old Scottish mansion, famous for its secret chambers and passages, is Gordonstown. Here, in the pavement of a corridor in the west wing, a stone may be swung aside, beneath which is a narrow cell scooped out of one of the foundation walls. It may be followed to the adjoining angle, where it branches off into the next wall to an extent capable of holding fifty or sixty persons. Another large hiding-place is situated in one of the rooms at the back of a tall press or cupboard. The space in the wall is sufficiently large to contain eight or nine people, and entrance to it is effected by unloosing a spring bolt under the lower shelf, when the whole back of the press swings aside. Whether the mystery of the famous secret room at Glamis Castle, Forfarshire, has ever been solved or satisfactorily explained beyond the many legends and stories told in connection with it, we have not been able to determine. The walls in this remarkable old mansion are in parts over twelve feet thick, and in them are several curious recesses, notably near the windows of the "stone hall." The secret chamber, or "Fyvie-room," as it is sometimes called, is said to have a window, which nevertheless has not led to the identification of its situation. Sir Walter Scott once slept a night at Glamis, and has described the "wild and straggling arrangement of the accommodation within doors." "I was conducted," he says, "to my apartment in a distant corner of the building. I must own, as I heard door after door shut after my conductor had retired, I began to consider myself too far from the living and somewhat too near the dead--in a word, I experienced sensations which, though not remarkable either for timidity or superstition, did not fail to affect me to the point of being disagreeable." We have the great novelist's authority for saying that the entrance of the secret chamber (in his time, at any rate), by the law or custom of the family, could be known to three persons at once--_viz._ the Earl of Strathmore, his heir-apparent, and any third person whom they might take into their confidence. The great mystery of the secret chamber was imparted to the heir of Glamis, or the heir-presumptive, as the case might be, upon the eve of his arriving at his majority, and thus it passed into modern times from the dim and distant feudal days. That the secret should be thus handed down through centuries without being divulged is indeed remarkable, yet so is the story; and many a time a future lord of Glamis has boasted that he would reveal everything when he should come of age. Still, however, when that time _did_ arrive, in every case the recipient of the deadly secret has solemnly refused point blank to speak a word upon the subject. There is a secret chamber at the old Cumberland seat of the ancient family of Senhouse. To this day its position is known only by the heir-at-law and the family solicitor. This room at Nether Hall is said to have no window, and has hitherto baffled every attempt of those not in the secret to discover its whereabouts. Remarkable as this may seem in these prosaic days, it has been confirmed by the present representative of the family, who, in a communication to us upon the subject, writes as follows: "It may be romantic, but still it is true that the secret has survived frequent searches of visitors. There is no one alive who has been in it, that I am aware, except myself." Brandeston Hall, Suffolk, is also said to have a hiding place known only to two or three persons. CHAPTER XIII CONCEALED DOORS, SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGES, ETC. Numerous old houses possess secret doors, passages, and staircases--Franks, in Kent; Eshe Hall, Durham; Binns House, Scotland; Dannoty Hall, and Whatton Abbey, Yorkshire; are examples. The last of these has a narrow flight of steps leading down to the moat, as at Baddesley Clinton. The old house Marks, near Romford, pulled down in 1808 after many years of neglect and decay--as well as the ancient seat of the Tichbournes in Hampshire, pulled down in 1803--and the west side of Holme Hall, Lancashire, demolished in the last century, proved to have been riddled with hollow walls. Secret doors and panels are still pointed out at Bramshill, Hants (in the long gallery and billiard-room); the oak room, Bochym House, Cornwall; the King's bedchamber, Ford Castle, Northumberland; the plotting-parlour of the White Hart Hotel, Hull; Low Hall, Yeadon, Yorkshire; Sawston; the Queen's chamber at Kimbolton Castle, Huntingdonshire, etc., etc. A concealed door exists on the left-hand side of the fireplace of the gilt room of Holland House, Kensington, associated by tradition with the ghost of the first Lord Holland. Upon the authority of the Princess Lichtenstein, it appears there is, close by, a blood-stain which nothing can efface! It is to be hoped no enterprising person may be induced to try his skill here with the success that attended a similar attempt at Holyrood, as recorded by Scott![1] [Footnote 1: _Vide_ Introduction to _The Fair Maid of Perth_] In the King's writing-closet at Hampton Court may be seen the "secret door" by which William III. left the palace when he wished to go out unobserved; but this is more of a _private_ exit than a _secret_ one. [Illustration: WOODSTOCK PALACE, OXFORDSHIRE (FROM AN OLD PRINT)] [Illustration: MARKYATE CELL, HERTFORDSHIRE] The old Château du Puits, Guernsey, has a hiding-hole placed between two walls which form an acute angle; the one constituting part of the masonry of an inner courtyard, the other a wall on the eastern side of the main structure. The space between could be reached through the floor of an upper room. Cussans, in his _History of Hertfordshire_, gives a curious account of the discovery of an iron door up the kitchen chimney of the old house Markyate Cell, near Dunstable. A short flight of steps led from it to another door of stout oak, which opened by a secret spring, and led to an unknown chamber on the ground level. Local tradition says this was the favourite haunt of a certain "wicked Lady Ferrers," who, disguised in male attire, robbed travellers upon the highway, and being wounded in one of these exploits, was discovered lying dead outside the walls of the house; and the malignant nature of this lady's spectre is said to have had so firm a hold upon the villagers that no local labourer could be induced to work upon that particular part of the building. Beare Park, near Middleham, Yorkshire, had a hiding-hole entered from the kitchen chimney, as had also the Rookery Farm, near Cromer; West Coker Manor House; and The Chantry, at Ilminster, both in Somerset. At the last named, in another hiding-place in the room above, a bracket or credence-table was found, which is still preserved. Many weird stories are told about Bovey House, South Devon, situated near the once notorious smuggling villages of Beer and Branscombe. Upon removing some leads of the roof a secret room was found, furnished with a chair and table. The well here is remarkable, and similar to that at Carisbrooke, with the exception that two people take the place of the donkey! Thirty feet below the ground level there is said to have been a hiding-place--a large cavity cut in the solid rock. Many years ago a skeleton of a man was found at the bottom. Such dramatic material should suggest to some sensational novelist a tragic story, as the well and lime-walk at Ingatestone is said to have suggested _Lady Audley's Secret_. A hiding-place something after the same style existed in the now demolished manor house of Besils Leigh, Berks. Down the shaft of a chimney a cavity was scooped out of the brickwork, to which a refugee had to be lowered by a rope. One of the towers of the west gate of Bodiam Castle contains a narrow square well in the wall leading to the ground level, and, as the guide was wont to remark, "how much farther the Lord only knows"! This sort of thing may also be seen at Mancetter Manor, Warwickshire, and Ightham Moat, Kent, both approached by a staircase. A communication formerly ran from a secret chamber in the oak-panelled dining-room of Birtsmorton Court, Worcestershire, to a passage beneath the moat that surrounds the structure, and thence to an exit on the other side of the water. During the Wars of the Roses Sir John Oldcastle is said to have been concealed behind the secret panel; but now the romance is somewhat marred, for modern vandalism has converted the cupboard into a repository for provisions. The same indignity has taken place at that splendid old timber house in Cheshire, Moreton Hall, where a secret room, provided with a sleeping-compartment, situated over the kitchen, has been modernised into a repository for the storing of cheeses. From the hiding-place the moat could formerly be reached, down a narrow shaft in the wall. Chelvey Court, near Bristol, contained two hiding-places; one, at the top of the house, was formerly entered through a panel, the other (a narrow apartment having a little window, and an iron candle-holder projecting from the wall) through the floor of a cupboard.[1] Both the panel and the trap-door are now done away with, and the tradition of the existence of the secret rooms almost forgotten, though not long since we received a letter from an antiquarian who had seen them thirty years before, and who was actually entertaining the idea of making practical investigations with the aid of a carpenter or mason, to which, as suggested, we were to be a party; the idea, however, was never carried out. [Footnote 1: See _Notes and Queries_, September, 1855.] [Illustration: BIRTSMORTON COURT, WORCESTERSHIRE] [Illustration: PORCH, CHELVEY COURT, SOMERSETSHIRE] Granchester Manor House, Cambridgeshire, until recently possessed three places of concealment. Madingley Hall, in the same neighbourhood, has two, one of them entered from a bedroom on the first floor, has a space in the thickness of the wall high enough for a man to stand upright in it. The manor house of Woodcote, Hants, also possessed two, which were each capable of holding from fifteen to twenty men, but these repositories are now opened out into passages. One was situated behind a stack of chimneys, and contained an inner hiding-place. The "priests' quarters" in connection with the hiding-places are still to be seen. Harborough Hall, Worcestershire, has two "priests' holes," one in the wall of the dining-room, the other behind a chimney in an upper room. The old mansion of the Brudenells, in Northamptonshire, Deene Park, has a large secret chamber at the back of the fireplace in the great hall, sufficiently capacious to hold a score of people. Here also a hidden door in the panelling leads towards a subterranean passage running in the direction of the ruinous hall of Kirby, a mile and a half distant. In a like manner a passage extended from the great hall of Warleigh, an Elizabethan house near Plymouth, to an outlet in a cliff some sixty yards away, at whose base the tidal river flows. Speke Hall, Lancashire (perhaps the finest specimen extant of the wood-and-plaster style of architecture nicknamed "Magpie "), formerly possessed a long underground communication extending from the house to the shore of the river Mersey; a member of the Norreys family concealed a priest named Richard Brittain here in the year 1586, who, by this means, effected his escape by boat. The famous secret passage of Nottingham Castle, by which the young King Edward III. and his loyal associates gained access to the fortress and captured the murderous regent and usurper Mortimer, Earl of March, is known to this day as "Mortimer's Hole." It runs up through the perpendicular rock upon which the castle stands, on the south-east side from a place called Brewhouse yard, and has an exit in what was originally the courtyard of the building. The Earl was seized in the midst of his adherents and retainers on the night of October 19th, 1330, and after a skirmish, notwithstanding the prayers and entreaties of his paramour Queen Isabella, he was bound and carried away through the passage in the rock, and shortly afterwards met his well-deserved death on the gallows at Smithfield. But what ancient castle, monastery, or hall has not its traditional subterranean passage? Certainly the majority are mythical; still, there are some well authenticated. Burnham Abbey, Buckinghamshire, for example, or Tenterden Hall, Hendon, had passages which have been traced for over fifty yards; and one at Vale Royal, Nottinghamshire, has been explored for nearly a mile. In the older portions in both of the great wards of Windsor Castle arched passages thread their way below the basement, through the chalk, and penetrate to some depth below the site of the castle ditch at the base of the walls.[1] In the neighbourhood of Ripon subterranean passages have been found from time to time--tunnels of finely moulded masonry supposed to have been connected at one time with Fountains Abbey. [Footnote 1: See Marquis of Lorne's (Duke of Argyll) _Governor's Guide to Windsor_.] A passage running from Arundel Castle in the direction of Amberley has also been traced for some considerable distance, and a man and a dog have been lost in following its windings, so the entrance is now stopped up. About three years ago a long underground way was discovered at Margate, reaching from the vicinity of Trinity Church to the smugglers' caves in the cliffs; also at Port Leven, near Helston, a long subterranean tunnel was discovered leading to the coast, no doubt very useful in the good old smuggling days. At Sunbury Park, Middlesex, was found a long vaulted passage some five feet high and running a long way under the grounds. Numerous other examples could be stated, among them at St. Radigund's Abbey, near Dover; Liddington Manor House, Wilts; the Bury, Rickmansworth; "Sir Harry Vane's House," Hampstead, etc., etc. CHAPTER XIV MINIATURE HIDING-HOLES FOR VALUABLES, ETC. Small hidden recesses for the concealment of valuables or compromising deeds, etc., behind the wainscoting of ancient houses, frequently come to light. Many a curious relic has been discovered from time to time, often telling a strange or pathetic story of the past. A certain Lady Hoby, who lived at Bisham Abbey, Berkshire, is said by tradition to have caused the death of her little boy by too severe corporal punishment for his obstinacy in learning to write, A grim sequel to the legend happened not long since. Behind a window shutter in a small secret cavity in the wall was found an ancient, tattered copy-book, which, from the blots and its general slovenly appearance, was no doubt the handiwork of the unfortunate little victim to Lady Hoby's wrath. When the old manor house of Wandsworth was pulled down recently, upon removing some old panelling a little cupboard was discovered, full of dusty phials and mouldy pill-boxes bearing the names of poor Queen Anne's numerous progeny who died in infancy. Richard Cromwell spent many of his later years at Hursley, near Winchester, an old house now pulled down. In the progress of demolition what appeared to be a piece of rusty metal was found in a small cavity in one of the walls, which turned out to be no less important a relic than the seal of the Commonwealth of England. Walford, in _Greater London_, mentions the discovery of some articles of dress of Elizabeth's time behind the wainscot of the old palace of Richmond, Surrey. Historical portraits have frequently been found in this way. Behind the panelling in a large room at the old manor house of Great Gaddesden, Herts, were a number of small aumbrys, or recesses. A most interesting panel-portrait of Queen Elizabeth was found in one of them, which was exhibited at the Tudor Exhibition. In 1896, when the house of John Wesley at Lewisham was pulled down, who should be found between the walls but the amorous Merry Monarch and a court beauty! The former is said to be Riley's work. Secretary Thurloe's MSS., as is well known, were found embedded in a ceiling of his lodgings at Lincoln's Inn. In pulling down a block of old buildings in Newton Street, Holborn, a hidden space was found in one of the chimneys, and there, covered with the dust of a century, lay a silver watch, a silk guard attached, and seals bearing the Lovat crest. The relic was promptly claimed by Mr. John Fraser, the claimant to the long-disputed peerage.[1] [Footnote 1: December 14th, 1895.] Small hiding-places have been found at the manor house of Chew Magna, Somerset, and Milton Priory, a Tudor mansion in Berkshire. In the latter a green shagreen case was found containing a seventeenth-century silver and ivory pocket knife and fork. A small hiding-place at Coughton Court, Warwickshire, brought to light a bundle of priest's clothes, hidden there in the days of religious persecution. In 1876 a small chamber was found at Sanderstead Court, Surrey, containing a small blue-and-white jar of Charles I.'s time. Three or four small secret repositories existed behind some elaborately carved oak panels in the great hall of the now ruinous Harden Hall, near Stockport. In similar recesses at Gawdy Hall, Suffolk, were discovered two ancient apostle spoons, a watch, and some Jacobean MSS. A pair of gloves and some jewels of seventeenth-century date were brought to light not many years ago in a secret recess at Woodham Mortimer Manor House, Essex. A very curious example of a hiding-place for valuables formerly existed at an old building known as Terpersie Castle, near Alford, Lincolnshire. The sides of it were lined with stone to preserve articles from damp, and it could be drawn out of the wall like a drawer. In the year 1861 a hidden receptacle was found at the Elizabethan college of Wedmore, Kent, containing Roman Catholic MSS. and books; and at Bromley Palace, close by, in a small aperture below the floor, was found the leathern sole of a pointed shoe of the Middle Ages! Small hiding-places of this nature existed in a wing, now pulled down, of the Abbey House, Whitby (in "Lady Anne's Room"). At Castle Ashby, Northants; Fountains Hall, near Ripon; Ashes House, near Preston; Trent House, Somerset; and Ockwells, Berks,[1] are panels opening upon pivots and screening small cavities in the walls. [Footnote 1: Another hiding-place is said to have existed behind the fireplace of the hall.] [Illustration: HURSTMONCEAUX CASTLE, SUSSEX] CHAPTER XV HIDING-PLACES OF SMUGGLERS AND THIEVES Horsfield, in his _History of Sussex_, gives a curious account of the discovery in 1738 of an iron chest in a recess of a wall at the now magnificent ruin Hurstmonceaux Castle. In the thickness of the walls were many curious staircases communicating with the galleries. When the old castle was allowed to fall into ruin, the secret passages, etc., were used by smugglers as a convenient receptacle for contraband goods. Until recently there was an ingenious hiding-place behind a sliding panel at the old "Bell Inn" at Sandwich which had the reputation of having formerly been put to the same use; indeed, in many another old house near the coast were hiding-places utilised for a like purpose. In pulling down an old house at Erith in 1882 a vault was discovered with strong evidence that it had been extensively used for smuggling. The pretty village of Branscombe, on the Devonshire coast, was, like the adjacent village of Beer, a notorious place for smugglers. "The Clergy House," a picturesque, low-built Tudor building (condemned as being insecure and pulled down a few years ago), had many mysterious stories told of its former occupants, its underground chambers and hiding-places; indeed, the villagers went so far as to declare that there was _another house_ beneath the foundations! A secret chamber was discovered at the back of a fireplace in an old house at Deal, from which a long underground passage extended to the beach. The house was used as a school, and the unearthly noises caused by the wind blowing up this smugglers' passage created much consternation among the young lady pupils. A lady of our acquaintance remembers, when a schoolgirl at Rochester, exploring part of a vaulted tunnel running in the direction of the castle from Eastgate House, which in those days was a school, and had not yet received the distinction of being the "Nun's House" of _Edwin Drood_. Some way along, the passage was blocked by the skeleton of a donkey! Our informant is not given to romancing, therefore we must accept the story in good faith. All round the coast-line of Kent once famous smuggling buildings are still pointed out. Movable hollow beams have been found supporting cottage ceilings, containing all kinds of contraband goods. In one case, so goes the story, a customs house officer in walking through a room knocked his head, and the tell-tale hollow sound (from the beam, not from his head, we will presume) brought a discovery. At Folkestone, tradition says, a long row of houses used for the purpose had the cellars connected one with the other right the way along, so that the revenue officers could be easily evaded in the case of pursuit. The modern utility of a convenient secret panel or trap-door occasionally is apparent from the police-court reports. The tenements in noted thieves' quarters are often found to have intercommunication; a masked door will lead from one house to the other, and trap-doors will enable a thief to vanish from the most keen-sighted detective, and nimbly thread his way over the roofs of the neighbouring houses. There was a case in the papers not long since; a man, being closely chased, was on the point of being seized, when, to the astonishment of his pursuers, he suddenly disappeared at a spot where apparently he had been closely hemmed in. Many old houses in Clerkenwell were, sixty or seventy years ago, notorious thieves' dens, and were noted for their hiding-places, trap-doors, etc., for evading the vigilance of the law. The name of Jack Sheppard, as may be supposed, had connection with the majority. One of these old buildings had been used in former years as a secret Jesuits' college, and the walls were threaded with masked passages and places of concealment; and when the old "Red Lion Inn" in West Street was pulled down in 1836, some artful traps and false floors were discovered which tarried well with its reputation as a place of rendezvous and safety for outlaws. The "Rising Sun" in Holywell Street is a curious example, there being many false doors and traps in various parts of the house; also in the before-mentioned Newton Street a panel could be raised by a pulley, through which a fugitive or outlaw could effect his escape on to the roof, and thence into the adjoining house. One of the simplest and most secure hiding-places perhaps ever devised by a law-breaker was that within a water-butt! A cone-shaped repository, entered from the bottom, would allow a man to sit within it; nevertheless, to all intents and purposes the butt was kept full of water, and could be apparently emptied from a tap at its base, which, of course, was raised from the ground to admit the fugitive. We understand such a butt is still in existence somewhere in Yorkshire. A "secret staircase" in Partingdale House, Mill Hill, is associated (by tradition) with the notorious Dick Turpin, perhaps because of its proximity to his haunts upon Finchley Common. As it exists now, however, there is no object for secrecy, the staircase leading merely to the attics, and its position can be seen; but the door is well disguised in a Corinthian column containing a secret spring. Various alterations have taken place in this house, so once upon a time it may have had a deeper meaning than is now perceptible. Another supposed resort of this famous highwayman is an old ivy-grown cottage at Thornton Heath. Narrow steps lead up from the open chimney towards a concealed door, from which again steps descend and lead to a subterranean passage having an exit in the garden. [Illustration: BOVEY HOUSE, SOUTH DEVON] [Illustration: MAPLEDURHAM HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE] We do not intend to go into the matter of modern secret chambers, and there are such things, as some of our present architects and builders could tell us, for it is no uncommon thing to design hiding-places for the security of valuables. For instance, we know of a certain suburban residence, built not more than thirty years ago, where one of the rooms has capacities for swallowing up a man six feet high and broad in proportion. We have known such a person--or shall we say victim?--to appear after a temporary absence, of say, five minutes, with visible signs of discomfort; but as far as we are aware the secret is as safe in his keeping as is the famous mystery in the possession of the heir of Glamis. An example of a sliding panel in an old house in Essex (near Braintree) was used as a pattern for the entrance to a modern secret chamber;[1] and no doubt there are many similar instances where the ingenuity of our ancestors has thus been put to use for present-day requirements. [Footnote 1: According to the newspaper reports, the recently recovered "Duchess of Devonshire," by Gainsborough, was for some time secreted behind a secret panel in a sumptuous steam-launch up the river Thames, from whence it was removed to America in a trunk with a false bottom.] Our collection of houses with hiding-holes is now coming to an end. We will briefly summarise those that remain unrecorded. "New Building" at Thirsk has, or had, a secret chamber measuring three feet by six. Upon the outside wall on the east side of the house is a small aperture into which a stone fitted with such nicety that no sign of its being movable could possibly be detected; at the same time, it could be removed with the greatest ease in the event of its being necessary to supply a person in hiding with food. Catledge Hall, Cambridgeshire, has a small octangular closet adjoining a bedroom, from which formerly there was a secret way on to the leads of the roof. [Illustration: MAPLEDURHAM HOUSE, OXFORDSHIRE] [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO SECRET STAIRCASE, PARTINGDALE HOUSE, MILL-HILL, MIDDLESEX] At Dunkirk Hall, near West Bromwich, is a "priest's hole" in the upper part of the house near "the chapel," which is now divided into separate rooms. Mapledurham House, axon, the old seat of the Blounts, contains a "priest's hole" in the attics, descent into which could be made by the aid of a rope suspended for that purpose. Upton Court, near Slough, possesses a "priest's hole," entered from a fireplace, provided with a double flue--one for smoke, the other for ventilation to the hiding-place. Knebworth House, Hertfordshire, formerly had a secret chamber known as "Hell Hole." Eastgate House, Rochester (before mentioned), has a hiding-place in one of the upstairs rooms. It has, however, been altered. Milsted Manor, Kent, is said to have a secret exit from the library; and Sharsted Court (some three miles distant) has a cleverly marked panel in the wainscoting of "the Tapestry Dressing-room," which communicates by a very narrow and steep flight of steps in the thickness of the wall with "the Red Bedroom." The "Clough Inn," Chard, Somersetshire, is said by tradition to have possessed three secret rooms! Cawdor Castle, Nairnshire--a hiding-place formerly in "the tower." Bramhall Hall, Cheshire--two secret recesses were discovered not long ago during alterations. The following also contain hiding-places:--Hall-i'-the-wood, Bolling Hall, Mains Hall, and Huncoat Hall, all in Lancashire; Drayton House, Northants; Packington Old Hall, Warwickshire; Batsden Court, Salop; Melford Hall, Suffolk, Fyfield House, Wilts; "New Building," Southwater, Sussex; Barsham Rectory, Suffolk; Porter's Hall, Southend, Essex; Kirkby Knowle Castle and Barnborough Hall, Yorkshire; Ford House, Devon; Cothele, Cornwall; Hollingbourne Manor House, Kent (altered of late years); Salisbury Court, near Shenley, Herts. Of hiding-places and secret chambers in the ancient castles and mansions upon the Continent we know but little. Two are said to exist in an old house in the Hradschin in Prague--one communicating from the foundation to the roof "by a windlass or turnpike." A subterranean passage extends also from the house beneath the street and the cathedral, and is said to have its exit in the Hirch Graben, or vast natural moat which bounds the château upon the north. A lady of our acquaintance remembers her feeling of awe when, as a school-girl, she was shown a hiding-place in an old mansion near Baden-Baden--a huge piece of stone masonry swinging aside upon a pivot and revealing a gloomy kind of dungeon behind. The old French châteaux, according to Froisart, were rarely without secret means of escape. King Louis XVI., famous for his mechanical skill, manufactured a hiding-place in an inner corridor of his private apartments at the Palace of Versailles. The wall where it was situated was painted to imitate large stones, and the grooves of the opening were cleverly concealed in the shaded representations of the divisions. In this a vast collection of State papers was preserved prior to the Revolution.[1] [Footnote 1: Vide _The Memoirs of Madame Campan._] Mr. Lang tells us, in his admirable work _Pickle the Spy_, that Bonnie Prince Charlie, between the years 1749 and 1752, spent much of his time in the convent of St. Joseph in the Rue St. Dominique, in the Faubourg St. Germain, which under the late Empire (1863) was the hotel of the Minister of War. Here he appears to have been continually lurking behind the walls, and at night by a secret staircase visiting his protectress Madame de Vassés. Allusion is made in the same work to a secret cellar with a "dark stair" leading to James III.'s furtive audience-chamber at his residence in Rome. So recently as the year 1832 a hiding-place in an old French house was put to practical use by the Duchesse de Berry after the failure of her enterprise to raise the populace in favour of her son the Duc de Bordeaux. She had, however, to reveal herself in preference to suffocation, a fire, either intentionally or accidentally, having been ignited close to where she was hidden, recalling the terrible experiences of Father Gerard at "Braddocks." CHAPTER XVI THE SCOTTISH HIDING-PLACES OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD The romantic escapes of Prince Charles Edward are somewhat beyond the province of this book, owing to the fact that the hiding-places in which he lived for the greater part of five months were not artificial but natural formations in the wild, mountainous country of the Western Highlands. Far less convenient and comfortable were these caves and fissures in the rocks than those secret places which preserved the life of the "young chevalier's" great-uncle Charles II. Altogether, the terrible hardships to which the last claimant to the Stuart throne was subjected were far greater in every way, and we can but admire the remarkable spirit, fortitude, and courage that carried him through his numerous dangers and trials. The wild and picturesque character not only of the Scotch scenery, but of the loyal Highlanders, who risked their all to save their King, gives the story of this remarkable escape a romantic colouring that surpasses any other of its kind, whether real or fictitious. This, therefore, is our excuse for giving a brief summary of the Prince's wanderings, if only to add to our other hiding-places a record of the names of the isolated spots which have become historical landmarks. In his flight from the fatal battlefield of Culloden the young Prince, when about four miles from Inverness, hastily determined to make the best of his way towards the western coast. The first halt was made at Castle Dounie, the seat of the crafty old traitor Lord Lovat. A hasty meal having been taken here, Charles and his little cavalcade of followers pushed on to Invergarry, where the chieftain, Macdonnell of Glengarry, otherwise "Pickle the Spy,"[1] being absent from home, an empty house was the only welcome, but the best was made of the situation. Here the bulk of the Prince's companions dispersed to look after their own safety, while he and one or two chosen friends continued the journey to Glenpean, the residence of the chieftain Donald Cameron. From Mewboll, which was reached the next night, the fugitives proceeded on foot to Oban, where a hovel was found for sleeping-quarters. In the village of Glenbiasdale, in Arisaig, near to where Charles had landed on his disastrous enterprise, he learned that a number of Royalist cruisers were upon the alert all along the coast, whereupon he determined to watch his opportunity and get across to the Western Isles, and remain concealed until a French vessel could be found to take him abroad. [Footnote 1: _Vide_ Andrew Lang's _Pickle the Spy_.] A boat was procured, and the little party safely embarked, but in the voyage encountered such heavy seas that the vessel very nearly foundered; a landing, however, being effected at a place called Roonish, in the Isle of Benbecula, a habitation had to be made out of a miserable hut. Two days being thus wretchedly spent, a move was made to the Island of Scalpa, where Charles was entertained for four days in the house of Donald Campbell. Meanwhile, a larger vessel was procured, the object being to reach Stornoway; but the inclemency of the weather induced Charles and his guide Donald Macleod to make the greater part of the journey by land. Arriving there hungry, worn out, and drenched to the skin, the Prince passed the night at Kildun, the house of Mrs. Mackenzie; an alarm of danger, however, forced him to sea again with a couple of companions, O'Sullivan and O'Neal; but shortly after they had embarked they sighted some men-of-war, so put to land once more at the Island of Jeffurt. Four days were passed away in this lonely spot, when the boat put out to sea once more, and after many adventures and privations the travellers landed at Loch Wiskaway, in Benbecula, and made their headquarters some two miles inland at a squalid hut scarcely bigger than a pigstye. The next move was to an isolated locality named Glencorodale, in the centre of South Uist, where in a hut of larger dimensions the Prince held his court in comparative luxury, his wants being well looked after by Sir Alexander and Lady Macdonald and other neighbouring Jacobites. With thirty thousand pounds reward offered for his capture, and the Western Isles practically surrounded by the enemy, it is difficult to imagine the much-sought-for prize coolly passing his weary hours in fishing and shooting, yet such was the case for the whole space of a month. An eye-witness describes Charles's costume at this time as "a tartan short coat and vest of the same, got from Lady Clanranald; his nightcap all patched with soot-drops, his shirt, hands, and face patched with the same; a short kilt, tartan hose, and Highland brogs." From South Uist the fugitive removed to the Island of Wia, where he was received by Ranald Macdonald; thence he visited places called Rossinish and Aikersideallich, and at the latter had to sleep in a fissure in the rocks. Returning once more to South Uist, Charles (accompanied by O'Neal and Mackechan) found a hiding-place up in the hills, as the militia appeared to be dangerously near, and at night tramped towards Benbecula, near to which another place of safety was found in the rocks. The memorable name of Flora Macdonald now appears upon the scene. After much scheming and many difficulties the meeting of the Prince and this noble lady was arranged in a squalid hut near Rosshiness. The hardships encountered upon the journey from Benbecula to this village were some of the worst experiences of the unfortunate wanderer; and when his destination was reached at last, he had to be hurried off again to a hiding-place by the sea-shore, which provided little or no protection from the driving torrents of rain. Early each morning this precaution had to be taken, as the Royalist soldiers, who were quartered only a quarter of a mile distant, repaired to the hut every morning to get milk from the woman who acted as Charles's hostess. Upon the third day after the Prince had arrived, Flora Macdonald joined him, bringing with her the disguise for the character he was to impersonate upon a proposed journey to the Isle of Skye--_viz._ "a flowered linen gown, a light-coloured quilted petticoat, a white apron, and a mantle of dun camlet, made after the Irish fashion, with a hood." A boat lay in readiness in a secluded nook on the coast, and "Betty Burke"--the pseudo servant-maid--Flora Macdonald, and Mackechan, as guide, embarked and got safely to Kilbride, in Skye. Not, however, without imminent dangers. A storm nearly swamped the boat; and upon reaching the western coast of the island they were about to land, when a number of militiamen were noticed on shore, close at hand, and as they recognised their peril, and pulled away with might and main, a volley of musketry would probably have had deadly effect, had not the fugitives thrown themselves at the bottom of the boat. At the house of the Macdonalds of Mugstat, whose representative dreaded the consequences of receiving Charles, another Macdonald was introduced as an accomplice by the merest accident. This staunch Jacobite at once took possession of "Betty," and hurried off towards his house of Kingsburgh. Upon the way the ungainly appearance of Flora's maid attracted the attention of a servant, who remarked that she had never seen such an impudent-looking woman. "See what long strides the jade takes!" she cried; "and how awkwardly she manages her petticoats!" And this was true enough, for in fording a little brook "Betty Burke" had to be severely reprimanded by her chaperon for her impropriety in lifting her skirts! Upon reaching the house, Macdonald's little girl caught sight of the strange woman, and ran away to tell her mother that her father had brought home "the most old, muckle, ill-shapen-up wife" she had ever seen. Startling news certainly for the lady of Kingsburgh! The old worn-out boots of the Prince's were discarded for new ones ere he departed, and fragments of the former were long afterwards worn in the bosoms of Jacobite ladies. The next step in this wonderful escape was to Portree, where temporary accommodation was found in a small public-house. Here Charles separated from his loyal companions Neil Mackechan and the immortal Flora. The "Betty Burke" disguise was discarded and burnt and a Highland dress donned. With new guides the young Chevalier now made his headquarters for a couple of days or so in a desolate shepherd's hut in the Isle of Raasay; thence he journeyed to the north coast of the Isle of Skye, and near Scorobreck housed himself in a cow-shed. At this stage of his journey Charles altered his disguise into that of a servant of his then companion Malcolm Macleod, and at the home of his next host (a Mackinnon of Ellagol) was introduced as "Lewie Caw," the son of a surgeon in the Highland army. By the advice of the Mackinnons, the fugitive decided to return, under their guidance, again to the mainland, and a parting supper having been held in a cave by the sea-shore, he bid adieu to the faithful Macleod. The crossing having been effected, not without innumerable dangers, once more Charles found himself near the locality of his first landing. For the next three days neither cave nor hut dwelling could be found that was considered safe; and upon the fourth day, in exploring the shores of Loch Nevis for a hiding-place, the fugitives ran their little craft right into a militia boat that was moored to and screened from view by a projecting rock. The soldiers on land immediately sprang on board and gave chase; but with his usual good luck Charles got clear away by leaping on land at a turn of the lake, where his retreat was covered by dense foliage. After this the Prince was under the care of the Macdonalds, one of which clan, Macdonald of Glenaladale, together with Donald Cameron of Glenpean, took the place of the Mackinnons. A brief stay was made at Morar Lake and at Borrodaile (both houses of the Macdonalds); after which a hut in a wood near the latter place and an artfully constructed hiding-place between two rocks with a roof of green turf did service as the Prince's palace. In this cave Charles received the alarming news that the Argyllshire Militia were on the scent, and were forming an impenetrable cordon completely round the district. Forced once more to seek refuge in flight, the unfortunate Stuart was hurried away through some of the wildest mountainous country he had yet been forced to traverse. A temporary hiding-place was found, and from this a search-party exploring the adjacent rocks and crags was watched with breathless interest. Still within the military circle, a desperate dash for liberty had now to be planned. Nearly starved and reduced to the last extremity of fatigue, Charles and his guides, Glenpean and Glenaladale, crept stealthily upon all-fours towards the watch-fires, and taking advantage of a favourable moment when the nearest sentry was in such a position that their approach could be screened by the projecting rocks, in breathless silence the three stole by, and offering up a prayer for their deliverance, continued their foot-sore journey until their legs would carry them no farther. The next four days Charles sought shelter in caves in the neighbourhood of Glenshiel, Strathcluanie, and Strathglass; but the most romantic episode in his remarkable adventures was the sojourn in the secret caves and hiding-places of the notorious robbers of Glenmoriston, under whose protection the royal fugitive placed himself. With these wild freebooters he continued for three weeks, during which time he made himself extremely popular by his freedom of intercourse with them. The wanderer left these dwellings of comparative luxury that he might join hands with other fugitive Jacobites, Macdonald of Lochgarry and Cameron of Clunes, and took up his quarters in the wood-surrounded huts near Loch Arkaig and Auchnacarry. The poor youth's appearance at this period is thus described by one of his adherents: "The Prince was at this time bare-footed, had an old black kilt-coat on, philabeg and waistcoat, a dirty shirt, and a long red beard, a gun in his hand, and a pistol and dirk by his side." Moving again to miserable hovels in the wild recesses of the mountain Benalder, the chieftains Lochiel and Cluny acted now as the main bodyguard. The former of these two had devised a very safe hiding-place in the mountain which went by the name of "the Cage," and while here welcome news was brought that two friendly vessels had arrived at Lochnanuagh, their mission being, if possible, to seek out and carry away the importunate heir to the Stuart throne. The last three or four days of Charles's memorable adventures were occupied in reaching Glencamger, halts being made on the day at Corvoy and Auchnacarry. On Saturday, September 20th, 1746, he was on board _L'Heureux_, and nine days later landed at Roscoff, near Morlaix. So ended the famous escapades of the young Chevalier Prince Charles Edward. Here is a fine field open to some enterprising artistic tourist. How interesting it would be to follow Prince Charles throughout his journeyings in the Western Highlands, and illustrate with pen and pencil each recorded landmark! Not long since Mr. Andrew Lang gave, in a weekly journal (_The Sketch_), illustrations of the most famous of all the Prince's hiding-places--_viz._ the cave in Glenmoriston, Inverness-shire.[1] The cave, we are told, is "formed like a tumulus by tall boulders, but is clearly a conspicious object, and a good place wherein to hunt for a fugitive. But it served its turn, and as another cave in the same district two miles off is lost, perhaps it is not so conspicious as it seems." It is about twenty feet wide at the base, and the position of the hearth and the royal bed are still to be seen, with "the finest purling stream that could be, running by the bed-side." How handy for the morning "tub"! [Footnote 1: They appeared originally in Blaikie's _Itinerary of Prince Curies Stuart_ (Scottish History Society).] In that remarkable collection of Stuart relics on exhibition in 1889 were many pathetic mementoes of Charles's wanderings in the Highlands. Here could be seen not only the mittens but the chemise of "Betty Burke"; the punch-bowl over which the Prince and the host of Kingsburgh had a late carousal, and his Royal Highness's table-napkins used in the same hospitable house; a wooden coffee-mill, which provided many a welcome cup of coffee in the days of so many hardships; a silver dessert-spoon, given to Dr. Macleod by the fugitive when he left the Isle of Skye; the Prince's pocket-book, many of his pistols, and a piece of his Tartan disguise; a curious relic in the form of two lines of music, sent as a warning to one of his lurking-places--when folded in a particular way the following words become legible, "Conceal yourself; your foes look for you." There was also a letter from Charles saying he had "arrived safe aboard ye vessell" which carried him to France, and numerous little things which gave the history of the escape remarkable reality. The recent dispersal of the famous Culloden collection sent long-cherished Jacobite relics broadcast over the land. The ill-fated Stuart's bed and walking-stick were of course the plums of this sale; but they had no connection with the Highland wanderings after the battle. The only object that had any connection with the story was the gun of _L'Heureux_. We understand there is still a much-prized heirloom now in Glasgow--a rustic chair used by the Prince when in Skye. The story is that, secreted in one of his cave dwellings, he espied a lad in his immediate vicinity tending some cows. Hunger made him reveal himself, with the result that he was taken to the boy's home, a farm not far off, and had his fill of cream and oatcakes, a delicacy which did not often fall in his way. The visit naturally was repeated; and long afterwards, when the rank of his guest came to the knowledge of the good farmer, the royal chair was promoted from its old corner in the kitchen to an honored position worthy of such a valued possession. THE END. INDEX Bedfordshire:-- Toddington Place Berkshire:-- Besils Leigh Bisham Abbey East Hendred House Hurley, Lady Place Milton Priory Ockwells Ufton Court Windsor Castle Buckinghamshire:-- Burnham Abbey Claydon House Dinton Hall Gayhurst, or Gothurst Slough, Upton Court Stoke Poges Manor House Cambridgeshire:-- Catledge Hall Granchester Manor House Madingley Hall Sawston Hall Cheshire:-- Bramhall Hall Harden Hall Lyme Hall Moreton Hall Cornwall:-- Bochym House Cothele Port Leven Cumberland:-- Naworth Castle Nether Hall Derbyshire:-- Bradshawe Hall Devonshire:-- Bovey House Branscombe, "The Clergy House" Ford House Warleigh Durham:-- Bishops Middleham Darlington Dinsdale-on-Tees Eshe Hall Essex:-- Braddocks, or Broad Oaks Braintree Dunmow, North End Hill Hall Hinchford Ingatestone Hall Romford, Marks Southend, Porter's Hall Woodham Mortimer Manor House Gloucestershire:-- Bourton-on-the-Water Manor House Hampshire:-- Bramshill Highclere Castle Hinton-Ampner Hursley Moyles Court Tichbourne Woodcote Manor House Herefordshire:-- Treago Hertfordshire:-- Great Gaddesden Manor House Hatfield House Knebworth House Markyate Cell, Dunstable Rickmansworth, The Bury Shenley, Salisbury Court Tyttenhanger House Huntingdonshire:-- Kimbolton Castle Kent:-- Bromley Palace Deal Dover, St. Radigund's Abbey Erith Folkestone Franks Hollingbourne Manor House Ightham Moat Lewisham, John Wesley's House Margate Milsted Manor Rochester, Abdication House Rochester, Eastgate House Rochester, Restoration House Sandwich, "Bell Inn" Sharsted Court Twissenden Wedmore College Lancashire:-- Bolling Hall Borwick Hall Gawthorp Hall Hall-i'-the-wood Holme Hall Huncoat Hall Lydiate Hall Mains Hall Preston, Ashes House Speke Hall Stonyhurst Lincolnshire:-- Bayons Manor Irnham Hall Kingerby Hall Terpersie Castle Middlesex:-- Enfield, White Webb's Hackney, Brooke House Hampstead, Sir Harry Vane's House Hampton Court Hendon, Tenterden Hall Highgate, Cromwell House Hillingdon, Moorcroft House Islington, Hale House Kensington, Holland House Knightsbridge London, Lincoln's Inn London, Newton Street, Holborn London, "Red Lion Inn," West Street, Clerkenwell London, "Rising Sun," Holywell Street Mill Hill, Partingdale House Sunbury Park Twickenham, Arragon Towers Westminster, Delahay Street Norfolk:-- Cromer, Rookery Farm Oxburgh Hall Northamptonshire:-- Ashby St. Ledgers Castle Ashby Deene Park Drayton House Fawsley Great Harrowden Rushton Hall Northumberland:-- Ford Castle Netherwhitton Wallington Nottinghamshire:-- Nottingham Castle Vale Royal Worksop Oxfordshire:-- Broughton Castle Chastleton Mapledurham House Minster Lovel Manor House Shipton Court Tusmore House Woodstock Shropshire:-- Batsden Court Boscobel House Gatacre Park Longford, Newport Madeley Court Madeley, Upper House Oswestry, Park Hall Plowden Hall Somersetshire:-- Chard, "Clough Inn" Chelvey Court Chew Magna Manor House Dunster Castle Ilminster, The Chantry Trent House West Coker Manor House Staffordshire:-- Broughton Hall Moseley Hall West Bromwich, Dunkirk Hall Suffolk:-- Barsham Rectory Brandeston Hall Brandon Hall Coldham Hall Gawdy Hall Melford Hall Surrey:-- Mortlake, Cromwell House Petersham, Ham House Richmond Palace Sanderstead Court Thornton Heath Wandsworth Manor House Weybridge, Ham House Sussex:-- Albourne Place Arundel Castle Bodiam Castle Chichester Cathedral Cowdray Hurstmonceaux Castle Parham Hall Paxhill Scotney Castle Slindon House Southwater, Horsham, "New Building" Street Place Warwickshire:-- Baddesley Clinton Clopton Hall Compton Winyates Coughton Court Mancetter Manor Packington Old Hall Salford Prior Hall Warwick, St. John's Hospital Wiltshire:-- Fyfield House Great Chalfield Heale House Liddington Manor House Salisbury Worcestershire:-- Armscot Manor House Birtsmorton Court Cleeve Prior Manor House Harborough Hall Harvington Hall Hindlip Hall Huddington Court Malvern, Pickersleigh Court Stanford Court Wollas Hall Yorkshire:-- Bamborough Hall Beare Park Danby Hall Dannoty Hall Fountains Abbey Fountains Hall Hull, White Hart Hotel Kirkby Knowle Castle Leyburn, The Grove Myddleton Lodge, Ilkley Thirsk, "New Building" Whatton Abbey Whitby, Abbey House Yeadon, Low Hall Aberdeenshire:-- Belucraig Dalpersie House Fetternear Fyvie Castle Gordonstown Kemnay House Banffshire:-- Towie Barclay Castle Elginshire:-- Coxton Tower Forfarshire:-- Glamis Castle Haddingtonshire:-- Elphinstone Castle Linlithgowshire:-- Binns House Nairnshire:-- Cawdor Castle Monmouthshire:-- Ty Mywr Pembrokeshire:-- Carew Castle Isle of Wight:-- Newport Manor House Guernsey:-- Château du Puits 
23191	----	Count Ulrich of Lindburg, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ The story begins in the early years of the sixteenth century. A monk, Martin Luther, has read the Bible and has realised that the teachings of the Roman church are much in error. Gradually his teachings percolate through the land. Count Ulrich, and also his son Eric, are very interested in this, though Ulrich's wife and daughter remain under the spell of their priest, Nicholas. Eric sets off for the city where Luther is teaching, accompanied by a personal guard called Hans. On the way they meet with a youngster who is being bullied, and they take him into their charge. Later they meet with some soldiers serving a Baron who is an enemy of Eric's father, and are taken to the Baron's castle, where they are imprisoned. After a few days they are sent for by the Baron's wife. It turns out that the boy they had rescued on their journey had dodged off when they were bing captured, and had made his way to where Martin Luther could be found. Knowing that the Baron's wife was interested in Luther's teachings he got message to her to ask her to intervene in the matter of Eric and Hans. This is successful, and the two men continue their journey. On arriving at the University town where Luther is teaching they hasten to his lectures, and are re-united with the boy they had earlier rescued, who had been waiting and watching out for them. The story continues from this point, and does make a very good read. ________________________________________________________________________ COUNT ULRICH OF LINDBURG, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. CHAPTER ONE. On the banks of the river Saal, in Merseburg, forming part of Saxony, at the time of which we speak, governed by the aged and excellent Elector Frederick, stood the Castle of Lindburg. It was one of those feudal piles of the Middle Ages, impregnable to the engines of ancient warfare, but which were destined to crumble before the iron shots with which cannon assailed them, as the system they represented was compelled to succumb to the light of that truth which the Gospel was then diffusing over the greater part of Europe. Ulrich, Count von Lindburg, or the Knight of Lindburg, as he was often called, sat in a room in his Castle, with his arm resting on a table and a book before him, at which, however, his eyes seldom glanced; his looks were thoughtful and full of care. He had engaged in much hard fighting in his younger days, and now all he wished for was rest and quiet, though the state of the times gave him but little hope of enjoying them. In his own mind, too, he was troubled about many things. Four years before the time at which he is introduced to the reader, he had visited Worms, during the time the Diet, summoned by the Emperor Charles the Fifth, was sitting, and was among those who found their way into the great hall where the Emperor and the chief princes, bishops, and nobles of the land were sitting, when Dr Martin Luther, replied to the chancellor of Treves, the orator of the Diet, who demanded whether he would retract the opinions put forth in numerous books he had published and sermons he had preached. "Since your most serene majesty and your high mightinesses require from me a clear, simple, and precise answer, I will give you one, and it is this: I cannot submit my fate either to the Pope or to the councils, because it is clear as the day that they have frequently erred and contradicted each other. Unless, therefore, I am convinced by the testimony of Scripture or by the clearest reasoning, unless I am persuaded by means of the passages I have quoted, and unless they thus render my conscience bound by the Word of God, _I cannot and will not retract_, for it is unsafe for a Christian to speak against his conscience." And then, looking round on that assembly before which he stood, and which held his life in its hands, he said, "HERE I STAND, I CAN DO NO OTHER. MAY GOD HELP ME! AMEN!" The assembly were thunderstruck. Many of the princes found it difficult to conceal their admiration; even the emperor exclaimed, "This monk speaks with an intrepid heart and unshaken courage." Truly he did. This is the weakness of God, which is stronger than man. God had brought together these kings and these prelates publicly to confound their wisdom. These bold words had had also a deep effect on the Knight of Lindburg, and he kept meditating on them as he rode homeward towards the north. Could it, then, be possible that the lowly monk--the peasant's son--should be right, and all those great persons, who wished to condemn him, wrong? Was that faith, in which he himself had been brought up, not the true one? Was there a purer and a better? He must consult Father Nicholas Keller, his confessor, and hear what he had to say on the subject. The Knight carried out his intention. Father Nicholas was puzzled; scarcely knew what answer to make. It was a dreadful thing to differ with the Church--to rebel against the Pope. Dr Martin was a learned man, but he opined that he was following too closely in the steps of John Huss, and the Knight, his patron, knew that they led to the stake. He had no wish that any one under his spiritual charge should go there. As to the Scriptures, he had read but very small portions of them, and he could not tell how far Dr Martin's opinions were formed from them. The Knight was not satisfied. He asked Father Nicholas to explain what was the Church, and if it was not founded on the Scriptures, on what was it founded? Father Nicholas replied that it was founded on Peter, and that the popes were Peter's successors, and that therefore the Church was founded on the Pope. The Knight remarked that from what he had heard of Peter he must have been a very different sort of person to Leo the Tenth, and he asked what we knew about Peter, and indeed the other apostles, except through the Scriptures? Father Nicholas, shaking his head at so preposterous a question, replied, "Through tradition." The Knight asked, "What is tradition?" Father Nicholas hesitated--coughed--hemmed--and then said, "My son, tradition--is tradition! And now let us change the subject, it is becoming dangerous." The Knight was not yet satisfied, and he determined to look more particularly into the matter. When, therefore, his son Eric came home, and expressed a strong desire to migrate to Wittemburg, that he might pursue his studies under the learned professors of that University, Drs. Martin Luther, Melancthon, Jerome Schurff, Jonas Armsdorff, Augustin Schurff, and others, he made no objection. Dame Margaret, his wife, however, and Father Nicholas, loudly protested against Eric's going among such a nest of heretics. "He will be perverted," they exclaimed; "he will share the fate of Huss." "I have promised him that he shall have his will, and perhaps he will be able to come back and tell us the meaning of tradition," answered the Knight, with a peculiar look at Father Nicholas. "There are, besides, two or three other things about which I want him to gain information for me." Dame Margaret knew from experience that when the knight, who was an old soldier and wont to rule in his own house, said a thing, he meant it. She therefore held her peace, and it was finally arranged that Eric should forthwith set off for Wittemburg. Dame Margaret was a very well-meaning woman. She could not prevent her son from going to the heretical University, but she hoped by her admonitions and warnings that she might prevent him from imbibing the dangerous principles which she understood were taught there. She consulted Father Nicholas on the subject; indeed she never failed to consult him on all subjects, temporal as well as spiritual, connected with her family, so that the father had a good deal of influence in the household. He did not give her any great hopes of success. "With all respect be it spoken of a son of yours, Eric has ever been obstinate and dull-headed, and turned a deaf ear to all my ghostly counsels and exhortations. Very like his father, the knight, I regret to say," he observed; "however, there can be no harm in warning him. Tell him all I have told you about that heresiarch, Dr Martin, and if he believes what you say, you may thus have the happiness of counteracting the effects of the evil and abominable instructions he will receive." This was a bright idea. Father Nicholas had been accustomed to say a good many hard things of Dr Luther and his friends. The plan must succeed. While, like a good mother as she really wished to be, Dame Margaret was preparing Eric's shirts and hosen, a new cloak, and other things for his journey, she sent for her son that she might talk to him. She was alone; Eric kissed her hand affectionately, as he entered, and stood respectfully before her-- "You are going away for a long period from your father and me, and from our esteemed Father Nicholas, and you will be exposed to countless perils and dangers, my son," she began. "You have a desire to go among those people, holding new-fangled doctrines, for the sake of the novelty and excitement; that is but natural, so I scarcely blame you; but beware, my son, this Dr Martin himself is, I hear, a wild, unstable character, a roisterer and wine-bibber, who desires to overthrow our holy Father, the Pope, for the sake of ruling, by his wicked incantations and devices, in his stead." "Others speak very differently of him, my mother," answered Eric, humbly; "but I shall know more about him when I have been to Wittemburg and heard what he and his friends have to say for themselves." "Alas, it may be too late when you once get into his toils," sighed Dame Margaret. "They say that he has a compact with the Evil One, and he it is who gives him the wonderful power he possesses over men's minds and makes them oppose our Father, the Pope, and our holy mother Church." "I have not heard that Dr Martin Luther has been guilty of any deeds such as those in which the Evil One especially takes delight, and we must judge of people by the works they perform," answered Eric, in the gentle tone which his affectionate respect for his mother induced him to employ. "I know that Dr Martin is a learned man; he desires to introduce learning and a pure literature into our fatherland, and he is moreover an earnest seeker after the truth, and has sincerely at heart the eternal interests of his fellow-men. He is bold and brave because he believes his cause to be righteous and favoured by God. That is the account I have heard of him; I shall know whether it is the true one when I get to Wittemburg." "They say that he preaches that the convents should be thrown open, and the priests allowed to marry, because he himself wants to take a wife. They say that the motives for all he does are very evident," continued Dame Margaret, not listening to her son's remark. "I should have thought that had he been plotting from the first to oppose the power of the Pope for the sake of marrying he would have taken a wife long ago. There has been nothing to hinder him. Certainly not many `pfaffen' would have been so scrupulous. He himself has remained single, and is a man, several of my friends who know him assure me, singularly abstemious; often he goes a whole day or more without food, and his usual meals are of the simplest kind. It is true that when he mixes with his fellow-men his heart expands and he does not refuse the wine cup or the generous food placed before him. His is no churlish spirit to turn away from the good things kind Heaven has provided for man. God sends us trials, but He intends us to enjoy what He has in His loving mercy given us in this world, and never throws temptations to sin in our way, as some foolish teachers would make us believe. But as to Dr Martin's mode of life, I shall be able to tell you more about it when I have been to Wittemburg." Dame Margaret sighed deeply, she had not yet quite said her say, that is, what Father Nicholas had told her to say. "My son," she continued, "I am informed that evil people are saying many wrong things against our Holy Father, the Pope; that he has no business to call himself head of the Christian Church; that he is an extravagant, worldly man; that many predecessors have been as bad as bad could be. Indeed I cannot repeat all the dreadful things said of him." "But suppose, dear mother, that all the things said of him are true; suppose that Saint Peter never was at Rome, that he did not found a Church there, and was never Bishop of Rome; that designing men, for their own ambitious ends, have assumed that he was, and pretended to be his successors, and finally, finding the success of their first fraud, have claimed the right of ruling over the whole Christian world. But, however, when I go to Wittemburg I shall better know the truth of these things, and if they are calumnies, learn how to refute them." "Oh! my son! my son! how can you even venture to utter such dreadful heresies?" shrieked Dame Margaret, even before Eric had finished speaking; then, hearing his last words, she added, "Of course they are calumnies; of course you will refute them, and you will come back here, after you have completed your studies, and be the brave opponent of this Dr Martin and all his schismatic crew. But, my son, one of my chief objects in sending for you was to bestow on you a most invaluable relic, which will prove a sure and certain charm against all the dangers, more especially the spiritual ones, by which you may be surrounded. Neither Dr Martin nor even the Spirit of Evil himself will be able to prevail against you if you firmly trust to it, Father Nicholas assures me; for it contains not only a bit of the true cross, but a part of one of Saint Peter's fishing-hooks, and a portion of the thumb-nail of Saint James. Let me put it round your neck, my son, and thus armed I shall, with confidence, see you go forth to combat with the world, the flesh and the devil." Dame Margaret spoke seriously; she was merely giving expression to the common belief in relics entertained, not only by ignorant peasants but by the highest nobility and the great mass of the population, a belief encouraged by the priests, who thus secured a sure market for their own manufactures. The excellent Elector Frederick, who became one of the great champions of the Reformation, had a short time before employed several dignitaries of the Church to collect relics for him, and had purchased a considerable number for very large sums. In the war between France and Spain, every Spanish soldier who was killed or taken prisoner was found to have a relic round his neck with a certificate from the priest who had sold it, that it would render his body invulnerable to the bullets or swords of the enemy. There is a very considerable sale of such articles, even to the present day, in Roman Catholic countries. Eric was therefore well aware of the value his mother would attach to the one she desired to bestow on him, yet he had already imbibed too large a portion of truth from the writings of Dr Luther and others, and the portions of Scripture he had read, not to look on the imposition with the contempt it deserved; still he was too dutiful a son to treat his mother's offer with disrespect. He thought a minute or more, and then replied slowly-- "I will not take your relic, mother, for I am already provided with a protection which will be sufficient for all the dangers I am likely to encounter. I will say nothing now as to the relic. When I have been to Wittemburg I may be able to tell you something more of its actual value." Nothing that Dame Margaret could say would induce him to take the article. On repeating the conversation with her son to Father Nicholas, she expressed a hope that Eric was not possessed of an evil spirit, which had induced him so pertinaciously to refuse the proffered gift. Father Nicholas bit his lip, frowned, said he could not say, it might possibly be an embryo one, such as had clearly entered into Dr Martin and many other persons at that time. It would certainly be safe to exorcise him, but the difficulty would be to get so obstinate a young man as Eric to submit to the operation. He would think about it, and try and devise some means by which the ceremony might be performed without the patient having the power to resist. This promise afforded a considerable amount of comfort to Dame Margaret, who had felt very uneasy ever since the idea had seized her, for she could not otherwise account for her son's refusing so inestimable a gift. The last night Eric slept at home he had a dream, at least he was not quite certain whether he was awake or dreaming. He opened his eyes and saw a light in the room, and his mother and Father Nicholas, and his sister Laneta, and his father's old henchman, Hans Bosch, who had often carried him in his arms, when he was a child, and still looked on him in the light of one, standing round his bed. His mother held a basin, and Hans a book, and the priest a censer, which he was swinging to and fro, and muttering words, in very doggerel Latin, while ever and anon, he sprinkled him with water from the basin. What Laneta was about, he could not exactly make out, but he thought that she had a box in her hands, which she held open. Had he not been very sleepy and tired he would have jumped up and ascertained whether what he saw was a vision or a reality; but, shutting his eyes, he went off soundly to sleep again, and sometime afterwards, when he awoke, the room was in darkness and he was alone. His mother, the next morning, regarded him with much more contented looks than her countenance had worn for the last day or two. It may as well be here mentioned that Eric discovered during his journey the precious relic, which he had declined taking, fastened into the collar of his cloak. He sighed and said to himself-- "Then, poor mother, let it be; should I take it out and should any misfortune happen to me she will say it was for want of the relic; if it remains and I receive damage I may the better prove to her the worthlessness of the thing. No wonder the sheep go astray when they have so ignorant a pastor as Father Nicholas." CHAPTER TWO. Eric, on the morning of his departure from home, had a private leave-taking with his father. The Knight, though an old soldier, was a peaceably-disposed man, yet in spite of all he could do he had foes and troubles. A certain Baron Schenk, of Schweinsburg, unjustly claimed rights over a portion of the Knight's property. It was clearly impossible for the Knight to accede to the Count's demands, for had he done so fresh ones would instantly have been made until the Count might have claimed possession of Lindburg itself. The Count had often threatened to come and insist on his claims at the point of the sword, but the Knight had reminded him that as two people could play at that game he might find that he gained nothing by the move. Still he occasionally received a message which showed him that the Count had not forgotten his threats, and this always troubled him, not because he feared his enemy, but because he wished to be quiet and at peace with all his fellow-men. He had a long talk with his son and gave him much good advice. The two understood each other thoroughly. "My son," he said, "you are going forth into the world; and will meet with a great variety of characters. Treat your fellow-men with a kindly regard and do them all the good in your power, but put your whole trust in God alone. While you cling to Him He will never forsake you--I know that you are honest and single-hearted. Do that, and I have no fear for you. Take my blessing, Eric. Write when you can and tell me all about Dr Martin and his companions. I wish that I were young enough to go to the University with you; I would give much once more to hear that man speak as he did at Worms." Eric set forth not as a poor scholar, on foot, but as the son of a Knight and a Noble of the land, on horseback, accompanied by Hans Bosch, who led a sumpter-horse loaded with his baggage. Both were armed, as was necessary in those times, with swords and pistols; the latter being somewhat large and unwieldy weapons. Eric, as befitted his station, had learned the use of his sword, and Hans was an old soldier who had grasped a pike for nearly half a century. Hans and Eric had always been good friends. The old soldier was not ignorant of what was going on in the world, but he had not as yet made up his mind which side to choose. He suspected the bias of his master, and that of his mistress was very evident. As yet, however, he clung to the old opinions. Eric, though high-spirited and manly, was thoughtful and grave above his years, and Hans respected his opinions accordingly. He had before been at the University of Erfurth, but the fame of Wittemburg had reached him, and, what had still more influence, several of the books written at Wittemburg, and he had been seized with a strong desire to migrate thither. Hans could not read himself, but he was inquisitive. He plied his young master with questions, to which Eric very willingly made replies. "Then you put no faith in the Pope, nor believe that he is the only rightful ruler of the Church?" observed Hans in reply to a remark made by his young master. "I have been led to doubt the supremacy he claims from all I have read," answered Eric modestly. "More especially do I believe that he is not a descendant of the Apostle Peter from what I have read in my Greek Testament. I there find that Saint Paul, on one occasion, thus wrote of this supposed chief of the Apostles: `When Peter was at Antioch, I withstood him to the face, because he was to be blamed,' (Galatians two 11.) Peter was also sent especially to preach to the Jews and not to the Gentiles. Paul, when writing from Rome, sends no salutations from him, which he would have done had Peter been there; indeed he never once mentions his name. The third or fourth Christian Bishop of Rome speaks of Saint Paul having suffered martyrdom under the emperors; but, by the way he speaks of Saint Peter, evidently believing that he suffered martyrdom elsewhere in the east, and does not allude to his having been at Rome. If, therefore, the very foundations of the pretensions of these august Pontiffs are defective, what can we think of the rest of their claims? However, when I have been some time at Wittemburg, I hope to know more about the matter." "But, my dear young master, if you upset the foundation of our faith, what else have we to build on? I, for one, as an old soldier who has seen the world, say that we can not go on without religion," exclaimed Hans, in a tone which showed the perturbation of his mind. "That is right, Hans," answered Eric, "but, my old friend, we do not destroy the real foundation of our faith, we only overthrow the false and cunningly-devised superstructure. The foundation of our faith is in the sufficient sacrifice once made for man by Jesus Christ, the Son of God, on the cross, and the complete justification of all who repent and put faith in that sacrifice. That is what Dr Martin Luther teaches. He says that no man should venture to come between the sinner and God; that Christ is the only one Mediator--the go-between, you understand-- that He is all-loving, and all-merciful, and all-kind, that by any one else interfering He is insulted, and that all indulgences, penances, works, are the devices of the Evil One to make man lose sight of the full, free, and perfect redemption which Christ has wrought for us." "That sounds like a good doctrine," observed Hans, thoughtfully, "the `pfaffen' will not like it, because it will deprive them of their influence and the chief portion of their gains; but how do you know that it is the true one, my young master?" "Because it is in the Word of God, the Bible. And I am very certain that God, who has done so much for us, would not have left us without a clear statement of His will--clear rules for our guidance, and therefore I believe that the Bible is the Word of God," observed Eric. Hans rode on in silence. He was meditating on his young master's remarks. They had not gone more than a league or two when some sharp cries reached their ears. They came from some person before them. They rode on, and arrived in sight of a big youth who was belabouring with a thick stick, in the middle of the road, a young boy. The boy had something under his cloak, which the youth was insisting on his keeping concealed. Eric's generous feelings were at once excited. He could never bear to see the strong tyrannising over the weak. He rode forward and demanded of the big lad why he was thus ill-treating the little one. The youth did not reply, but looked up sulkily at him. Eric turned to the little fellow. "This is the reason, noble sir," answered the boy, "he is my `bacchante,' and I am a poor little `schutz.' We are poor scholars seeking education at the schools. For the protection he affords me he insists that I shall provide him with food. Lately his appetite has been very great, and I have not got enough for him, and to-day he insisted on my stealing this goose, and hiding it under my cloak, that if it was discovered I might be punished and he escape." "So, my master, and is this the way you afford your protection?" exclaimed Eric, looking angrily at the big bacchante. "What is your name, my little schutz?" he asked of the boy. "Thomas Platter," was the answer. "I come from Switzerland, and have for long been wandering about, finding it hard to live in one place for want of food." "Then, Thomas Platter, know that I am going to Wittemburg, where there is a good school; and, if you desire it, you shall remain with me and pursue your studies, and if you ever have to beg for bread, it shall be for yourself alone. Are you willing to accept my offer?" "Gladly, most noble sir," answered the boy, throwing down the goose and springing out of the way of the big bacchante, who sought to detain him. Hans, who once had a little boy who died when he was of the age of Thomas Platter, approved of his young master's generous offer, and undertook to carry the lad behind him on his horse to Wittemburg. The bacchante grumbled and looked very angry at this, and threatened to come after Thomas and carry him off; but Eric advised him to make no attempt of the sort as the boy was now under his protection. They rode on and left him grumbling and threatening as before. Thomas seemed highly pleased at the change. He was evidently a sharp, clever little fellow, though simple-minded and ignorant of the world. He was the son of a poor shepherd, but the desire to gain knowledge induced him to quit his father's cottage and to go forth in search of that education which he could not gain at home. He had met with all sorts of adventures, often very nearly starving, now beaten and ill-used by his bacchante, a big student, from whom he received a doubtful sort of protection, now escaping from him and being taken care of by humane people, wandering from school to school, picking up a very small amount of knowledge, being employed chiefly in singing and begging through the towns to obtain food. Such was the type of a travelling student in those days. Frequently he had companions, three or four schutzen and twice as many bacchantes, the former performing, in fact, in rough style, the part of fags to the older students. The big bacchante, from whom Thomas had escaped, was a relative who had promised to befriend him. It was in the unsatisfactory manner described that he had performed his part. The next day, as Eric and his companions approached the town of Jena in Thuringia, they overtook a solitary horseman. From his appearance he seemed a knight, as he had a long sword by his side, and a red cap on his head, and was habited in hosen and jerkin, with a military cloak over his shoulders, though he was without armour. He exchanged courteous salutations with the young noble, and enquired whither he was going. On hearing that it was Wittemburg he seemed well pleased. "Yes, I am migrating thither from Erfurth, for I desire to study under one whom I consider the great light of the age, Dr Martin Luther," answered Eric. "Then you have never met Dr Martin," said the stranger. "Not personally, but I know him by his works," answered Eric. "That way methinks we may know a man far better than those we may see every day who have written nothing for our instruction. Still I desire to go to Wittemburg that I may drink at the fountain's head, and listen to the words which fall from the Doctor's own lips." "Young man," said the stranger, turning a pair of dark, flashing eyes upon Eric, "be assured that if you drink at the Fountain Head--the pure spring from which Dr Martin is wont to drink, you will do well--that is, the Word of God, the Holy Scriptures. Of them you can never drink too much, and yet no fountain can afford so satisfactory a draught. But beware how you imbibe knowledge from other sources; from the traditions of men; from mere human learning. It is the too common want of caution in that respect which leads so many men astray. Seek for the enlightenment and guidance of the Holy Spirit, and give your whole heart and soul to the study of the Scriptures. In that way you will most assuredly gain the best of all knowledge." Talking in this way, old Hans riding up close behind them, to catch the words which fell from the stranger's mouth, they approached the town. Before, however, they could reach it, a fearful storm, which had been threatening for some time, burst upon them. They pushed on as fast as their steeds could move, to obtain, as they hoped, shelter in the town, and now Eric perceived that the stranger, whom he had supposed to be a knight, was no very great horseman, and more than once he feared, when a vivid flash of lightning made the animal he bestrode spring on one side, that he would be thrown to the ground; still he kept his seat, nor seemed to think of danger, every now and then addressing Eric on some subject of deep interest. On entering the town they found every one keeping holiday, for it was Shrovetide, and mummery and feasting, and amusements of all sorts were going forward. No one would attend to them, nor could they obtain accommodation of any sort in the town, even where they could dry their damp clothes. At last they were advised to proceed on through the town, where outside the gates, on the other side, they would find an hostelry, the "Black Boar," at which they would obtain accommodation. They were not misled. The landlord received them courteously, and seemed, by the affectionate greeting he gave their companion, to be well acquainted with him. Eric considered that it was too early in the day to stop, and as his and his attendant's horses were fresh, he proposed, after taking some refreshment, to proceed on another stage or two further. During the repast the stranger continued the conversation which had been interrupted by their approach to Jena. Little Thomas Platter, who was sitting at the table as well as Hans, listened with attentive ear to all that was said. When Eric rose to depart, the stranger bade him a cordial farewell. "I too am on my way to Wittemburg," he observed, "we may meet there, I hope, ere long, and you will then judge whether the tales that have been told of Dr Martin are true or false." Eric was very much interested in the stranger, and puzzled to know who he could be. "He is a man of learning and a man of consequence," he observed as he rode along. "I would that I possessed one quarter of his learning. How his countenance lights up when he speaks, and how the words flow from his lips. He is a man to move his fellow-creatures by his eloquence, or I mistake his looks and mode of utterance." "What think you, my young sir, if he should prove to be Dr Martin himself?" said Hans. "It more than once occurred to me that such might be the case; but is Dr Martin likely to be out in these parts, and would he be habited in such a costume as that worn by this stranger?" asked Eric. "It was Dr Martin notwithstanding that," exclaimed the little Platter; "you will see, my masters, when we get to Wittemburg, you will see." This incident added very much to the interest of the journey. They rode on for some leagues, when, as they were not far off from the place where they purposed resting for the night, they saw a band of horsemen approaching them. It was easy to see by their dress and general appearance that he who rode at their head was their lord, with two companions of inferior rank, and that the rest were his retainers. They had a particular swaggering look which showed that they belonged to a class of persons common in those days, who followed the fortunes of any lawless noble who could employ them, and were ever ready to commit any deed of violence their master might command. Eric kept as close to one side of the road as he could to avoid giving cause of offence. They eyed him narrowly as he passed, and especially looked at Hans, who wore the livery of his house. "Who can those people be?" asked Eric. "Their looks are far from pleasant, nor did they deign to give us the usual salutation which courtesy demands as they rode by." "Alas! I know them well," answered Hans. "He who rode at their head is no other than Baron Schenk of Schweinsburg, your father's greatest and, I may say, only enemy. _If_ he guesses who you are, my dear young master, I fear that he will not let us escape unmolested; for he is a man who delights in blood and violence, and were not our Castle a strong one, and defended by brave hearts and willing hands, it is my belief that he would long ago have attacked it, and carried off all he could find of value within. My advice, therefore, is that we put spurs to our horses, and place as great a distance as we can as soon as possible between him and ourselves. Hold on, little Platter, away we go!" "Your advice is good, Hans," said Eric, as he urged on his steed. It was likely to be of little avail, however, for at that instant the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard, and looking round they saw that half-a-dozen of the Baron's retainers were spurring after them. This, of course, only made Eric and his attendant more anxious than ever to escape. Their horses were good ones, and they might still distance their pursuers. "Let me drop, kind sir," exclaimed little Platter; "I am only delaying you, and it little matters if I fall into the Baron's hands; I am not worth killing!" Hans laughed, and answered, "You would break your limbs if I let you go, and your weight is but as that of a feather to my old steed Schwartz. Hold on boy--hold on! We have promised to protect you, and we are not the people to cast you off at the first sign of danger." They galloped on as fast as their steeds could put feet to the ground; but they had already performed a good day's journey, and were somewhat tired. Their pursuers' horses, on the contrary, were fresh, it seemed, and when Hans looked over his shoulder, he saw at once that they were gaining on them. Still he was not a man to give in without an effort. "We'll try it on a little longer, my young master, and then face about and show them the edges of our swords. Maybe, like bullies in general, they are cowards, and if we put on a bold front, they will make off." This counsel was too good not to be followed. Still the Baron's retainers were gaining on them. A wood was on either side. They might dash into it, and make their escape, but that was not then a mode of proceeding to suit Eric's taste. "Now then we'll do as you suggest, Hans," he exclaimed. Pulling up their steeds, they turned sharply round and drew their swords. This, however, did not produce the effect they had hoped. They now saw, indeed, that the remainder of the band were coming up. At this moment little Platter let himself slip from behind Hans to the ground, saying, as he did so, "I can be of no service to you here; but I can, maybe, if I get away." Before the horsemen came up he had darted into the wood, where, had they thought it worth while searching, they would have had no little difficulty in finding him. "There is no use fighting, I fear, my young master," said Hans, unwillingly sheathing his sword. "We are outnumbered, and it will only be giving our foes an excuse for slaying us should we attempt to resist them." Eric, seeing the wisdom of the old soldier's advice, likewise returned his sword into the scabbard. When the Baron's retainers came and surrounded them, he demanded, in a firm voice, what they required. "We are to conduct you to our lord. He will question you as he thinks fit," answered one of the men, seizing Eric's bridle. Another took hold of Hans' bridle, and, with a couple of men on either side of them, they were conducted along the road. They had not gone far, when they were met by the Baron. "Ah, my young sir, you are I understand Eric von Lindburg; I have at length got a hostage for your father's good behaviour," he exclaimed, exultingly. "You will find pleasant lodging in the Castle of Schweinsburg, for the next few years or more of your life, if your father does not yield to my demands. I have long been looking for this opportunity, now it has arrived. Ha, ha, ha!" Eric kept a dignified silence, merely saying, "I am in your power, Baron Schweinsburg. I cannot choose, but do what you command." This calm reply somewhat annoyed the Baron. "Ah, we shall find you a tongue ere long, young sir," he observed, with a savage expression, as they rode along. The party went on at a rapid rate till it was nearly dark, when they stopped at an hostelry to refresh themselves, a strong guard being placed in the room into which the prisoners were conducted. The moon then rising, they continued their journey, and at length, perched on a rocky height, the grey walls of the old Castle of Schweinsburg rose before them. A steep pathway led them up to a bridge thrown across a deep chasm, which almost completely surrounded the building, and had rendered it impregnable to the assaults of foes armed only with the engines of ancient warfare. In the court-yard the Baron ordered them to dismount; and four armed men conducted them up a winding staircase to a room at the top of a high tower, from which, unless provided with wings, there seemed but little chance of escaping. In a short time their luggage was brought up to them, followed by a tolerably substantial supper. "The Baron does not intend to starve us, at all events," observed old Hans. "Come, my dear young master, eat and keep up your spirits. Matters might have been much worse. Perhaps we may ere long find some means of escaping, let the Baron guard us ever so carefully. At all events, let us hope for the best." CHAPTER THREE. At the time our story commenced Dr Martin Luther was still residing in the Castle of Wartburg, where he had been concealed by order of the Elector Frederick, for nearly a year after leaving Worms, to preserve him from the rage of his defeated enemies. His friends, however, well knew where he was, and he had lately been summoned back to Wittemburg, where his presence was much required. Several months had passed away since Eric had quitted home, when one day a man, with a large pack on his back, presented himself at the Castle-gate, and demanded to see the Knight. He was admitted. "Well, friend, what would you with me?" asked the Knight. "I have books to sell, and will show them to you forthwith," answered the colporteur, unslinging his pack. "Here is one lately printed--worth its weight in gold, and more." The Knight took it. It bore the simple title--"The New Testament. German. Wittemburg." "That is the very book I want," exclaimed the Knight, eagerly. "Yes, I doubt not that it is worth its weight in gold. By whom has it been done into German?" "By Dr Martin Luther," answered the colporteur. "He began the work when shut up in the Wartburg, and has only lately finished it with the help of Dr Melancthon. Here are some other works by him. Will you take them?" "Yes, three--four--one copy of each. There is payment," said the Knight, laying down some gold pieces. "I take but the proper price," answered the colporteur, returning most of them to him. "You are an honest man," said the Knight. "If the books you sell have made you so, they must be good." "The books certainly are good, and I am more honest than I was. Once I ate the bread of idleness, indulged in sloth, and was of no use to any one. Now I labour for my food, and try to obey my Lord and Master," answered the colporteur. "Why, what were you?" asked the Knight. "A monk," answered the colporteur; "a lazy, idle monk. Dr Luther's books came among us, and we read them, and some of my more learned brethren translated the Testament to us who were ignorant of Greek, and we agreed that as Jesus Christ came into the world to set us an example as well as to die for our sins, and that as He ever went about doing good, our system of life could not be the right one. The more we looked into the matter, the more satisfied we became that it was altogether opposed to the Gospel, and so we resolved forthwith to leave it. Some who had the gift of preaching went forth to preach the Gospel; others have begun to learn trades that they may support themselves; and, as I have a good broad pair of shoulders, I offered to carry throughout our fatherland the Gospel book, and other works of Dr Luther, which had proved so great a blessing to our souls; and though I cannot preach, I can go about and tell people that, through God's love, Christ died for all men; that there is but one Mediator between God and man, Jesus Christ; and that men will be saved, not by dead works, but by a living faith in Him, which will produce fruits unto righteousness, an earnest desire to imitate Him, to serve Him, to spread these glad tidings among all mankind." "It seems to me, in my humble wisdom, that you did right," observed the Knight. "However, do not tell Father Nicholas this it you meet him. Whenever you return this way, call here and bring me more books." "Gladly; and I shall have some portions in German of the Old Testament, in translating which Dr Luther is hard at work," said the colporteur. "By what name shall I remember you, friend?" asked the Knight. "John Muntz is my proper name, bookseller and labourer in Christ's service," answered the colporteur, as he bade the Knight farewell. Sturdy, honest John Muntz went his way throughout the land, selling Luther's and Melancthon's books, with the New Testament and such parts of the Old as they issued from the press, sometimes reading their contents, sometimes telling to single persons or to small assemblies, in simple language, of the glorious old truths thus brought once more to light. It may be, in the great day, that many far-famed preachers will be surprised that humble John Muntz, and other labourers such as he, in the Lord's vineyard, have turned more souls into the way of righteousness than they. The Count of Lindburg took his books into his own room and locked them up, that he might read them at leisure. He was not prepared just then to enter into a controversy with Father Nicholas, and he wished for quiet. He knew that his good wife and his daughter Laneta would take the part of the priest, and he had an idea that when Eric came back from Wittemburg he would prove a valuable ally on his side. Now and then, however, as he read on, he felt very much inclined to rush down and proclaim not only to his wife and the priest, but to the whole household and neighbourhood, the wonderful truths here so clearly proved and explained. But though he rose from his seat with the book in his hand and opened the door, he went back and sat down again. Though brave as a lion in war, and often impetuous at home, he was still timid in his own household. His womenkind and Father Nicholas had found out his weak point, and knew where to assail him. The knight had always wished to act rightly according to his convictions, consequently when some few years before this time--that is, a short time before he paid the visit to Worms, where he first heard Dr Luther speak--he had been urged by Father Nicholas and his wife to allow his youngest daughter Ava, to become, as they called it, the spouse of Christ, or, in other words, to enter a nunnery; she raising no objection, he consented, believing, as he had been assured, that her eternal happiness would thus be secured, and that she would be better provided for than becoming the wife of one of the rough, fierce, warlike, beer-drinking knights, who alone were likely to seek her hand. The knight, however, often sighed as he thought of his fair blooming little Ava shut up in the monastery of Nimptsch, and wished to have her back again to sing and talk to him and to cheer his heart with her bright presence, but he dared not to express his feelings to any of his family, as he knew that they would be considered rank heresy. Often he would have liked to write to his dear child, but, in the first place, he was but a poor scribe, and in the second, he guessed that any epistle he might send would be opened by the lady superior, and its contents scanned before delivery, and adverse comments made, if it was not withheld altogether. So little Ava stayed on at the convent, embroidering priests' dresses and other ornaments for churches, and attending mass. Whether or not she ever felt like a wild bird shut up in a cage, wishing to be free, he could not say; he thought it possible. She was wont once to go about the Castle singing like a bright happy bird, not shut up in a cage then. He wondered whether she sang now. He was sure that the nun's dress could not become her as the bright-coloured bodice and skirt she wore. He wondered, too, whether she ever went out now, as she was accustomed to do when at home, among the cottagers in the neighbourhood, with a basket of food and simples, and distributed them to the sick and needy with gentle words, which won their hearts, or whether when mendicants came to the gate she stopped and listened to their tales of suffering, relieved them when she could, and seldom failed to drop a tear of sympathy for their griefs, which went like balm to the hearts of many. He opined that the high-born ladies of the monastery of Nimptsch would scarcely condescend thus to employ their time. They undoubtedly were brides of Christ, but, as the lady abbess had once remarked, it was the business of His more humble spouses to imitate His example in that manner. After the Knight had been thinking in this style, when he descended into the hall he was invariably accused of being sullen and out of temper. Not that he had any fault to find with his good Frau Margaret, or with his daughter Laneta. They were excellent, pious women in their way. They had embroidered five altar-cloths, seven robes of silk for the Virgin Mary, and three for Saint Perpetua, Saint Agatha, and Saint Anne; they had performed several severe penances for somewhat trifling faults; not a piece of meat had passed their lips during Lent; and they had fasted on each Friday and other canonical days throughout the year. Alms they gave whenever they could get money from the Knight for the purpose, and doles of bread to the poor with stated regularity; indeed, they felt sure that they would richly have merited heaven, even with a less amount of good deeds. Still they were desirous of making security doubly secure. When, therefore, in the year 1517, that is, before Ava went to the convent, Dr John Tetzel, prior of the Dominicans, apostolic commissary and inquisitor, set up his pulpit and booth in the neighbouring village for the sale of indulgences, they had been among the crowds who had flocked to his market. Near him was erected a tall red cross, with the arms of the Pope suspended from it. "Indulgences, dear friends," he exclaimed, when he saw a large mob collected round him, "are the most precious and noble of God's gifts. See this cross; it has as much efficacy as the cross of Christ. Come, and I will give you letters, all properly sealed, by which even the sins which you intend to commit may be pardoned. I would not change my privileges for those of Saint Peter in heaven, for I have saved more souls by my indulgences than the apostle by his sermons. There is no sin so great that an indulgence cannot remit; only pay, pay well, and all will be forgiven. Only think, for a florin you may introduce into Paradise, not a vile coin, but an immortal soul, without its running any risk. But, more than this, indulgences avail not only for the living, but for the dead. For that repentance is not even necessary. Priest! noble! merchant! wife! youth! maiden! do you not hear your parents and your other friends who are dead, and who cry from the bottom of the abyss, `We are suffering horrible torments! A trifling alms would deliver us; you can give it, and you will not.'" Then Tetzel had told them how Saint Peter and Saint Paul's bodies were rotting at Rome because the Pope, pious as he was, could not afford to build a proper edifice to shelter them from the weather without their help. "Bring-- bring--bring!" he shouted, in conclusion. Dame Margaret and her daughters were greatly moved by these appeals, though little Ava thought the monk need not have shouted so loudly. The dame, who had just before persuaded her lord to give her a good sum of money, bought a large supply of indulgences, not only for herself and daughters, but for the Knight, who, she secretly believed, required them far more than they did, because he never performed penances, made quick work at confession, and regularly grumbled on fast-days; besides, she could not tell of what sins he might have been guilty in his youth. She did not tell him what she had done, but she felt much more happy than before to think that they would now all go to heaven together. She would even, in her zeal, have made further purchases, had not Father Nicholas expostulated with her, observing that it would be much better if she paid the money to enable him to say masses, which would prove quite as efficacious; and, besides, be spent in Germany instead of going to Rome. She was greatly horrified, some time after this, to hear the Knight inveigh furiously against Tetzel and his indulgences, and call him an arch rogue and impostor. Of course, on this, she did not tell him how she had spent his money, lest he might make some unpleasant reflections on the subject; besides, she suspected that he would not appreciate the advantages she had secured for him. But this was after Ava had been sent away to Nimptsch. CHAPTER FOUR. Eric, now a close prisoner in the Castle of Schweinsburg, felt very indignant at the treatment he had received, and apprehensive of the consequences of his capture by his father's enemy. Though the fierce Baron would not have scrupled to put an ordinary man to death, he did not think he would venture to injure him or his person further than keeping him shut up. It was on his father's account that he was most anxious, as he guessed that the Baron had seized him for the sake of enforcing his unjust claims on Count von Lindburg, and that unless these were yielded to, he himself might be kept a prisoner for years. Who indeed was to say what had become of him? The Baron and his retainers were the only people cognisant of his capture, except little Platter, and of course he would have run away, and must have been too frightened to be able to give any clear account of the matter. It would be, of course, supposed that he and Hans had been set on by robbers, of whom there were many prowling about the country, and been murdered in some wood, and their bodies buried or thrown into a pond. "Patience, my dear young master," answered Hans, when Eric had thus expressed his apprehensions; "we are in a difficulty, of that there is no doubt, but I have been in a worse one and escaped out of it. Once your honoured father and I were captured by the Saracens, and we fully expected to lose our heads, but the very last night we thought that we should be alive on earth we had a file conveyed to us in a loaf of bread by a little damsel who had taken a fancy to his handsome countenance, and we were able to let ourselves down from the window of our prison. A couple of fleet horses were in readiness, and we were away and in Christian territory before the morning dawned. I have been praying heartily to the Holy Virgin and to the Saints, and I have no doubt that they will help us." "I have not the slightest hope of any such thing, my good Hans," said Eric, who had already imbibed many Protestant opinions. "It is God in heaven who hears our prayers. If He will not attend to them, no one else will, for He loves us more than human beings can, whether they are in this world or in another. He often, however, works out His plans for our good by what appear to us such small means that we fail to perceive them. I have read in the Greek Testament that `Not a sparrow falls to the ground but that He knows it; and that even the very hairs of our head are all numbered.' Is it likely, therefore, that He would employ any intermediate agents between Himself and man, except the one great, well-beloved intercessor, His only Son. Would He even allow them to interfere if they were to offer their services? Our Lord Himself, when, on one occasion, His mother ventured to interfere in a work He was about, rebuked her, though with perfect respect, with these remarkable words, `Woman, what have I to do with thee?' Again, when on the cross, He recommended her to the care of His well-beloved disciple, Saint John; he said, `Behold thy mother!' `Woman, behold thy Son!' O Hans, I wish that you and all the people of our fatherland, could read the Bible itself in our own tongue, you would than see how different is the religion we have been taught by the `pfaffs' to that which Jesus Christ came on earth to announce to sinful man. It will be happy for our country should that day ever come, because then the people will be able to understand on what their religion is grounded, and be able to refute the false arguments of those who oppose it. There is a certain young professor at Wittemburg whose works I have read with peculiar delight, as he seems, even more than Dr Martin impressed by a sense of the love God has for man, and His willingness to hear all who go to Him in the name of His dear Son." Old Hans was silent for some time. At last he looked up, and said, "There seems to me a good deal of truth in what you have remarked, my young lord. I always used to think that God is too great to trouble himself with the affairs of us poor people, whatever He may do with kings and princes, and so He employs the saints to look after us, and the saints, not wishing to come out of heaven on all occasions, employ the `pfaffs' (priests) to do their works, only it has struck me now and then that they have made great mistakes in their agents, at all events they have got hold of very bad ones." This conversation took place after Eric and his attendant had been three or four days prisoners in the Castle. They had had a sufficiency of food brought to them, and had altogether been treated better than they had expected. They were interrupted by the entrance of a young page, who, saluting Eric respectfully, said that he had been sent by his lady, the Baroness, who desired to see him, and that he was ready to conduct him into her presence. Eric was naturally surprised at this message. He was not even aware that there existed a Baroness Schweinsburg. Hans, as an old soldier, deemed it right to be cautious. He whispered a few words into his young master's ear. "No, impossible!" answered Eric, giving a searching glance at the page, "the boy is honest. There can be no treachery intended." "Not quite certain of that," whispered Hans. "I should like to go with you, my dear young master." "Be assured that no injury will happen to me," said Eric. "I am ready to accompany you to your lady, my boy." "I suppose that I may come also?" said Hans. "It does not become a young noble to be without his attendant." "My orders were only to conduct the young gentleman himself into the presence of my mistress," answered the page frankly, "nevertheless, I can ask my mistress; she will probably not object." "No, no, I will accompany you alone if your noble lady graciously desires to see me," exclaimed Eric, following the page, who led the way down the stairs of the turret. Hans went to the door and anxiously listened, glancing round the room for something that he might use as a weapon, should it be required in his young master's defence. Eric meantime followed the page without hesitation down the steps and through several passages till they arrived at the door of a room in the lower part of the Castle. The page threw it open, and, with a respectful bow, begged Eric to enter. He did so, and found himself in the presence of a lady who, although no longer young, was of a handsome and prepossessing appearance. She rose as he entered, and, presenting her hand, begged him to be seated. "I regret to hear what has happened," she said, "and I have just received a communication from one whom I know, and whose works have had a great influence on me, and have had I trust, also on my good lord. He has heard of your capture on your way to Wittemburg, and of your detention here, and he writes earnestly that you may be liberated forthwith, and allowed to proceed on your journey. My good lord is absent so that I cannot at once, as I would wish, plead your cause with him; but I will write to him and obtain his permission to liberate you, and to make all the amends in my power for the inconvenience you have suffered. I am not ignorant of the quarrel which exists between my lord and the Count, your father; but I consider, that you should not, in consequence, be made to suffer. Still, if what has happened becomes known, it will only still further the increase the enmity which exists between our families; and for that reason, and for the sake of the blessed faith we hold, I would entreat you not to allow the outrage which has been committed against you to become generally known. When, as it is necessary, you mention it to the Count, your father, beg him to overlook it, and not to retaliate, as it is but natural he should do. If you can give me this promise, I shall the better be able to plead with my good lord, and I think and hope his mind might be changed, and that the wounds which have so long existed may be healed." Eric, much struck by the words spoken by the Baroness, and by her tone and manner, without hesitation gave the promise she requested. Who could be the friend who had pleaded with her on his behalf, and by what means had he been informed of his capture? He would ask the lady. "My informant is the most excellent and pious Dr Martin Luther," she answered. "He encountered you on his journey to Wittemburg, to which place he has just returned from his long residence in the Castle of Wartburg. You had with you a little `schutz,' who, escaping when you were attacked by our people, whose livery he knew, watched the direction in which you were taken. Immediately he set off to Wittemburg to give information of what had become of you, and the very first person he encountered was Dr Martin whom he at once recognised as your companion on the road, in spite of his change of dress. The Doctor knew well that I could not be cognisant of what had occurred, and he hoped that my good lord would not be insensible to a direct appeal from himself. I feel sure that he did not miscalculate his influence with my lord; still it would ill become me, as a wife, to set you at liberty without his cognisance, and I must beg that you will allow me, in the mean time, to treat you as an honoured guest." Some further conversation shewed Eric that the Baroness had attentively read many of the works of Dr Luther, Melancthon, and others; and that they had produced a great influence on her mind, and had not been without some effect, as she supposed, on that of her husband. It was thus that the principles of the reformers were affecting all ranks and conditions of men, while a still greater effect was shortly to be produced by the wide circulation of the translation of the Holy Scriptures made by Dr Luther in Wartburg, and at this moment being printed in Wittemburg. Suddenly Eric found his condition completely changed. He had given his word that he would not quit the Castle till the Baroness had heard from her lord, and he was now treated by all with the greatest respect. The lady herself was not the only one who had imbibed the principles of the Reformation, and Eric found several works of the Wittemburg Doctor, parts of which, with her permission, he read aloud to her household. At length the Baron returned. He had a long interview with his wife, and not without a struggle did he yield to Dr Martin's request; but the better spirit prevailed, he acknowledged himself in the wrong, entreated Eric's pardon, and having given him a farewell feast, escorted him on his way until they came in sight of Wittemburg. "Truly, my master," observed Hans, "the Gospel, of these Wittemburg doctors is a wonderful thing. It has changed a fierce, boasting, hard, grasping Baron into a mild and liberal man. It has procured us our liberty, who were doomed, I feared, to a long captivity. I must ask leave to remain with you at Wittemburg that I may learn more about it." This permission was easily granted, and thus, as Hans did not return home, the Count of Lindburg was not made acquainted till long afterwards of the insult which had been put on him by the Baron of Schweinsburg, and they had been happily reconciled in all other matters, both professing the same glorious faith, and united in the bonds of a common brotherhood. Eric took up his abode with the family of Herr Schreiber Rust, to whom he had been recommended. The next day, as he went forth to attend the lecture of Dr Martin Luther, he found little Platter eagerly looking out for him. Great was the boy's delight when he saw him. "I knew that my young lord would come here without delay to hear the Doctor, and so I have been every day waiting for you," he exclaimed. "I find too, that it was he himself whom we rode with and talked with so long. Ah! he is a great man." Eric had much for which to thank little Platter, and that he might prove his gratitude effectually, he at once added him to his household, that thus the boy might pursue his studies without having to beg for his clothing and daily bread. It was interesting to see Hans Bosch, the old soldier, following his young master from hall to hall, and also to church, endeavouring to comprehend the lessons he heard. All the important truths he did understand and imbibe gladly, and great was his satisfaction when the little Schutz Platter undertook to teach him to read that he might study by himself the Gospel in German, which Dr Luther had just translated, and was, at that time, issuing from the press. Well might the supporters of the Papal system exclaim with bitterness that their power and influence were gone when the common people had thus the opportunity of examining the Bible for themselves, by its light trying the pretensions which that system puts forth. Would that all professing Protestants, at the present day, studied prayerfully the Word of God, and by its light examined the doctrines and the system of the Church of Rome. It would show them the importance of making a bold stand for the principles of the Reformation, unless they would see the ground lost which their fathers so bravely strove for and gained. CHAPTER FIVE. Eric at once set steadily to work to study, attending regularly the lectures of the various professors, more especially those of Dr Luther. That wonderful leader of the Reformation was now giving a course of sermons on important subjects in the chief church in the town. On all occasions when he entered the pulpit the church was crowded with eager and attentive listeners. He had a difficult task to perform. During his absence at Wartburg various disorders occurred. Several enthusiasts, from various parts of the country, mostly ignorant, and little acquainted with the Gospel, assumed the title of prophets, and violently attacked every institution connected with Rome--the priests in some places were assailed with abuse as they were performing the ceremonies of their Church--and these men, at length, coming to Wittemburg, so worked on some of the students that the churches were entered, the altars torn up, and the images carried away and broken and burnt. The enthusiasts were known as the prophets of Zwickau, from the place where they first began to preach their doctrines. To put a stop to these disorders, Luther had been entreated to return from the Wartburg to Wittemburg. The proceedings which have been described were in direct opposition to the principles on which he, Melancthon, and other leaders of the Reformation had been acting. Their whole aim from the first, was to encourage learning, to insist on the study of the Scriptures, to do nothing violently, and to persuade and lead their fellow-men to a knowledge of the truth. No great movement ever advanced with more slow and dignified steps than the Reformation. The existence of gross abuses produced it. Had the Romish hierarchy been willing to consent to moderate reforms, they might not humanly speaking, have lost their influence, and the whole of Europe might still have groaned under their power. But God had not thus ordered it. By their own blindness and obstinacy they brought about their own discomfiture. Luther himself was eminently conservative. He never altogether got rid of some of the notions he had imbibed in the cloister. Step by step he advanced as the light dawned on him--not without groans and agitations of mind--yielding up point after point in the system to which he had once adhered. Eric was present at one of the first of the important series of sermons which the great Doctor preached on his return to Wittemburg. The enthusiasts had refused to be guided by the Gospel. They had asserted (misunderstanding the Apostle) that it mattered little how a man lived, provided he had faith, and that they had a right to compel others by force, if necessary, to adopt their views. "It is with the Word we must fight," said the great Doctor, in reply to these opinions. "By the Word we must overthrow and destroy what has been set up by violence. Let us not make use of force against the superstitious and unbelieving. Let him who believes approach--let him who believes not keep away. No one must be constrained. LIBERTY IS THE VERY ESSENCE OF FAITH." Entering the pulpit, he addressed the congregation in language full of strength and gentleness, simple and noble, yet like a tender father inquiring into the conduct of his children. "He rejoiced," he told them, "to hear of the progress they had made in faith," and then he added, "But, dear friends, WE NEED SOMETHING MORE THAN FAITH, WE NEED CHARITY. If a man carries a drawn sword in a crowd, he should be careful to wound no man. Look at the Sun--two things proceed from it--light and heat. What king so powerful as to bend aside his rays? They come directly to us, but heat is radiated and communicated in every direction. Thus faith, like light, should be straight, RADIATE ON EVERY SIDE, AND BEND TO ALL THE WANTS OF OUR BRETHREN. You have abolished the mass, in conformity, you say, to Scripture. You were right to get rid of it. But how did you accomplish that work? What order--what decency did you observe? You should have offered up fervent prayers to God, and obtained the sanction of the legal authorities for what you proposed doing; then might every man have acknowledged that the work was in accordance with God's will. "The mass is, I own, a bad thing. God is opposed to it, but let no one be torn from it by force. We must leave the matter in God's hands. His word must act, and not we. We have the right to speak; we have _not_ the right to act. LET US PREACH; THE REST BELONGS TO GOD. Our first object must be to win men's hearts, and to do this we must preach the Gospel. God does more by His word alone than by the united strength of all the world. God lays hold upon the heart, and when that is taken all is gained. See how Saint Paul acted. Arriving at Athens, he found altars raised to false gods. He did not touch one; but, proceeding to the market-place, he explained to the people that their gods were senseless idols. His words took possession of their hearts. Their idols fell without Paul having raised his hand. "I will preach, discuss, and write, but I will constrain none, for faith is a voluntary act. Observe what has been done: I stood up against the Pope, indulgences and other abominations, but without violence or tumults. I put forward God's Word. I preached and wrote. This was all I did. Yet while I slept or gossiped with my friends, the Word that I had preached overthrew Popery, so that not the most powerful prince nor emperor could have done it so much harm. What would have been the result had I appealed to force? Ruin and desolation would have ensued. The whole of Germany would have been deluged with blood. I therefore kept quiet and let the Word run through the world alone. `What, think you,' Satan says, when he sees men resorting to violence to propagate the Gospel, as he sits calmly, with folded arms, malignant looks, and frightful grin? `Ah, how wise these madmen are to play my game!' But when he sees the Word running and contending alone on the battle-field, then he is troubled, his knees knock together, and he shudders and faints with fear." Speaking of the Lord's Supper, his remarks are of great importance. "It is not the outward manducation that makes a Christian, but the inward and spiritual eating, which works by faith, and without which all forms are mere show and grimace," he observed. "Now this faith consists in a firm belief that Jesus Christ is the Son of God; that, having taken our sins and iniquities upon Himself, and having borne them on the Cross, He is Himself their sole and almighty atonement; that He stands continually before God; that He reconciles us with the Father, and that He hath given us the sacrament of His body to strengthen our faith in His unspeakable mercy. If I believe in these things, God is my defender; although sin, death, hell, and devils attack me, they can do me no harm, nor disturb a single hair of my head. This spiritual bread is the consolation of the afflicted, health to the sick, life to the dying, food to the hungry, riches to the poor." These sermons caused much discussion, not only in the University, but throughout Germany. Eric was among those who entered most eagerly into the subjects brought forth by the Reformers. He soon formed several friendships with his brother students. His most intimate friend was Albert von Otten, who was rather older than himself, and had been some years at the University. He was intimate, too, with Melancthon, Armsdorff, and others. "Dr Philip has written on that subject," observed Albert, speaking of the last of Dr Martin's sermons. "Here are some remarks from fifty-five propositions, which were published some time back." "Just as looking at a cross," he says, "is not performing a good work, but simply contemplating a sign that reminds us of Christ's death, just as looking at the sun is not performing a good work, but simply contemplating a sign that reminds us of Christ and His Gospel, so partaking of the Lord's Supper is not performing a good work, but simply making use of a sign that reminds us of the grace that has been given us through Christ. "But here is the difference, namely, that the symbols invented by men simply remind us of what they signify, while the signs given us by God not only remind us of the things themselves, but assure our hearts of the will of God. "As the sight of a cross does not justify, so the mass does not justify. "As the sight of a cross is not a sacrifice either for our sins or for the sins of others, so the mass is not a sacrifice. "There is but one sacrifice--but one satisfaction--Jesus Christ. Besides Him there is none other." Dr Carlstadt was the first to celebrate the Lord's Supper in accordance with Christ's institutions. On the Sunday before Christmas-day he gave out from the pulpit that, on the first day of the New Year, he would distribute the Eucharist in both kinds to all who should present themselves; that he would omit all useless forms, and wear neither cope not chasuble. Hearing, however, that there might be some opposition, he did not wait till the day proposed. On Christmas-day, 1521, he preached in the parish church on the necessity of quitting the mass and receiving the sacrament in both kinds. After the sermon he went to the altar, pronounced the words of consecration in German; then, turning to the people, without elevating the host, he distributed the bread and wine to all, saying, "This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant." At the end he gave a public absolution to all, imposing no other penance than this, "Sin no more." No one opposed him, and in January the Council and University of Wittemburg regulated the celebration of the Lord's Supper according to the new ritual. Thus fell the mass--the chief bulwark of Rome. It, and Transubstantiation, had for three centuries been established. "It had tended to the glory of man--the worship of the priest. It was an insult to the Son of God; it was opposed to the perfect grace of His Cross, and the spotless glory of His everlasting Kingdom. It lowered the Saviour, it exalted the priest, whom it invested with the unparalleled power of reproducing, in his hand, and at his will, the Sovereign Creator." From the time of its establishment the Church seemed to exist not to preach the Gospel, but simply to reproduce Christ bodily. The Roman Pontiff, whose humblest servants created at pleasure the body of God Himself, sat as God in the temple of God, and claimed a spiritual treasure, from which he issued at will indulgences for the pardon of souls. [Note 1.] Luther at length agreed to have a conference with the prophets of Zwickau. They said that they could work miracles. He desired them to do so. They became furiously enraged. He quickly upset their pretensions, and they, the same day, quitted Wittemburg, thoroughly defeated. Thus by the wisdom of one man, tranquillity was restored, and the Reformation was able to proceed with sure and certain footsteps, unmolested. The work of all others with which, next to the Testament, Eric was most delighted, was Melancthon's "Common-places of Theology," written during the time Luther had resided in the Wartburg. It was a body of doctrine of solid foundation and admirable proportion, unlike any before written. He considered that the foundation on which the edifice of Christian theology should be raised is "a deep conviction of the wretched state to which man is reduced by sin." Thus the truth was promulgated through the length and breadth of the land, while Luther, by his translation of the Bible, was preparing the means by which all classes could imbibe it from its fountain head. Not only the students at the universities, but women and children, soldiers and artisans, became acquainted with the Bible, and with that in their hands, were able successfully to dispute with the doctors of the schools and the priests of Rome. Eric had been very anxious to learn more of the early life of Dr Luther than he before knew, that he might refute the statements Father Nicholas had been fond of making concerning him. He could not have applied to a better person than Albert, who had been acquainted with the family of Conrad Cotta, with whom Martin had resided while at Eisenach, and who had ever after taken a deep interest in his welfare and progress. It is that Ursula, Conrad Cotta's wife, the daughter of the burgomaster of Ilefeld, who is designated in the Eisenach chronicles as the pious Shunamite, Martin, while singing to obtain food with which to support himself while pursuing his studies at the school of Eisenach, and having often been harshly repulsed by others had attracted her attention. She had before been struck by hearing his sweet voice in church. She beckoned him in, and put food before him that he might appease his hunger. Conrad Cotta not only approved of his wife's benevolence, but was so greatly pleased with the lad's conversation that he from henceforth gave him board and lodging in his house, and thus enabled him to devote all his time and energies to study. "John Luther, Dr Martin's father, was a miner, residing at Eisleben, where, on the 10th of November, 1483, our Doctor was born," began Albert. "When he was not six months old, his parents removed to Mansfeldt. John Luther was a superior man, industrious and earnest. He brought up his children with great strictness. Believing that Martin had talent, he was anxious that he should study for the law, and he obtained for him the best education in his power. First he was sent to Magdeburg, but finding it impossible to support himself at that place, he moved to Eisenach. Among the professors was the learned John Trebonius, who, whenever he entered the schoolroom, raised his cap. One of his colleagues inquired why he did so? `There are among those boys, men of whom God will one day make burgomasters, counsellors, doctors, and magistrates. Although you do not see them with the badges of their dignity, it is right that you should treat them with respect,' was the answer. Martin had been two years at Erfurth, and was twenty years old, when, one day, examining the books in the public library, he found a Latin Bible--a rare book--unknown in those days. Till then he imagined that the fragments selected by the Church to be read to the people during public worship composed the whole Word of God. From that day it became his constant study and delight. A severe illness, brought on by hard study, gave him time for meditation. He felt a strong desire to become a monk, under the belief that by so doing he should attain to holiness. All this time living with the excellent Cotta family, nothing could be more exemplary and orderly than his life. Though animated and lively and delighting in music, he had, from his boyhood, been serious-minded and earnest in the extreme, and at no period did he give way to the excesses of which his enemies accuse him. On his recovery from his illness, he paid a visit to his parents at Mansfeldt; but he did not venture to express the wish he entertained of entering a monastery, from fearing that his father would disapprove of it. On his return journey he was overtaken by a fearful storm, and he made a vow that, should he escape destruction, he would devote himself to the service or God. His whole desire was now to attain holiness. He believed that he could not find it in the world. He bade farewell to his friends, he entered the cloister, his father's expostulations and anger caused him grief, but he persevered. In spite of all the penances and severities he underwent, he could not attain to the holiness he sought. It was not to be found in the convent. He found, too, a true friend in Staupitz, the Vicar-general of the Augustines for all Germany, a man eminent for his learning, his liberality, and true piety. The elector, Frederick the Wise, founded, under his direction, the University of Wittemburg, to which, by his advice, the young doctor was shortly appointed professor. It is worthy of remark that, long after Dr Martin had ceased to think of purchasing heaven by his abstinence, so simple were his tastes, that a little bread and a small herring often composed his only meal in the day, while often he was known to go days together without eating or drinking. The great movement owes much to Staupitz. Dr Martin opened all his heart to him, and told him of all his fears about his own want of holiness, and the unspeakable holiness of God. `Do not torment yourself with these speculations,' answered the Vicar-general. `Look at the wounds of Jesus Christ--to the blood that He has shed for you; it is there that the grace of God will appear to you. Instead of torturing yourself on account your sins, throw yourself into your Redeemer's arms. Trust in Him--in the righteousness of His life--in the atonement of His death. Do not shrink back, God is not angry with you; it is you who are angry with God. Listen to the Son of God, He became man to give you the assurance of Divine favour. He says to you, You are my sheep, you hear my voice; no man shall pluck you out of my hand.' Still Dr Martin could not understand how he was to repent, and be accepted by God. `There is no real repentance except that which begins with the love of God and of righteousness,' answered the venerable Staupitz. `In order that you may be filled with the love of what is good, you must be filled with the love for God. If you desire to be converted, do not be curious about all these mortifications, and all these tortures, Love Him who first loved you.' A new light broke on Dr Martin's soul, and, guided by it, he began to compare the Scriptures, looking out for all the passages which treat on repentance and conversion. This was his delight and consolation. He desired, however, to go further; Staupitz checked him. `Do not presume to fathom the hidden God, but confine yourself to what He has manifested to us in Jesus Christ,' he said; `Look at Christ's wounds, and then you will see God's counsel towards man shine brightly forth. We cannot understand God out of Jesus Christ. In Him the Lord has said, You will find what I am and what I require; nowhere else, neither in heaven nor in earth, will you discover it.' Again Staupitz advised him to make the study of the Scriptures his favourite occupation, and represented to him that it was not in vain that God exercised him in so many conflicts, for that He would employ him as His servant for great purposes. Truly have the words of the good old man come true. Yet Dr Martin was far from enlightened. He was to obtain full emancipation from the thraldom of Rome in Rome itself. He was sent there to represent seven convents of his own order, who were at variance with the Vicar-general. He had always imagined Rome to be the abode of sanctity. Ignorance, levity, dissolute manners, a profane spirit, a contempt for all that is sacred, a scandalous traffic in divine things. Such was the spectacle afforded by this unhappy city. Even when performing their most sacred ceremonies, the priests derided them. Some of them boasted that when pretending to consecrate the elements, they uttered the words `_Panis es et panis manebis; vinum es et vinum manebis_.' While himself performing mass, on one occasion, the priest near him, who had finished his, cried out, `_Passa_--_passa_--_quick_--_quick_!--have done with it at once!' It was the fashion at the Papal Court to attack Christianity, and no person could pass for a well-bred man unless he could satirise the doctrines of the Church. These, and numberless other abominations, which he saw and heard, must greatly have shaken his faith in the sanctity of Rome; and, at length, on a certain occasion, his eyes were completely opened. The Pope had promised an indulgence to all who should ascend on their knees a staircase, which it is pretended was brought from Pilate's Judgment-hall, and that down it our blessed Lord had walked. It is called `Pilate's Staircase.' While he, with others, desirous of obtaining the promised indulgence, was laboriously climbing up the stair on his knees, he thought that he heard a voice of thunder crying out, `_The just shall live by faith_.' He rose at once, shuddering at the depth to which superstition had plunged him, and fled from the scene of his folly. Yes, those words are the key-note of all the arguments by which our glorious work must be supported," exclaimed Albert. "Yes, _faith without works justifies us before God_; that is the fundamental article Dr Martin holds. Soon after his return he was made Doctor of Divinity, and could now devote himself to the study of the Holy Scriptures, and, which was of the greatest importance, lecture on them. While thus engaged, he ever, from the first, pointed to the Lamb of God. The firmness with which he relied on the Holy Scriptures imparted great authority to his teaching. In him also every action of his life corresponded with his words. It is known that these discourses do not proceed merely from his lips--they have their source in his heart, and are practised in all his works. Many influential men, won over by the holiness of his life, and by the beauty of his genius, not only have not opposed him, but have embraced the doctrine to which he gave testimony by his works. The more men love Christian virtues, the more men incline to Dr Martin. But I need say no more to refute the calumnies which have been uttered against him. See what instances he has given, too, of his dauntless character. When the plague broke out here he refused to fly, but remained employed in translating the New Testament. See how boldly he nailed his theses against indulgences to the church doors; how bravely he burnt the Pope's bull. Although the Elector would not allow Tetzel to enter his dominions, he got to a place within four miles of Wittemburg, and many people purchased indulgences. While Dr Martin was seated in the confessional, many of these poor dupes came to him and acknowledged themselves guilty of excesses. `Adultery, licentiousness, usury, ill-gotten gains'--still they would not promise to abandon their crimes, but trusting to their letters of indulgence obtained from Tetzel, showed them, and maintained their virtue. Dr Martin replied, `Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.' This circumstance still further opened his eyes to the abuses and evil system of the Church to which he belonged, but not even yet had the idea of separating from her occurred to his mind, not indeed until the Pope anathematised Dr Martin for speaking the truth did he acknowledge that he was indeed Antichrist, and that no true Christians could hold communion with him." Eric soon became as warm an admirer of Dr Martin Luther, as was his friend, Albert von Otten. The Reformation movement was now proceeding, seemingly with far more rapid strides than before. The Bible was being disseminated; the convents thrown open--or, at all events, their inmates were leaving them--superstitions were being abolished; a pure form of worship was being established in numerous places; and, what was of the greatest importance, young men of high talent and courage were being educated in the principles of the Reformation to spread the pure light of the Gospel throughout all parts of Germany. Little Thomas Platter made great progress in his studies, and bid fair to grow up an earnest Christian and industrious man, amply paying Eric for the care he bestowed on him. Hans Bosch, when his young master was about to return home, begged that he might come back with him to Wittemburg. "I there got an abundance of substantial food for my soul, while Father Nicholas serves us out only piecrust, filled with dry dust that is neither meat nor drink," said the old man, as he looked up while packing his young master's valise. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Merle D'Aubigne's "History of the Reformation." CHAPTER SIX. Eric, with his friend, Albert von Otten, arrived unexpectedly one day, to the Knight's very great satisfaction at Lindburg. The Knight embraced his son affectionately. "I have a great many questions to ask, and difficulties for you to solve, my son," he said, as he beckoned him to come to his room. "And I, father, have very many things to say to you, so that we shall have plenty to talk about. Albert will, in the meantime, entertain my mother and Laneta." "And now, Eric, what do you think of this Dr Luther?" asked the Knight, after he had looked along the passage which led to his room, and locked the door. "Think, father! That he has brought light out of darkness--that he has made the boldest stand that ever man has done against the power, the tyranny, the impositions of the Pope, and the superstitions which he and his predecessors have ever encouraged for the sake of filling their pockets, utterly regardless of the souls they led away from Christ and salvation," exclaimed Eric, warming as he proceeded. "He has done, and he is doing a glorious work, and though his foes were to burn him to-morrow, they could not extinguish the light he has kindled. He teaches that man is by nature sinful and alienated from God, but that God so loved the world that He sent His Son to become a sacrifice for man's sins, to suffer instead of man, and thus to enable him, through repentance and faith in that sacrifice, to be reconciled to Himself; that Christ is the only Mediator between God and man; neither His mother Mary, nor the Saints, have anything to do in the matter; that they required His sacrifice as much as others, and that, therefore, fasts, penances, invocation of saints, masses for the dead, purgatory, indulgences, are all the inventions of the popes to put money into their pockets, or into the pockets of the priests, their supporters, or of the devil, to lead souls astray." "I heartily agree with him, Eric. See, I have read something about the matter already," said the Knight, going to the oak chest in which he kept his treasures, and bringing out the Testament and some of Dr Luther's works. "I never found myself a bit the better for fasts or penances, whenever I thought that I ought, for my sins, to endure them; and, as for indulgences, I felt very much inclined to kick that scoundrel Tetzel out of the place when I heard that he had come to sell them in this neighbourhood. Now, tell me, does your friend, Albert von Otten, preach? He looks as if he had the gift of speech." "Indeed he has," said Eric. "He has the power of moving the hearts of his hearers." "Then he shall preach in our church next Sunday, and to all in this Castle as well, in spite of what Father Nicholas may say to the contrary!" exclaimed the Knight. "I have long wanted you, Eric, to take Father Nicholas in hand; you may be able to convince him, and your mother too--she is a good woman, but bigoted and obstinate, begging her pardon, and I should have had no peace if I had once begun, unless I had come off the conqueror at once. Albert von Otten will help you." Eric gladly undertook the task. It was the chief object he had had in view since he had himself been converted to the truth. He immediately broke ground. His mother and Laneta were very much astonished at his doctrine, but they would not acknowledge that he was right. Father Nicholas had scarcely a word to say in return, so he put on the stolid look of a schoolboy brought up unwillingly to receive a lecture. "Young men's dreams," he muttered, "or devices of Satan to draw men from the true Church. Ah, the Bible is, as I always said, a dangerous book. Little did those who wrote it dream what mischief it would cause in the world." The minds of the whole household were much agitated by the subjects of which Eric and his friend spoke to them. Still more so was the Knight himself the next day, when the colporteur, John Muntz, presented himself at the gate, and, demanding to see him, put into his hand a letter from his own little daughter Ava. He read it over and over again, and his countenance beamed with satisfaction. He immediately called Eric to him, ordering refreshment to be brought in the meantime for John Muntz in the hall, and desiring him to talk to his people and to sell any of his books if he could. Ava, after sending greeting to him and her mother, and love and duty, continued: "And now, dear father, I must tell you that I cannot longer endure this life. It was only while I believed that I was doing God service that I loved it. Now I am certain that it is directly contrary to His law. I have read the New Testament carefully with prayer, and I can find nothing there to sanction it. We are told not to bow down to images-- not to use vain repetitions in prayers; we are employed the greater part of each day in doing these two things. We invoke dead saints, we worship the Virgin Mary, we fast, we perform penances to merit heaven, and all the time the Bible tells us that there is but one Mediator between God and man, Jesus Christ, and that by repentance and through faith in Him can we alone become righteous and meet to enter the kingdom or heaven. I cannot tell you one-half of the objections I have to remain here. There are also eight other nuns who desire to leave, and they have written to their parents to the same effect, though some of them tremble as to what will be the answers; others say that there was so much grief when they went away, that they are certain that there will be rejoicing to get them back. I know how sorry you and mother and Laneta were when I left home, that I have no doubt that you will be glad to have me return. But how are we to get away?--there is the difficulty. We know that we are watched, and that every effort will be made to detain us." "I have no doubt that there will!" exclaimed Eric. "Sister Ursula, as they call their lady abbess, would move heaven and earth to detain them if she knew that they wished to escape. Do not write, lest the letter should fall into the old dame's hands; but let me go with Albert, and depend on it we shall find means before long of letting out the caged birds." The Knight, without saying what Albert proposed, showed Ava's letter to Dame Margaret. She was horrified. "What! a professed nun break her vows?" she exclaimed. "A bride of Christ forsake her bridegroom! Horrible profanity! No. I love Ava as my daughter, but I can never receive one who is so utterly neglectful of all her religious obligations. You must write and tell her that is impossible to comply with her request. I am sure Father Nicholas will agree with me." "Dear wife," said the Knight, calmly, "When I allowed our little Ava to become a nun, it was to secure, as I thought, her happiness in this life and the next. She tells us that, in one respect, our object has signally failed, and there is a book I have been reading which convinces me that it will not advance in one single respect our object with regard to the other. Therefore, let our dear Ava come home, and do you and Laneta receive her as should her mother and sister. I mean what I say, Margaret, and advise Father Nicholas to hold his tongue about the matter." The Lady Margaret, watching her lord's eye, and being a discreet woman, came to the conclusion that it would be wise to keep silent, but she secretly resolved to use every exertion to prevent so terrible a scandal taking place in her family. The Knight, however, was an old soldier, and suspecting what was passing in the mind of his better half, determined to be beforehand with her. "She will be writing to that Sister Ursula to keep the poor little dove under double lock and key," he said to himself. "Eric will have a difficulty even to get a sight of her. I must tell him what I suspect, and leave it to him to foil the plans of his lady mother; she is a good woman though, an excellent woman in her way, but she would have been much the better it we had never been saddled with Father Nicholas. I will make him go the right-about one of these days, when he least expects it, if he does not reform his system. And here, Eric you will want money. Don't stint in the use of it. It will accomplish many things. Silver keys open locks more rapidly than iron ones, and I would give every coin I possess to get our dear little Ava back again." Eric and his friend, meantime, were making preparations for their journey, and as soon as their horses could be got ready they rode off. They were, however, seen by Dame Margaret, who immediately suspected where they were going. Unfortunately, Father Nicholas had just then entered the Castle. She forthwith told him all she knew and thought, and urged him to find a quick messenger, who would outstrip the young men and warn the lady abbess. Father Nicholas hurried off with a purse which the lady put into his hand, to find a person to carry his message, resolving to take the credit to himself of the information he was sending. Ava Lindburg and her companions in the monastery of Nimptsch were eagerly awaiting the reply to the letters they had written to their homes requesting permission to return. They were all young, and several of them pretty; but as they had been among the most sincere of the sisterhood, so they had the most rigidly performed all the fasts, penances, vigils, imposed on them, and already the bloom of youth had departed, and the pallor or the ascetic had taken its place. Poor girls! they had sought peace, but found none; they desired to be holy, but they had discovered that fasts, penances, and vigils--the daily routine of formal services--long prayers, oft repeated, had produced no effect; that their spirits might be broken by this system, but that it could change their hearts. "We are shut out from the great world, certainly," wrote one of them, "but we have one within these walls, and a poor miserable, trivial, life-frittering, childish, querulous, useless, hopeless set of inhabitants it contains. This is not the house of Martha, and Mary, and Lazarus--this is not such an abode as Jesus would desire to lodge in. If He were to visit us, it would be to tell us to go forth into the world to fulfil our duties as women, not, like cowards, to shrink from them, to fight the good fight of faith, to serve Him in the stirring world into which He came, in which He walked, in which He lived, that He might be an example to us. Though He has not come to our convent, He has sent us a message full of love and compassion--His Testament, the Gospel--and it has given us fresh life, fresh hopes, fresh aspirations; and through its teaching we are sure of the Holy Spirit which He promised. Other books have been sent us to assist in opening our eyes. We are convinced that this mode of life is not the one for which we were born; that it is a life, not of holiness, but of sin, for it is useless, for it is aimless, for it is against the teaching of the Gospel." The answers came at length. Tears flowed from the eyes of some, sobs burst from the bosoms of others, while several turned paler even than before, and their hands hung hopelessly by their sides. Many of the letters were full of kind expressions, while other parents chided their daughters harshly for contemplating the possibility of breaking their vows, and abandoning the life of holiness to which they were devoted; but one and all wound up by declaring that they would not allow such a stigma to rest on their noble families as would arise were they to encourage a daughter to abandon her holy calling. Little Ava received no answer to her epistle sent by the colporteur, and she was eagerly looking out for his return. He had told her how eagerly her father had bought his books, and she had still some hopes that the reply would be favourable. She could not, however, fail to observe the severe look with which the lady abbess regarded her, and she was still more alarmed when she found that her Testament, and several books by Drs. Melancthon and Luther, had been taken out of her cell. In truth, the lady abbess had received the communication sent by Father Nicholas, and was on the watch, expecting to see the gay young student, Eric of Lindburg, and his companion arrive, intending afterwards to commence a system of severe punishment on the offending Ava. The lady abbess was not aware that Ava was only one of many whose eyes had been opened, and who desired their freedom. CHAPTER SEVEN. One bright afternoon, in the month of May, 1524, a light waggon, driven by a venerable-looking person with a long white beard, stopped before the gate of the convent of Nimptsch, and from out of it stepped a merchant of equally venerable and still more dignified appearance. He begged the portress to present his humble respects to the lady abbess, with a request that he might be allowed to offer for sale to the noble ladies numerous articles which they might find acceptable. The lady abbess, having carefully surveyed the venerable merchant and his driver through a lattice above the gate, was satisfied that they might, without danger, be admitted into the court-yard. The horses were, however, somewhat restive, and it required, evidently, all the strength the old driver possessed to keep them quiet while his master took out his bales and boxes, and conveyed them, with somewhat feeble steps, into the room were strangers, such as he, were received. An iron grating ran across it, within which the nuns were collected; but there existed a small window, through which articles could be handed for inspection. The merchant evidently understood the tastes and requirements of nuns. There were silks for embroidery and gold-thread, and beads, and pencils, and brushes, and colours for illuminating missals, and paper and writing materials, and various manufactures for making artificial flowers; he had even spices and mixtures for making confectionery. There was linen also, coarse and fine, and all the materials of the exact hue required by the sisters for their dresses; indeed, it would have been difficult to say what there was not in Herr Meyer's waggon which the nuns could possibly require. The price, too, at which he sold his goods was remarkably low, and the nuns of Nimptsch were not at all averse to making good bargains. Unfortunately, however, he discovered that he had only brought specimens of many of the articles. His large waggon he had left at Torgau. He would, therefore, take the orders with which the holy ladies might honour him, and return next day with the goods. The merchant, Herr Meyer, was better than his word, for he returned the next day not only with the articles ordered, but with many other curious things, which he had brought, he said, for the inspection and amusement of the ladies, and the servants and attendants in the house; the good portress especially was remembered. There were carriages and animals which ran along the ground by themselves, and a house in which a door opened, when out of it came a cock which crowed, and then a small bird came out of an upper window and sang, and then a woman looked out to ascertain what the noise was about. Numerous toys of a similar character the merchant had brought, he said, from Nuremburg. Meantime the horses in the waggon became very frisky, the merchant, therefore, went down, with most of his boxes to help quiet them, he said, leaving the abbess and her nuns busily engaged with the toys; the portress, too, was still watching the cock coming out of the house and crowing, and the bird singing, and the woman looking out to see what it was all about. "These horses will be doing some mischief, Karl, if they stay shut up in this court-yard," exclaimed the merchant. "I will open the gate, and then if they choose to gallop off they will soon get tired, and you can come back for me and my goods." Suiting the action to the word, he undid the bars of the gate, and Karl drove through, pulling up, however, directly he was outside. The portress ran out, for such a thing as allowing a stranger to open the gate was against all rule. "Stay, I have some more curious things," said the merchant. And he stepped into the waggon. Just at that moment something must have startled the horses, for they set off at full speed, the driver in no way attempting to stop them. The lady abbess and the nuns looked out through the bars of the windows, expecting to see Herr Meyer, after his horses had had a good gallop, return with the other curiosities he had said he possessed. They looked and looked, but they looked in vain. At last they came to the conclusion that some accident had happened. For this they were very sorry, as they all agreed that a more pleasant-spoken, liberal merchant they had never seen. The opinions, however, of the lady abbess and some of the elder sisters were somewhat modified, when at vespers, as all the nuns were assembled, Sister Ava, and another young and pretty nun, her great friend, Sister Beatrice, were missing. They were not in their cells. The whole convent was searched; they were not to be found. Never had there been such a commotion among the authorities and elder sisters, though most of the young ones took the matter very quietly, and did not search for what they knew well was not to be found. Remembering the warning she had received, the lady abbess had a strong suspicion that Eric Lindburg was at the bottom of the matter. This was only the beginning of her troubles. Somehow or other, fresh heretical books were introduced into the convent, and the young nuns had so completely mastered the contents of those of which they had been deprived that they were able to discuss them and explain them to the elder sisters. Even the abbess herself could not answer many of their arguments which they boldly put forth, nor indeed could the father confessor, nor the other visiting priests. Of the last one heartily agreed with them, and the others boldly acknowledged that there was a great deal of truth in what they said. Gaining confidence, nine young ladies at last united to support each other, and positively refused to attend mass or any services when adoration was paid to the Virgin Mary or to the saints, and demanded that as their vows were taken in ignorance, and that as they were directly contrary to the Gospel, they should be released from them, and allowed to return into the world to fulfil their duties as virtuous women and citizens. Those in authority were astonished and utterly confounded, and hesitated to take any harsh measures. Public opinion they well knew outside the convent walls ran pretty strongly in favour of the nuns' opinions. As their friends would not receive them at home, the young ladies resolved to repair in a body to some respectable place with order and decency. Through some means their resolution was made known to two pious citizens of Torgau, Leonard Koppe and Wolff Tomitzsch, who offered their assistance. "It was accepted as coming from God Himself," says an historian of that time. Without opposition they left the convent, and Koppe and Tomitzsch received them in their waggon, and conveyed them to the old Augustine convent in Wittemburg, of which Luther at that time was the sole occupant. "This is not my doing," said Luther, as he received them; "but would to God that I could thus rescue all captive consciences, and empty all the cloisters. The breach is made." Catharine Bora, who afterwards became his wife, found a welcome in the family of the burgomaster of Wittemburg, and the other nuns, as soon as their arrival was known, were gladly received in other families of similar position. It may here be remarked that the facts of the case completely refute the vulgar notion, put forth by the enemies of the Reformation, that Luther commenced the work of the Reformation for the sake of enabling himself and other monks and priests to marry. His mind was long in doubt whether monks ought to marry. Many months after he became acquainted with the excellent Catharine, when his friends pressed him to marry, he replied: "God may change my heart if it is His pleasure, but I have no thought of taking a wife. Not that I feel no attractions in that state, but every day I expect the death and punishment of an heretic." Not till more than a year after Catharine Bora had escaped from the convent did she become the wife of Martin Luther. CHAPTER EIGHT. The Count von Lindburg had been anxiously waiting news from Eric, but none had arrived. The Lady Margaret had been assured by Father Nicholas that his message had been safely delivered to the Abbess of Nimptsch, and that, in spite of all master Eric and his plausible friend might do, she would take very good care her little prisoner should not escape her. The Knight was growing anxious; he was afraid that something had gone wrong, when, one afternoon, a light waggon, the horses which drew it covered with foam, drove up to the gate of the Castle. Over the drawbridge it dashed, for the porter did not hesitate to admit it, and a venerable-looking old gentleman, habited as a merchant, descending, handed out two young girls in peasants' dresses. The Knight caught sight of the waggon, and hurrying down, one of the girls was soon in his arms. "My own Ava! My pet little bird, and you have escaped from your cage! Welcome--welcome home, and praised be God who has given me this great blessing!" he exclaimed, again and again kissing her cheek. His child wept as she hung on the old man's neck. While this was taking place, the other young lady looked about very much astonished and frightened, though there was nothing particularly to frighten her, and the grave merchant was doing his best to reassure her. "Well done, Eric, my boy--well done, Albert von Otten!" exclaimed the Knight, when he could bring himself to turn his attention for a moment from his recovered daughter. "Oh! thank Albert, father; it was he thought of the plan; he designed the whole of it. I merely acted the part he selected for me," answered Eric. "I thank him heartily, then; for very well done it has been, and you have both my eternal gratitude," said the Knight. "And this young lady, I conclude that she helped you in the undertaking?" "No; it was they helped me to run away, as Ava did not like to go alone, and she promised me an asylum under your roof." "And you shall have it, if the Pope and all the cardinals were to come and demand you. They shall pull the walls down before I will give you up. And now tell me who you are, my dear fraulein?" "I am Beatrice von Reichenau, of Swabia. My father, Count von Reichenau, and my mother decline to receive me, and yet they love me, I am sure; but, alas! they little know the horrors of the life to which they had devoted me." "Better times will come, my sweet fraulein!" said the Knight, who just then saw everything in a bright light. Meantime, Dame Margaret, Father Nicholas not being in the Castle, having seen the waggon and the young ladies get out of it, and guessing what had happened, and that her fine scheme had failed, went to the great hall, accompanied by Laneta, that she might receive Ava with becoming dignity, and reprimand her in a manner suitable to her offence. She had just taken her post when the Knight entered with timid little Ava clinging to his arm, looking more sweet and lovable than ever in her becoming peasant's dress, and not a bit like a wicked runaway nun. As soon as she saw her mother, she ran forward and threw herself into her arms, half weeping and half smiling. "Oh, mother--mother, I am so thankful to see you again!" she cried. Dame Margaret began her speech, but it would not come out. Nature asserted her rights over bigotry and superstition; she burst into tears, and, folding her daughter to her bosom, exclaimed, "And I, Ava, am glad to have you, darling!" "I always said that she was a good woman, and now I am convinced of it," said the Knight. "Father Nicholas has done his best to spoil her, but, thank Heaven! he has not succeeded, and his reign is pretty well over, I suspect." Laneta, who really in her way loved her sister, followed her mother's lead, and embraced Ava affectionately. The Dame Margaret was also not a little gratified when she found that her daughter's companion in her flight was so high-born a girl as Beatrice von Reichenau. "If a young lady of her rank could do such a thing, it surely could not be so very wrong," she said to herself. Her reasoning was not very good, but it served just then to smooth matters. Ava and her friend were not idle in the Castle, nor did they confine their labours to it. Their mild, gentle, subdued manners and earnest and zealous spirits attracted all hearts with whom they came in contact. The glorious truths they had received into their own souls they were anxious to impart to others, nor did they feel that any trouble, any exertion, was too great for them to take to forward that object. Still it was very evident that to effect any speedy change on a large scale among the peasantry a preacher was required. Albert von Otten had been made a priest in the days of his ignorance, before he went to Wittemburg, and he remembered the Knight's offer to let him preach in the neighbouring church. Father Nicholas somewhat demurred, but the Knight assured him that Albert von Otten, he was sure, would only preach sound doctrine, and advised him to hold his tongue. Such a sermon as Albert preached had never been heard in that church. He said not a word about himself. He held up but one object--Christ Jesus walking on earth, Christ Jesus crucified, Christ rising again, Christ ascending into heaven, Christ sitting on the right hand of God pleading for sinners. Then he added: "Dear friends, once a man came among you to sell you what he called indulgences; were they indulgences to commit sin, or indulgences to obtain pardon? What impious imposition! Oh! dear friends--dear friends! God's gifts of grace are free--are priceless. The blood of His only Son purchased them for us once for all. Gifts, gifts--free, free gifts--are what God offers; no selling now, no purchasing now--that has all been done. Christ has paid the price for every sin that man has committed or ever will commit, and man can by his works not add one jot, one tittle, to that all-sufficient price. God's offer is all of free grace. Man has but to look to Christ, to repent, to desire to be healed, and he will be forgiven, he will be accepted and received into heaven. Dear friends, when Moses was leading the Israelites out of Egypt, the land of persecution, of slavery, of idolatry, through the wilderness, they were visited by a plague of venomous serpents whose bite sent fiery pains through their bodies, which speedily terminated by their death. God then ordered Moses to make a brazen serpent (the serpent being among the Egyptians the emblem of the healing power, which was well understood by them [Note 1]). This serpent he was to raise up on a pole in a conspicuous part of the encampment, and all who simply looked at it, desiring to be healed, were instantly to be healed. Moses asked no price, no reward; the bitten sufferers were only to exert themselves to look to ensure being healed. Christ Himself told His disciples, `As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so shall the Son of man be lifted up'--that was Himself on the cross, `that all'--of every tongue, and kindred, and nation,--`who believe in Him'-- that is to say, look on Him as the Israelites at the brazen serpent--`shall not perish'--shall not die of the fiery bite of sin--`but have eternal life.' This is Gospel--Gospel truth. Then what becomes of indulgences, penances, fasts, invocations to saints, to the Virgin Mary, gifts, alms, if bestowed with the idea of purchasing aught? All useless, vain, insulting to God's generosity, mercy, kindness. It is as if a great noble were to pardon a poor man who had grossly offended him, and, moreover, to bestow a favour on him, and the poor man were to offer him a groat as payment, saying, `No, I cannot receive your pardon and your favour as a free gift; I must return you something; indeed, a groat is not much, neither do I very greatly value your pardon, because I do not think my offence was very great, nor your favour, which, after all, is but small.' "`Foolish man,' the lord would say, `I bestowed that pardon and that favour on you in my beneficence. I require nothing in return but your gratitude and your obedience, and that you should speak of my name and fame among my other vassals, and live in amity with them, doing them all the service in your power. Say, foolish man, what else can a poor, helpless, decrepit, broken-down creature like yourself do for me?' What should you say, dear friends, if this poor wretched man were to answer, `No, but there are a set of people in your dominions, who assume to be your ministers, though to be sure they make a mockery of your name and love to send people over to serve your enemies,' I can buy of them what they call indulgences, which they say are much better than your free pardon; besides, I may offend as often as I please, and you will be compelled to forgive me because I have paid them; and if it were not for these indulgences, I could fast, I could beat myself, and perform numberless other penances; I could mumble petitions to you, not thinking of what I was saying; indeed, I have no fear but what I can make ample amends to you for this gift which you have bestowed, for this pardon which you have offered. Dear friends, you will say what a weak, conceited, foolish, impudent wretch is that man of whom you speak; and yet what are you doing when you perform penances, and fasts, and such-like works? What did you do when you purchased that mountebank impostor Tetzel's indulgences? Confess--confess that he swindled you out of your money, but O do not, by trusting to them, which you might as well do as a sinking man to a feather or a straw in the raging ocean, allow the arch-deceiver Satan to swindle you out of your souls." This address, of which many similar were delivered at that time throughout Germany and Switzerland, produced a great effect in the village. No one heard it more eagerly, or with greater delight, than Ava and her companion. It brought out clearly so much of what they had read in the convent. "God's free grace! God's free grace!" they repeated to each other. "Oh, what a loving, merciful God he must be!" It made Father Nicholas very uncomfortable. Had he, then, all his life been encouraging a system of imposture? It was a question he would have to answer somehow. Dame Margaret also went back to the Castle sorely troubled in mind. She thought that she had by purchasing Tetzel's indulgences, secured the salvation of herself and all her family. She was fond of a bargain, and she thought that really she had made a good one by the expenditure or a few gold ducats, considering the advantage to be gained. And now she was afraid that she, and her husband, and children were no nearer heaven than they were before she had bought the indulgences; and from the description Tetzel gave of it, purgatory must be a very disagreeable place, but she comforted herself by thinking that Tetzel might have imposed on his hearers in that matter also. As, however, there was no lack of Testaments in simple, clear German, and parts of the Bible also, and Albert, and Eric, and Ava, and Beatrice too, able and anxious to explain it, gradually both Dame Margaret's and Laneta's eyes were opened, and their faith in the system to which they had before clung was greatly shaken. Father Nicholas, however, could not be so easily turned from his old notions, and now came that terrible convulsion caused by the outbreak of the peasantry and the sad blood-shedding which followed. "Ah," he exclaimed, triumphantly, "see the work which Luther and his followers have produced!" "No such thing," answered the Knight, indignantly; "you ought to know that these attempts were commenced long before Dr Luther was heard of. Discontent has been fermenting among them for many years. They have some reason and a great deal of folly on their side. They have done their work like foolish savages as they are, and they will suffer the fate of fools, though, in the meantime, they may do a great deal of mischief." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. An interpolation of the author's, this fact probably not being known in Luther's days. CHAPTER NINE. It was at the eventful period described in the last chapter that the Count von Lindburg was first introduced to the reader, leaning on his elbow, with a book before him, in his turret-chamber. He had great cause for thoughtfulness. Eric and Albert had gone to Wittemburg. Ava and Beatrice had continued earnestly labouring among the surrounding peasantry, and the minds of the poor people had been awakened by Albert's sermons with great success; Dame Margaret and Laneta continued wavering; and Father Nicholas, though he did not openly oppose the Gospel, persevered in all his old practices, and remained ready to take the winning side. Public events were one cause of the Knight's anxiety, and, besides, it was rumoured that insurgents were appearing in his neighbourhood, threatening to attack his, among other surrounding castles. It would be wrong to deny that the Reformation was not in a certain degree connected with the rebellion of the peasants, but in this manner: the liberty which the Gospel demands for all men when the spirit of that Gospel is received into their hearts, makes them ready to submit to rulers and endure persecutions patiently; but when, though men know its truths, their hearts have not been regenerated, they being aware of their rights as men appeal to the sword to obtain them. Certain fanatics, also, had appeared, who, though professing to found their doctrines on the Bible, were greatly opposed to the principles of the Gospel. The most notorious of these was Thomas Munzer, pastor of Alstadt, in Thuringia; another was John Muller, of Bulgenbach, in the Black Forest, the inhabitants of which he rallied round him, and raised the standard of rebellion. Here the insurrection began. On the 19th of July, 1524, some Thurgovian peasants rose against the Abbot of Reichenau, who would not accord them an evangelical preacher. Ere long thousands were collected round the small town of Tengen, to liberate an ecclesiastic who was there imprisoned. The revolt spread rapidly, from Swabia as far as the Rhenish Provinces, Franconia, Thuringia, and Saxony. At Weinsberg, Count Louis, of Holfenstein, and seventy men under his orders, were condemned to death by the rebels. A body of peasants drew up with their pikes lowered, whilst others drove the Count and his soldiers against this wall of steel. At the approach of the peasants, the cities that were unable to resist them opened their gates and joined them. Wherever they appeared they pulled down the images and broke the crucifixes. Many nobles, some through fear and others from ambition, joined them. In vain Luther wrote to them, "Rebellion never produces the amelioration we desire, and God condemns it. What is it to rebel if it be not to avenge one's self? The devil is striving to excite to revolt those who embrace the Gospel, in order to cover it with opprobrium; but those who have rightly understood my doctrine do not revolt." At length the princes threw off their lethargy; the imperial forces marched to encounter the peasants, and defeated them in every direction. The nobles were soon victorious, and retaliated with most terrible severity on the misguided men. The peasants were hung up by hundreds at the roadside, the eyes of numbers were put out, and some were burnt alive, and in all parts of the country the Romish style of worship was re-established. Still the rebellion was far from being stamped out, and large bodies of insurgents were in arms in different parts of the country besides those in the neighbourhood of the Castle of Lindburg. The Knight had done his best to put his Castle in a state of defence, and his own tenantry promised to come in and fight to the last gasp should it be attacked. Ava and Beatrice, notwithstanding the state of things, went about the country as before, fearless of danger. "We are doing our duty," they answered, when Dame Margaret expostulated with them; "we are carrying out the work to which we devoted our lives, in helping our suffering fellow-creatures, in making known the love of God through His dear Son, and He will protect us." The Knight, as I have said, having done all that a man could do, sat down in his study, to quiet his mind by reading. He found it, however, a difficult task. Even when he managed to keep his eyes on the page, his mind let them labour alone, and refused to take in the matter they attempted to convey. It was a positive relief when he heard a horse's hoofs clattering into the court-yard. He hurried down to hear the news brought by the horseman. It was truly alarming. The scout who had been sent out by the Knight to gain information, stated that a body of some thousand men were advancing, threatening to destroy all the Castles in the district, and that Lindburg was the first on their line of march. Not a moment was to be lost. He instantly sent out messengers, some to summon his retainers, and others to bring in provisions. The drawbridge was raised, the gates secured. Dame Margaret and Laneta were greatly alarmed. Father Nicholas, who had arrived with all the ornaments of the Church, and as much as his mule could carry, urged the ladies, and all he could get to listen to him, to invoke the protection of the saints. "These new-fangled doctrines brought about all these disorders; ergo, you must go back to the old system to avert them, if it is not already too late." The Knight advised him to talk sense or keep silence, but the time was opportune, he thought. "Religion must be supported," he answered, meaning the Romish system, "or we shall be undone." From the top of the watch-tower a cloud of dust was seen rising. It was caused by the insurgent peasants, horse and foot, approaching. "Poor people, they have many real causes of complaint. I wish they had remained quiet, for their own sake, and allowed the law to right them," observed the Knight. "Let us pray for them that their hearts may be changed, and that they may see their folly and wickedness," said Ava; and Beatrice repeated the sentiment. Just then three horsemen were seen approaching the Castle at full speed. The Knight soon recognised his son and Albert von Otten; the other was a stranger. "Ah, they come to bring us the aid of their swords," exclaimed the Knight. "Three gentlemen will be a host in themselves when opposed to those unhappy serfs." The drawbridge was lowered to admit them. Eric directed that it should be left down, as they were going again to sally forth immediately. He embraced his father and mother and sisters, and he might have said a few words to Beatrice, as certainly Albert did to Ava, and Eric introduced the stranger as Frederick Myconius, professor of divinity. "Welcome, gentlemen; but I thought, I confess, that you were fighting men come to aid in defence of the Castle. I was counting on your good swords." "Our good swords you shall have, father," answered Eric, taking off the belt to which hung the scabbard of his weapon. "But we ourselves cannot wield them. We go forth with other weapons than those of steel, and trusting to other strength than an arm of flesh to quell these misguided men. Dr Myconius will address them, as Dr Martin Luther has already addressed thousands, and turned them aside from their purpose of vengeance. We have, though, no time to lose." "Go forth, my son--go forth, my friends; I feel sure that God, who sees all our actions, will protect you with His Almighty arm in so noble and pious an object," exclaimed the Knight, holding the sword which had been given to him. The three brave young men rode forth from the Castle unarmed, and hastened towards the rebel host. They well knew the danger, humanly speaking, to which they were exposing themselves, but not for a moment did they hesitate doing what they knew to be right. They were soon face to face with the insurgent band, led on by a man in a red cloak and hat and white plume. They were a wild savage set of beings in appearance. Many a bold man might have hesitated to encounter them. Those who now advanced to meet them trusted not in their own strength to deliver them. Dr Myconius rode first. As he drew close to the insurgents, he lifted up his arm and said, "Bear with me, dear friends, while I address a few words to you, and ask you what you seek? what are you about to do? what object do you desire to gain? Is it one well-pleasing to God, or is it not rather one He abhors? Is it revenge? The Gospel of Jesus Christ will not permit its indulgence. Is it to overthrow principalities and powers? The Gospel orders us to obey them. Is it to oppose the power of the Papacy? The light of truth can alone do that. Is it lust, rapine, murder, you desire to commit? Those who do such things can never inherit the kingdom of heaven. Listen, dear friends, to those who love you, who feel for you, who know that you have souls to be saved-- precious souls above all price in God's sight, for them He sent down His Son on earth to suffer far more wrongs than you have ever suffered. Endanger not these precious souls by the acts you contemplate. Turn aside from your purpose, fall on your knees, and pray to God to enlighten your minds, to give you patience above all things to bear your sufferings here for a short time, that, trusting in the merits of Christ Jesus, who once suffered for you, and now reigns and pleads for you, you maybe raised up to dwell with Him, to reign with Him in happiness unspeakable for ever and ever." Such was the style of eloquence with which one of the great leaders of the Reformation addressed the lately infuriated insurgents. It went to their hearts; they acknowledged its truth, the power from which it flowed, and yielded to its influence. Peaceably they divided into small parties; thus they returned to their villages, to their separate homes, speaking as they went of the love of Christ, and the sufferings He had endured for their sakes, and praying that they too might endure any sufferings it might please their heavenly Father to call on them to bear with patience for His sake, that thus the Christian character might be exalted in the eyes of the world. The three friends returned to the Castle. The success of their undertaking was heard of with astonishment. The Knight went to his Testament, and came back exclaiming, "I see, I see, it was the right way to do it. It was the way Jesus Christ would have acted, and I doubt not He was with you to counsel and guide you." Dame Margaret and Laneta, and even Father Nicholas, confessed that the mode they had employed with Dr Martin Luther and others, to put down the insurrection, was far more satisfactory and sensible than that which the Roman Catholic nobles and knights had pursued with cannon-balls, bullets, and sharp swords. The two ladies at length, through the gentle influence of Ava and Beatrice, completely abandoned the errors of Rome, and embraced the truths of evangelical religion. Father Nicholas, still clinging to the idolatry to which he had been accustomed, was compelled to give up his cure, and thankfully accepted a small pension from the Knight, on condition that he should keep silence till he had learned the truth. Albert von Otten, notwithstanding his rank, gladly became the humble pastor of Lindburg, and little Ava as gladly became his most efficient helpmate, while Beatrice von Reichenau married Eric. The Knight arrived at a green old age, and though there was little peace in the world, he found it in his home and in his heart, and saw his grandchildren grow up pious Christians and sound brave Protestants. 
33607	----	[Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: "Bearing her awful cross in the footprints of the Nazarene."] THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS. (SANTA CLAUS) A Story of Duty and Peril. BY GRANT BALFOUR, Author of "The Fairy School of Castle Frank." TORONTO: THE POOLE PRINTING COMPANY, LIMITED, PUBLISHERS. Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine by A. BALFOUR GRANT, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture. CONTENTS Chapter I. Watching for the Prey II. A Ministering Angel III. Still on the Watch IV. The Amphitheatre V. The Influence Working VI. The Indignation of Tharsos VII. The Perplexity of Carnion VIII. Waiting for the Victim IX. In the Arena X. The Lion XI. The Man with the Dagger XII. Discipline XIII. Night XIV. Day XV. Saint Nicholas THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS (SANTA CLAUS). CHAPTER I. WATCHING FOR THE PREY. Go back into the third century after Christ, travel east into the famous Mediterranean Sea, survey the beautiful south-west coast of Asia Minor, and let your eyes rest on the city of Patara. Look at it well. Full of life then, dead and desolate now, the city has wonderful associations in sacred and legendary lore--it saw the great reformer of the Gentiles, and gave birth to the white-haired man of Christmas joy. Persecution had beforetime visited Patara, in common with other parts of the Roman Empire; and there were ominous signs, like the first mutterings of an earthquake, that a similar calamity might come again. The prejudice and malice of the common people were dangerously stirred up to fight the quiet, persistent inroads of aggressive Christianity. The authorities, perplexed and exasperated, were disposed to wink at assault upon individual Christians, to try them on any plausible pretext, and to shew them little quarter. If they could arrest the ringleaders, especially people of rank or wealth, whether men or women, in anything wrong or strongly suspicious, that they might apply exemplary punishment, then the irritated majority might be satisfied, and peace in the city restored. In a recess at the corner of a busy street, leading towards the market place, two men stood, waiting and watching for some particular person to pass by. They were Demonicus and Timon, whose office or duty was something like that of a modern detective. Demonicus, clad in a brown _chiton_ or tunic reaching down to the knees, was a powerfully built, dark man, with great bison-like shoulders and thick neck, bristling eyebrows, and fierce, covetous eyes. To him nothing was too perilous or too mean where there was strife or the chance of gold. He was a wrestler and mighty swordsman, he had often fought in the stadium or circus, and his fame had travelled as far as Rome, to which he went at last, and greatly distinguished himself for a time. Timon, similarly clad, was only a man of ordinary strength; but he was lithe, self-willed and shrewd, with a streak of courtesy and sympathy. Camels, bullocks, horses, mules and wagons were passing by--a picturesque train of noisy, dusty movement on an unpaved street--while now and again a carriage or a litter appeared, whose occupants were considered either arrogant, or effeminate. "Her carriage must have passed," said Demonicus savagely. "It cannot be," replied Timon civilly; "the lady, though unfettered by custom, rarely takes her carriage; she usually passes on foot shortly after the morning meal, and I came here to watch in ample time." "We must arrest her to-day on some pretext or other," muttered Demonicus. "I shall dog her steps everywhere, and if I cannot get a good excuse I shall invent one. The bribe," added he with an impatient gesture, "is too tempting for more delay." Timon, though also grasping, was not heart and soul with Demonicus. When on the watch alone he had had time to reflect, and his better nature would now and again assert itself, as there stole over his vision a beautiful figure with a noble work in hand. He wanted the prize but was not in hot haste to win it, and while it seemed judicious it also felt agreeable to suggest delay. After a brief silence he remarked-- "There is to be a special gathering of the Christians in the Church of the Triple Arch to-night. The bishop is away at Myra. But Orestes, the shepherd, is to be present, and I promise thee something will be said that will give us a plausible backing; his words are plain, ay even bold as the cliffs of Mount Taurus, where he dwells. Should we not wait till then, Demonicus?" "I shall not," answered he, stamping his heavy, sandalled foot viciously; "it would be our last chance, and the woman might not be there." "The lady is sure to be," rejoined Timon, "she is the spirit of the whole movement." Demonicus paced about reflecting, and having cooled down, he mumbled,--"I shall see, but I shall miss no chance before." Timon now stepped out and looked along the street, then turning immediately round to his companion with a hesitating, half-regretful look, he whispered-- "She is coming!" The face of Demonicus glowed with an evil flame, as he went forward quickly to assure himself. The lady with her attendant, a liberated female slave, was seen approaching on foot, and both men retreated into the recess and waited. CHAPTER II. A MINISTERING ANGEL. Pathema, the eldest daughter of a prosperous merchant, walked with her servant Miriam through the crowded street, heedless or unconscious of danger; then passing two pairs of eyes directed towards her veiled face, she turned at right angles into the Stenos, a short quiet street leading towards the river Xanthus. Without haste, yet her progress was steady and good, with a natural grace set free by the loose Ionic dress--a cream-coloured _chiton_, girdled at the waist and falling from the shoulders to the feet in many folds, and above it a short mantle in gold-brown, bordered with white. Full of work of a high order, her dark eyes and finely carved mouth spoke beneficent purpose, while her fair countenance showed an Oriental seriousness and thought. Pathema might have spared herself a life of labour and risk and self-sacrifice. She might have enjoyed a life of fashion and pleasure and ease. Besides this, her beauty and accomplishments could have easily secured for her a home and affluence, had she so desired. But she had cast in her lot with One who had lived a higher life, which in working-out had made him a man of "no reputation." Pathema was a Christian, and as such had made herself a set of determined and malicious enemies. Her Christianity could not be mistaken. There was no mere form about it, no casual acts of duty, no hysterical nights, no insipidity, and no compromise,--the gods must go. It was a clear, steady, every-day light, peeping up in childhood, and burning brighter and brighter thro' the years. Though a lover of knowledge and fond of reasoning, she wasted no time in a vain jangle about faith and works, but illustrated both in her daily life. Encouraged by her parents, and acting as their medium, and that of other benefactors, she attended to the wants of a wide circle of sick and poor, both heathen and Christian. Like her Lord himself, she went about doing good. No one cheered and comforted the members of the Christian community more, no one was a greater inspiration, and no one was more unassuming. On the left bank of the Xanthus stood a large residence belonging to a man of wealth, a business friend of Pathema's father. In front there was no altar to Apollo Agyieus, and no statue of any god, the owner having distinct leanings toward Christianity. All that met the eye was a Victor's Laurel tree, behind the house, which was much greater in depth than width, was a garden, containing such trees as pomegranate, orange, and fig. To that house Pathema went. Ascending the steps and knocking at the door, she was met by a porter (with his dog), who led her and Miriam past his lodge and along the narrow passage to the first peristyle--a partly open courtyard. Here they awaited the appearance of the mistress. On all four sides were colonnades, under which were a banqueting room, a picture gallery, a library, servants' office, sitting rooms, and several bed-chambers. The visitors had not long to wait. "Peace be with you!" said the mistress, with a gracious smile. "Joy to thee!" was the reply. Entering a chamber on the right, Pathema was gently conducted to the bedside of Crito, an invalid boy, his parents' pride and tender care. Crito had received a good education, and, when well, was active, witty and intelligent. But he had been hurt internally while wrestling in the gymnasium with an older lad, and for a time his life hung in the balance. Several days had elapsed since Pathema saw him, and he was now fast asleep. She did not speak, but looked on him awhile with earnest anxious eyes. At length a gleam of hope lit up her face, and she was about to leave softly when Crito, as if conscious of some departing force, suddenly opened his eyes. "Hail! Pathema; steal not thyself away," said he smiling. "I steal but a gem of hope--surely a lighter load," was the laughing answer. "And yet thou hast left it in my breast, thou absent-minded robber." Bending down, Pathema kissed his bosom, saying, "And I am glad to leave it there." "And go forth hopeless?" queried he. "Yes," said she, shaking her head in feigned solemnity, and Crito laughed. Leaving figures of speech, Pathema expressed her joy that there appeared to be good ground for hope. Then they entered into an animated conversation about the Iliad and the Odyssey, books that the Hellenic people used as we do Robinson Crusoe, Shakespeare, and the Bible. Before parting they conversed about the Memoirs of the Apostles, called in our day the Gospels. "I love the Nazarene's moral courage," said Crito. "Yes," replied Pathema, "to be invited, for instance, to dine with a number of the learned, and without personal provocation to feel compelled to denounce them as hypocrites, must have been a severe trial of his courage." "It seems easier to face wounds and the loss of blood than the loss of reputation," rejoined Crito. "It is, but, of course, the full test is to face both. The applause of his comrades, of the whole army and of his nation, fires the spirit of the brave soldier that climbs the frowning walls of a besieged city; but the Nazarene had not the applause of a single soul when He faced the certainty of cruel death upon the cross; worse, there was derision, and He himself even cried out that God had forsaken Him." "The cross means a great deal," said Crito reflectively. "It was endured in love for us," was the reply. "The love was great," remarked the boy. Pathema now rose up to go, and Crito was very sorry; but he knew that there were many other poor and tried ones waiting to welcome her, and he urged himself to resignation. "Come back on the morrow," said he, "and stay with me longer; I weary much for thee." Having kissed her hand respectfully, the boy looked after her wistfully as she departed like a heavenly angel. Going next into the humble abode of an old man, whose only attendant was a little granddaughter, Pathema with her maid proceeded at once to put the place in thorough order, aiding the slender one with the heaviest work, such as it was. The child had always done well, but stronger arms could of course do better, and everything was soon in special dress. Then Pathema had a comforting talk with the grandfather and with his faithful little servant-maid, ending by telling her a charming tale of a Forest Nymph. Before leaving she placed a silver coin in the old man's trembling hand; and as she departed, he could only say, "God bless thee," while the child clung to her sympathetic hand for some distance along the street. Thus Pathema, accompanied by her servant, went from house to house a messenger of mercy. The harvest-field of suffering and privation was then, as ever, white; but the reapers were few, and of modern reaping instruments--hospitals and "homes"--there were none. How much Christianity has done, yet how much to do! Partaking of a plain mid-day meal of _maza_, barley bread, and figs, with a venerable heathen widow whose heart was opening to Christianity, she also supplied this poor one's need, and resumed her journey refreshed. The afternoon was well advanced when they passed underneath the Triple Arch of the city wall on their way outward to a sheltered spot not far beyond. In a clump of olive trees and beside a limpid spring, they came upon a hut occupied by motherless children, alone and unprotected, the hireling having left the day before. Sadder still, the only one old enough to give material help, and who did help as long as she was able, Biona, a girl of twelve, was dying of consumption. The sight to Pathema was very distressing, but she attended promptly to the wants of the sick one, laving her face and hands, and giving her a little nourishment, while Miriam looked after the younger children and the house. Biona was somewhat revived, and Pathema sat down beside her to whisper just a consoling word or two at intervals. The girl expressed heir gratitude briefly, showing it more in her large, hollow but brilliant eyes, which rested for a time in peace on her visitor's tender face. The peace was of short duration, for Biona was very feeble. She moved her head and hands uneasily in the hot air of the little room, and at last exclaimed in a low plaintive voice--"Oh! for breath and rest, rest." "Let me carry thee out, my dear, as thy father does, and lay thee among the olive trees," said Pathema, feeling keenly, while she held the invalid's thin, white hand bearing the marks of toil. "Thou art not able," replied Biona huskily, and with grateful tears, adding to herself in a dreamy whisper--"My father, poor father!" But Pathema was wiry and enduring, easily fit for the fragile burden, and having by a word persuaded the sufferer she wrapped her in a long white _chiton_, and carried her with great tenderness out into the cooler welcome air, beside the refreshing spring. "How delightful is rest!" said the dying girl, as she gazed up through the olive branches into the clear blue sky. "There is abundance of rest in store, my beloved, even the rest that remaineth for the people of God." Biona lay quietly, enjoying a measure of peace. Her pet white dove, flying from an overhanging branch, came down beside her; it hopped upon the pillow, and with gentle wing softly brushed her pallid cheek. She turned her head toward it, and gazing fondly upon the affectionate creature, forgot her weariness for a time--a little time. Then she began to move her head restlessly, whispering often and with yearning look the word father. The watchful attendant changed the weary one's position, and gave her rest again. This was done as often as it was needed, and the need had no end. Pathema prayed earnestly for the sufferer's recovery or release. Her voice was the heart's melody, soft and soothing, if to soothe were possible. The father, a big sympathetic man, had by this time reached the bordering olive trees, on his way home from a brief search for aid. His clothing was very simple and plain: a dark _exomis_ (a short sleeveless frock), and shoes of leather, studded with nails. As was common, he was bareheaded. He had a melancholy foreboding that calamity was near at hand. His oxen stood idle in their stall from early morning. Noticing with surprised relief that his child was already out in the grove, with some merciful one reclining by her side, he stole up a little nearer and halted unobserved. "Oh! for rest, rest," his daughter faintly cried; and the strong man shook with emotion. "Oh! that I might be at rest!" she cried again, as if a last feeble effort, "but how hard it is, how hard! to leave my little brothers and my poor lonely father." Creeping closer, Pathema raised Biona's weary head and placed it tenderly in her own bosom. Feeling that the spark of life was low (for the little hands were getting cold), and that words were unavailing, she closed her eyes and became absorbed in silent prayer. A little interval and then, with pleading face, the simple words of the child-- "Father in heaven, take into thy kind care my father and brothers;" And then, with a peaceful smile-- "Oh mother, I come!" The father came forward delicately and softly behind and looked down, his eyes full of tears. The child raised her languid eyes and smiled, a strange, yearning heavenly smile; then she drew a deep breath and fell asleep--her rest, the long last rest, had come. Let the veil lie drawn tenderly over the poor father's sorrow. It is sufficient to say that everything was done for his beloved one and his home that could be done before Pathema and her faithful servant left. The mourner's gratitude, deep and full, was their comfort and reward. "My mistress," said Miriam, in an entreating respectful voice as they turned towards the city in weary sad silence, "thou art much in need of rest; wilt thou not proceed home, for the gathering of our people will be well-nigh broken up ere we pass by?" Miriam was wise and good, she loved her mistress fervently, and was trusted and treated as a companion, not as a liberated slave. "We pass the door, my Miriam, and it would be a rest to turn aside and listen to the life-giving Word," answered Pathema, looking tenderly into the devoted woman's tired face; "yet for thy sake, thy needful release, I shall go on with thee." "No, my mistress, no,--thy desire is good and right." The Church of the Triple Arch was not far away, and the two plodded patiently and trustfully back into the city, thinking not of any danger that might come. Their day's work was done--hard and heart-trying, yet beautiful, and as an exercise of mercy, beneficial to subject as well as object, for "there is that scattereth and yet increaseth." Good were it for the world if all mankind did their possible and necessary share. The moon shone high and clear in the star-lit temple of the sky. The night was calm, and nothing broke the stillness save the discordant, mocking cry of a laughing hyena far behind, with an occasional, distant shout rising from the city in front. As they emerged from the olive-grove, the pet white dove, pursued by a swift-winged night-hawk, swept like an arrow across their track, as if an omen of coming trouble. CHAPTER III STILL ON THE WATCH. Demonicus and Timon stood at the open door of the Christian church, not far from the Triple Arch of the city wall, listening to the voice of the shepherd Orestes, and eagerly watching for something whereby they might seize him and certain others. But Demonicus, _sycophantes_, constable, and gladiator all in one, was irritated, for the prize had not yet arrived; and as the time sped on, his tiger-nature exhibited itself in low growls at his calmer companion. "Another day," snarled he, "and the case will have turned into other hands." "I do not despair," replied Timon, "and yet, to be frank, I almost repent--it seems a shame to lay hands on such a woman." "Art thou, my brave Timon, also becoming a meek and beautiful Christian?" said Demonicus with a sneer. Annoyed at the tone, Timon answered firmly--"The lady's life is a blessing to Patara." "Soft one, weak one, coward!" hissed Demonicus. "The lady is a goddess!" cried Timon, galled into defiance, "and the coward is he that would lay foul hands upon her." "Draw! defend thyself!" roared Demonicus, and the two men faced each other with drawn swords and glaring eyes. At this juncture, Pathema and Miriam appeared upon the scene, and without hesitation the former gently and earnestly entreated them not to slay one another. As if by mutual consent, the enraged men lowered their sword-points and turned them into the sheaths. Demonicus was agreeably surprised and he cooled down quickly--before him after all was the trophy wanted. Timon did not want it--the lady's voice and courage strengthened his heart's bent in the right course, and he quietly walked away. Demonicus stepped aside; even his rough heart could be moved to a certain degree of respect, while Pathema, pale and sad, walked noiselessly into the church and sat down with Miriam in the nearest empty seat. The shepherd had finished with his earnest simple story of redemption, illustrating it by reference to what he knew so well--the spotless, passive lamb. He was now telling the attentive listeners that the lamb would one clay become a lion, that all human governments would be broken in pieces, and that Jesus Christ would rule the earth in righteousness and peace. "It may be," added he with emphasis, "that that hope-inspiring day is at hand!" Revolutionary doctrine like this the debased Demonicus rejoiced to hear. Like the Jewish pretence before Pilate, it was enough, and the love of lucre spurred him on. He waited not a moment more, but hurried boldly into the church. Accusing Pathema of taking part in sedition, he seized her by the arm and ordered her to rise up and follow him. Startled at this interruption, the people looked round, while Orestes stopped and made his way swiftly to Pathema's aid, thinking in all simplicity that a robber or a madman had entered the church. The gladiator was strong, but the shepherd was stronger, and ere the former could draw his sword he was pinned to the floor as with an oaken hand. The spectacle was like the grappling of prostrate giants. "Thou art guilty of sedition and violence!" yelled Demonicus. Others of his official order passing by and hearing the noise, came quickly to his aid, the accusation was repeated, and the shepherd meekly submitted--he never meant to defy the law. Miriam pleaded for her beloved mistress in tears, but she was rudely thrust aside as too insignificant for arrest. Then were Pathema and Orestes and others led out of the church and into the street. They formed a silent, little company, surrounded and followed by an excited jeering crowd. And as the crowd increased in strength--"Death to the detested Christians!" was the noisy frequent cry. With bowed head and weary heart, and with her sense of modesty painfully shocked, Pathema passed on with her fellow-Christians to the humiliating place of safe-keeping for the night. Their trial came off next day, but it was a mockery. Fanatical hate and bribery did their foul work--there was no justice whatever, and sentence of death was passed! An appeal was made to Rome. To that great city Pathema and her fellow prisoners were finally transported, and there they were imprisoned. Among the poor and sick and dying of Patara and its neighbourhood, was no one more missed and mourned than the compassionate maiden who languished and wept in a far away Roman prison--wept, not so much for her own wrongs, as for the griefs and pains of others. "O Lord, I cry to Thee-- Unending night, a mournful robe, Enwraps my form, and veils my sight From flower, and stream, and all I love-- My bondage break, O God! "If I no more behold My Crito, Lord, on him look down With watchful eye, and send Thy light, Restore his strength, and make him Thine; Regard my love for him. "Biona's tender care Provide for, Lord, and guard from ill; The father's wound, in pity heal. Remember all the desolate For whom I weep and pray. "My parents, Lord, uphold; Their grief assuage; Thy Spirit send And teach of Him who suffered more Than mortal man, to ransom me From death--the Christ, my strength. "Yet, Lord, how hard to die So soon. Oh! to behold the sun, To breathe the air, to clasp the flowers, Embrace my 'loved, now loved tenfold; But, Lord, Thy will be done!" CHAPTER IV. THE AMPHITHEATRE. The Colosseum or amphitheatre in Rome was a gigantic, costly building, oval in shape, 100 feet in height, 1900 feet in circumference, and capable of seating 100,000 spectators--a huge egg laid by Imperial power and demoniac love of pleasure. Its external wall rose up in three rows of columns, Doric, Ionic and Corinthian, forming 80 arcades or arches in each row, and was capped by a solid wall with Corinthian pilasters and small square windows. There was no roof, shelter from sun or rain being given by a movable awning called the _velarium_. The higher arcades were adorned with statues and chariots, and admitted light and air. Four of the basement arches at the extremities were the entrances for the great, while the remaining seventy-six were for the common people. Rising from the top of a low wall or balcony that stood on the ground many feet inward, was the _gradus_ or slope of seats, which extended half-way up the high surrounding shell. The highest seats were a colonnade or portico reserved for women. On the slope under the portico, were the three _maeniana_ or galleries, separated by walls and by landing places for the many staircases. The uppermost gallery, with benches of wood, was for the _pullati_ or common people; the next below, for the _popularia_; and the farthest down, of stone or marble and cushioned, for members of the equestrian order. Below this was the inner wall or balcony (referred to above), called the _podium_, the place of honour, on which sat the Emperor and his family, senators, chief magistrates, vestal virgins, and distinguished visitors. The Emperor occupied a pavilion, named the _suggestus_, while the others sat on cushioned chairs or reclined on couches. The _podium_ was about 15 feet from the ground, its edge bordered with metal trellis work, and its front faced with marble, to prevent the ascent of wild beasts when frightened or enraged. The arena was the immense space within, being about 281 feet by 176, and it was covered with sand, to keep the combatants from slipping and to absorb their blood. Here some of the martyrs of Jesus poured out their life, to gratify horrible curiosity, and to satiate the hunger of lions. On a certain day in the latter half of the third century after Christ, and while the pagan Roman empire still held powerful sway, many thousands of people had assembled in the amphitheatre to witness a series of blood-curdling sights and combats. Among these sad spectacles was the suffering of a noted Christian from the rugged province of Lycia. Demonicus, the great gladiator of Patara city, had fallen, his left cheek was embedded in the sand, his brawny upper arm lay out limp beside his broken sword, and his life-blood was streaming away. He would indulge in the love of strife and watch the footsteps of the innocent for glittering gold no more. His conqueror, Telassar, a big bearded warrior from Rhaetia, stood erect and proud, with his right foot on the gladiator's neck, and drinking in the applause that flowed from the encircling host of sensation-loving, heartless spectators. After a fierce and prolonged battle, several other gladiators had ploughed the sand in strange quick succession. Here, face downward, was a Samnite with his oblong shield; yonder lay a bare headed _retiarius_ with his net and three-pointed lance. Twenty feet from Demonicus, a horseman clad in cuirass and helmet was stretched upon his back wounded and dying, with his round shield and lance lying near. His handsome black charger had instantly wheeled round, and it now stood over him with lowered neck in beautiful faithfulness, a tribute to its master's care and kindness. The other combatants were being hooked and drawn away like logs into the _spoliarium_, the grim receptacle for slaughtered men; the expiring horseman's turn would soon come. His rival had also reeled and tumbled down, the result of exhaustion from a severe wound received earlier in the fray. Aided by an official called a _lanista_, the victor's struggles to rise up and, when risen, to keep on his feet, were pitiable in the extreme. Deprived of its rider, his spirited grey horse, itself slightly wounded, was bounding round the arena like a frightened antelope. And considering that there was a circumference of 900 feet in which to galop and wheel, it gave its pursuers no small degree of trouble. This state of affairs, coupled with the usual breathing time before the next act in the tragic drama, allowed the horde of onlookers an opportunity for a little conversation and even merriment. In the presence of such horrifying sport with human life, the heathen heart revealed its kinship with the fallen angels of "Paradise Lost." Nevertheless in that Roman pandemonium there were exceptions--a few hearts of a different cast, in which was at work a silent influence, destined in regal hands to reform the world. CHAPTER V. THE INFLUENCE WORKING. Up in the colonnade reserved for women were two Greek ladies, natives of Asia Minor: Myrtis, a matron of high rank, and her young friend Coryna, a maiden of medium height and of perfect mould, with a wealth of braided auburn hair. The matron wore a _stola_, a long tunic girded in broad folds under the breast, and a white _palla_, a wide upper garment, loosely over her shoulders. Her companion had a white robe with a broad purple border, and over it an azure _palla_ covered with golden stars. Both ladies had refined feelings and elegant manners. They were in the Colosseum for the first time. "What dost thou think of all this, my Myrtis?" enquired Coryna, with a marked expression of pain in her sympathetic countenance. "Think," answered Myrtis, striving to repress her agitation; "in the dexterity of the combatants I had a gruesome interest, but upon the prostrate, dying men I cannot look"; and the stout but comely woman of tender feeling turned her fair head farther away from the ghastly sight below. "It is horrible," remarked Coryna, casting a furtive glance into the arena. "I cannot remain," said Myrtis, "but what would Titanus say?" and she glanced down over the intervening galleries to the _podium_, where her illustrious Roman husband sat. Beside him was Coryna's brother, Tharsos, a distinguished young officer, wearing a _toga_, with a white _lacerna_ or mantle of elegant form. Behind Titanus stood his young son, Carnion, a raven-haired boy of twelve, dressed in the _toga praetexta_, a becoming garment of white with a wide edge of purple, and suspended from his neck the _bulla_, a round ornament of gold, worn especially by the children of the noble. He held in his hand a cluster of lilies, a little gift meant for Coryna, but which he had forgotten to hand over when entering the amphitheatre. "See how Carnion is disturbed!" observed Coryna; "the dear boy turns away his head and will not look at the expiring horseman right underneath." The mother saw her child's attitude with pleased eyes, indeed they were often on him. "Though tender-hearted, yet my Carnion is brave and strong," said she with a smile of pride. "He is a soldier, every bit of him," added Coryna. "How different from his elder brother, Dinarchus!" "Yes, my Dinarchus is a great reader, a young philosopher, a hermit, dear boy. He is now deep in the study of the Christian books. I would my Carnion were at home with him to-day, but he expected to see a wild-beast fight." "Observe thy husband and my brother--see how calmly they look on!" "They are soldiers, Coryna, and accustomed as we know to the spectacle of wounds and blood. To them, the arena must be as nothing to a field of battle when the clash of sword and spear is past." "Oh, it must be racking, revolting!" exclaimed the other, pained at the mental vision of mangled heaps of slain; "and our beloved ones hate the sight." "They also dislike what they see before them," said Myrtis. "They love skill, but they have no love for wanton play with human life." "I wish all Rome hated such idle butchery," remarked Coryna earnestly, but rather loudly. Overhearing these remarks, spoken in the Latin tongue, a number of ladies sneered and smiled. All, or nearly all, who made that wide investing terrace a wreath of brightness and beauty, were dead to pity. At the most they could only feel regret for a wounded favorite or a dying hero. "I would all the empire were of thy mind, Coryna, and then no such sad spectacle would stain our own beloved, humaner land. "Christianity is the deadly enemy of all this wicked work. May it prosper!" said the young lady fervently. "There are no Christians here, I venture to say, civil or military," responded Myrtis. "No follower of the humane Jesus would come within these walls, unless wronged and led, or bent on some heroic deed. But we worshippers of a hundred gods can thank our divinities for no good influence. I hate the gods: may they forgive me!" and the reflective lady smiled at her own bold scepticism. "They are myths, so my brother says," added Coryna, with a look of decision and relief. "Tharsos is almost a Christian," remarked Myrtis, "and with him I strongly sympathize." "He is. But see, he is telling thy husband something, and look how earnestly Carnion watches his words. Of a surety something strange or startling is going to present itself next. The uncertainty about the time of the Christian's appearance must be removed, but my brother's signal will tell." CHAPTER VI. THE INDIGNATION OF THARSOS. Tharsos was speaking with deep but suppressed feeling. "I have heard of the maiden," he continued, "and have seen her in my native province. Her good deeds to the poor and the suffering have been countless. Her whole life has been work and pity and self-sacrifice. It represents the highest moral beauty." "Strange," remarked Titanus sympathetically, "that the maiden has held up under prison life so long." "Though meek and modest," replied Tharsos, "she possesses a fortitude that bears incredible strain. I almost believe, indeed I do believe, that her power must come from Him whom they call Jesus of Nazareth." "Our laws are evil," said Titanus reflectively, "or such a woman would have known no strain but daily duty. But thou art becoming Christian, Tharsos, yet I do not reproach thee--it were good if all men were." At this stage the riderless steed kicked a pursuing guard on the palm of his uplifted hand, raised in self defence, and the spectators laughed heartily. Carnion's attention was diverted for a little from the serious conversation, and he stepped a few feet away. "'Evil,' didst thou say! Our heathen system is corrupt and cursed, an only too ready tool of ignorant malice. For no other reason could the enemies of the accomplished maiden lead her into this arena"; and Tharsos writhed under the thought that justified his grave charge. Titanus was astonished to see a man so loyal and reflective, and hitherto so quiet and self-possessed, now quivering with indignation. "Be tranquil, my friend, thou canst not mend matters, and thou hast done thy duty. Hast thou not told me of thy hastening to the Praefect to plead for postponement or release, and that this dignitary had already gone to the Colosseum, with all of the lesser magistrates who had any possible power?" "I would that I had received the tidings earlier," was the answer, spoken in a low tone of deep sadness, even despair. "Content thee, my dear Tharsos, thou hast done thy best; and strive to think that speedy death, even if cruel and revolting, is better than prolonged prison-hardship and degradation." Tharsos turned and looked up at the serried mass of living faces behind him, his indignation now controlled, yet he saw no one--none but the beautiful face of his affectionate sister whom he warmly loved; and there flashed into his heart--"What if she were the victim!" His colour changed and his lips tightened. Some strange thought seemed to enter him, and he arose from his seat. "Thou wilt, of course, wait and see the maiden?" said Titanus with a perplexed inquiring look. But Tharsos stood up to his full height, and cast one withering look towards Titanus, as much as if to say--"What, witness the butchery of one like my own sister!" Turning haughtily on his heel, he strode two steps back to the staircase, muttering something in which there was the distinct word Lion, and in a moment he was down and out of view. CHAPTER VII. THE PERPLEXITY OF CARNION. Amidst the laughter and the babel of voices, Carnion's quick ear caught the magic word--Lion! Turning round into his former place, "Is there a lion coming at last, my father?" he asked eagerly, while his dark eyes sparkled with emotion. "Yes, my son." "I am very sorry that Tharsos has gone," remarked the boy, looking at the vomitory (opening) of the staircase. "He had, he was--rather, he preferred to go; perhaps it is better," said Titanus with a troubled absent look. "What kind of lion is coming father?" enquired Carnion, his chief interest being in that direction. "A great lion from Libya, my son, a beast fierce and hungry." "And with what beasts is it going to fight? Will they be wild-boars, or bears, or tigers, or elephants? How I should love to see a big battle among them all! Tell me, father, what are the beasts to be." And the beautiful boy fairly shook with excitement. The father did not speak for a moment. His brows lowered over large brown eyes, a crimson wave of shame and anger swept over his handsome face, followed by a subduing wave of pity, and then he spoke in a tone that surprised the ardent boy. "Carnion," said he, "there is little likelihood that the lion will have anything to fight with." "Why not, father?" asked the boy, feeling quite disappointed. "Will it only go round the arena and roar?" "Were that all, my son, I should be exceedingly glad." The boy was perplexed:--"What dost thou mean, father?" "I mean, my son, that the lion is to find its prey in the form of a defenceless virtuous woman!" The boy was amazed and his eyes were piercing. "My father," said he tremulously, "is it the lady Tharsos spoke of?" "Yes, Carnion." "Oh father, how cruel!" exclaimed the boy in great distress. "Will nobody fight for her and save her?" "If any man be found bold enough to face the most formidable brute that ever sprang into the arena--that, and that only may save her," answered Titanus. "But the conditions are hard, so hard that I may say the case is well-nigh hopeless, and the man that would undertake it would either be a fool, impelled by inordinate greed, or filled with god-like self-sacrifice. Neither shield, nor spear, nor sword--nothing but a bronze dagger is to be allowed her defender, should one come forward, and he is to be naked but for a slight girdle around his loins." "Is there no man compelled to fight, oh father?" "No one, my son. The defence is voluntary. Both Demonicus and Telassar volunteered; the former is dead, and I fear the latter will back out. Who else would venture, I know not." "Father," said the boy, in a trembling tone, yet with a ring of purpose in it, "wilt thou permit my absence for a little time?" "Certainly, my son: it was in my mouth to bid thee look into the street for a little time; or if thy desire be to speak a word with mother thou mayest, but tell my name to the _designator_ (seat-attendant). 'Titanus' is enough." Carnion disappeared. CHAPTER VIII. WAITING FOR THE VICTIM. On the departure of Tharsos, Myrtis had turned and said-- "Thy brother's signal, as thou hast told me, Coryna. Come! let us go." "It is, but--not yet, dear Myrtis," was the answer in a voice of gentle firmness. "And in the face of thy brother's strong desire thou art waiting to witness the foul torture and death of a lady refined and good--our fellow-countrywoman too!" "I shall not behold that," replied the maiden with earnest, hopeful light in her dark hazel eyes: "some brave man will appear; but if not, then I shall turn my back or fly when"--She dared not finish, and Myrtis added-- "When the lion springs. Oh! my Coryna, let us go. This is the work of demons." "I cannot, Myrtis, I cannot. I shall know the end sooner here." "There can be but one end, my dear. The cruel crafty managers, bribed to get rid of the maiden without more delay, as Tharsos informed thee, planned this well. What man with a mere dagger could slay a lion? A naked man too. Coryna, the whole work is contemptible, contemptible!" And the deep blue eyes of Myrtis flashed forth her scorn, as she looked down into the arena and scanned it swiftly round till her attention rested anxiously at the eastern end. "The Romans love effect," Coryna answered bitterly, as she unconsciously twisted her long gold necklace around her thumb,--"The solitary fight will be a striking contrast to the battle that has been." "There will be no fight, my dear. Who would take such a risk for a woman, a Christian too? But I shall wait with thee, Coryna, and get a glimpse of the poor maiden, and let us hope that her God will help her." Coryna did not speak, but her expressive face told her gratitude and hope. The conversation was stopped by the loud blast of trumpets, indicating that another awful act was to begin; and the great hum of voices ceased. The sand was clear of everything, as if a bare, vast, oval table, and all faces were turned toward the eastern extremity of the arena, morbidly hungering for more scenes of skill and blood. CHAPTER IX. IN THE ARENA. Pathema was taken from prison, where she had been shut up for a long time; and the officer in charge was about to open a small door into the arena to lead her in, when a dark-haired boy, the son of illustrious parents, came forward with tears streaming down his noble face, and presented her with a cluster of white lilies. Accepting the flowers speechlessly but gracefully, the doomed maiden bent down with a full heart and kissed him. The lilies reminded her of Him who was made perfect through suffering, and they gave her renewed strength. "Thy name, my darling?" "Carnion," was the answer, broken and low. Stooping down, Pathema put a gentle trembling arm around the boy and kissing him again, she said-- "My lovely one, God bless thee!" The guard in uniform opened the door and led the innocent victim into the great arena. "The maiden comes: see, yonder," said Coryna, looking intently towards her. Myrtis spoke not, but strained her eyes to see. The Christian maiden approached slowly in charge of the guard till she was placed in front of the pavilion where sat the emperor, clothed in a purple robe and on his head a laurel crown. Leaving her there, the guard withdrew without delay that the keeper might unbar a heavy iron gate for the wild beast to enter in and devour. Pathema stood alone, a graceful form in flowing garments, within those spacious walls. Clothed in mockery in the white robe of a vestal virgin, yet she was a chaste virgin of Jesus Christ. Bound with a white fillet, her rich black hair, of lavish length, lay back in glistening waves. Her soft dark eyes were modestly towards the ground; once only were they raised, and then to a purer region than earth. Her face was pale and worn but eminently beautiful, with the light of heaven on her thoughtful brow. All around, thousands upon thousands of human eyes, gazing with inhumane curiosity, were an abashing and disturbing sight themselves. But with the solitary object of their gaze, the flow of mental energy was smoothly but strongly and consumingly in the channel of the spiritual emotions. The hidden struggle with conflicting streams of feeling was all gone through in the bitterness and supplications of the dungeon. The agony was past, and Pathema was resigned. "That sad sweet countenance entrances me," said Myrtis, deeply moved. "Oh Coryna, I go, and yet I cannot! Whence that light and peace?" Coryna replied not, for she could not. But from among the _pullati_ or poor people, immediately below, an answer of a kind came. It was in the subdued voice of a shepherd from the mountains of Lycia. Orestes had nimbly escaped while Pathema was being removed from the prison not long before; but at the risk of recapture he had entered the amphitheatre, determined, like Peter, to see the end, not out of curiosity but of Christian love, hoping against hope. He sat at the end of a seat near one of the _vomitoria_ or doors of entrance from the internal lobbies in the shell of the building. Although his garb was soiled and worn, his face was thoughtful, humane and resolute, like the rugged rocks of Taurus. His remarks were not intended for other ears, but were the half-audible, broken sentences of an intense mind. "Listen!" said Coryna, recovering herself, "he speaks in our own tongue; and they heard such expressions as-- "The peace of God, which passeth all understanding. Enduring--enduring! Life is but a fleeting breath at best. Corrupt--corrupt! Is not this foul spectacle around her the proof? She would not live for a human name--worthless from the low-viewed multitude--nor for pleasure, nor for mere living, at the price of loyalty to Christ. Yet she would live--live that she might humbly aid these people to rise up from the pit of the sensual savage mind--into the light, the glorious light. But she is rejected and despised. Like her Master, she must be sacrificed--in cruelty and shame. If it be possible, let this cup pass from her, I beseech Thee, O God!" Pathema knew not that in the vast multitude above there was one--her fellow-countryman and co-worker, the humble shepherd of mount Taurus--pleading for her life with all the intensity of agonising pity. To her, mercy was a stranger within those living walls, yet with meekly bended head in steadfast trust she stood, bearing her awful cross in the footprints of the Nazarene. CHAPTER X. THE LION. The great iron gate was opened up. Into the arena proudly leaped a glowing-eyed gigantic brute, with tawny coat and heavy mane, the hungry king of the forest. All eyes were directed towards him, but Pathema moved not. "Now may her God help her!" exclaimed Myrtis, bending her head and burying her face in her hands; but unable to bear the strain, she rose up and left, leaving her companion absorbed and pained, and her husband down on the _podium_, transfixed yet ashamed. No wild-beast fighter having appeared--no one to gratify the craving for excitement--a great hum of disappointment soon ascended and rolled round the amphitheatre. The lion raised his massive head as if in defiance, and uttered a mighty, vibrant roar. The hum of voices stopped. Pathema's heart trembled in the balance, as a topmast twig before the first breath of darkening storm. The mere finite fabric would surely have given way. But if the tremor lasted in varying degree, hesitation had perched for a moment only. Prolonged habit, woven in as metal cord, called forth the virtue told in the oft-read words--"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee." Strengthened from above, she calmly turned her head and, as if also in defiance, fixed her eyes full upon the distant savage brute. The hungry lion saw the human form--ah! this was strange choice game. He trod forward with swaying tail--he crept--he crouched low--he would soon spring--and that fair image of the divine would be struck down, torn asunder, bled and crunched in pieces! Was there no eye to pity, none to save? "Oh that I were a soldier, a gladiator,--no, just a man, a man!" said Coryna from the depth of a throbbing heart, "then would I rush to the rescue and save her or die!" The shepherd could not stand the sight, and as he rose to go away his face was ghastly white. As he turned with vacant eyes to walk up the _scalaria_ or steps to the door in the _balteus_ or wall behind, a voice at his elbow said in the Greek language-- "Here! take this true dagger, friend." "Why?" replied the shepherd, looking bewildered. "Dost thou not know the terms?" answered the Greek. "I am a stranger. What terms?" Orestes asked eagerly. "Oh, I thought thou hadst resolved to go to the woman's aid," replied the man, disappointed. "Give me the dagger," said the shepherd, a red flush rushing into his cheek. He had now grasped the situation at a glance, and seizing the weapon without ceremony or further word, he sprang up three or four steps and passed through the vomitory of the wall to the stairs leading down to the lower part of the building. Coryna heard and saw with joy, but with the racking pain of suspense, for the shepherd might be--(she dared not think it) would likely be--too late! There was a brief, awful lull. The lion would not leap while those calm heavenly eyes shone full upon him, and he would not as long as they retained strength. But if Pathema's head would bow down or turn aside, or if her vital force would go, and it could not last long, there would then be the sure and fatal spring. During this critical pause, Carnion returned. He gave a half-expectant, eager glance down into the arena. Had there been a mere wild-beast battle--had the lion been face to face with an Indian tiger, the sight to the boy would naturally have been grand; but now it was perplexing and sore. He saw his thread-like hope of rescue broken--the monster glared upon a frail beautiful woman, and, as yet, there was no man. Turning aside, he bent his head on the back of the young officer's empty chair, and hid his tearful eyes, saying to himself despairingly-- "Will no brave man come, before it is too late?" CHAPTER XI. THE MAN WITH THE DAGGER. Another door opened up with a sudden bang, and behold! a fair-haired youth, almost naked, and armed with a simple dagger, stepped boldly into the arena. A great shout went up from the spectators, as, without the least delay, he ran forward and stood between the lion and its intended victim. Coryna gave the would-be deliverer one bewildered, piercing glance, then instantly lowering her head she hid a face of death-like whiteness in hands clammy with a cold perspiration. "Father, father, dost thou not know him?" cried Carnion, startled up with the bang and the shout, and quivering with mingled grief and joy. Titanus, never without a feeble ray of hope, was yet thunderstruck when the combatant's identity dawned upon him; and though filled with admiration, he was visibly troubled. The brave youth below stood erect and resolute, while the beast, disconcerted with the shout and the sudden check, rested back flat upon its limbs and belly. Like David of old when facing the giant, the young man came forward trusting in the God of Israel. "Who is that courageous but foolhardy venturer?" enquired the emperor. "Tharsos, of the praetorian guard, O sovereign." "One of my noblest and wealthiest officers!" exclaimed the emperor; "yet let him go--he tends towards the detested Christians," added he haughtily. Servilius, the pagan confidant of the emperor, but the enemy of Tharsos, was secretly delighted. "We shall soon get rid of him, and Emerentia will be mine," said he to himself, as he leaned over to take a satisfied, last look at the self-sacrificing nobleman below. Pathema was struck with amazement, but inexpressibly grieved to think that the fair form of her defender would be speedily felled to the earth, and mangled, and devoured! Tharsos did not stand on the defensive: he took the first step to battle; and the people gave a deafening shout of approval. He moved towards the formidable lion with slow but firm tread. The mysterious light of the steadfast human eye was unbearable--the suspicious beast rose up and skulked away, with trailing tail and with head turned partly round to keep watch upon its enemy. Tharsos held on steadily, purposing that if death should happen to him, it would be as far away as possible from the eyes of the sore-tried, desolate maiden. When near the side of the arena right opposite the emperor, the lion howled with fear and sprang ten feet up towards the balcony, its eye-balls gleaming just a short space below Titanus and his eager boy. Rising up quickly, Titanus placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Fain would he have leapt down to the aid of his beloved friend. Their eyes met for a moment; and, though pale and grave, Tharsos smiled. Baffled in its leap, the brute turned sharply round, face to face with its determined pursuer, and uttered a terrific roar of rage. The issue would soon be decided, and the immense concourse of people held their breath, while Pathema turned away her head and offered up a silent prayer to Him who has power over the beast of the field. Tharsos now drew slowly back, while keeping his eyes towards the enraged lion. Suddenly withdrawing his gaze, he turned and ran with swift and bounding steps straight for the eastern extremity of the arena, while the surprised spectators yelled their contempt after him. Then the man strangely swayed and tottered in front of the very door where the calm resolute woman had entered but a few minutes before. "He plays the coward, he faints, curse him!" was heard on every hand, as they saw him finally throw up his arms and fall. "The charge is false, false!" exclaimed an erect, indignant figure with a pale face up among the women. It was the voice of Coryna, but amidst the clamour she was not heard except by those immediately around her. "Hear ye the madwoman!" cried they, as they scoffed and laughed. The emperor, disappointed and even ashamed, sat in scornful silence. But Servilius, excited with malignant pleasure, laughed outright. Then Titanus rose up and drew his glitter-sword. He stepped to the very edge of the balcony, Carnion at his side, and the eyes of the people catching sight of him, the loud storm of abuse instantly ceased. "Too late, too late, and out of order!" Servilius fiercely cried, fearing the rescue of the man he unjustly hated. "He who calls my friend Tharsos a coward!" exclaimed Titanus in clear ringing voice, "shall die. I challenge him to meet me next on the sand of that arena!" And Coryna was unspeakably relieved. But no man would wantonly accept the challenge, for Titanus was agile and strong, and was one of the most expert swordsmen in the Roman army. There was, however, much excitement over this bold interruption and at the announcement of the name of the prostrate man, whose high rank was widely known. The indignant Titanus was right--there was no cowardice. The multitude had entirely misjudged the tactics of the brave Tharsos. The fallen man lay quietly upon his back, with his face slightly toward the lion, and with his dagger closely clinched in his strong right hand. Coryna's feelings were strung to the highest pitch. Her suspense was agony, but she would not have her brave brother elsewhere. The ferocious beast, taken by surprise or freed from provocation, suddenly quieted down. It sat on its haunches for a moment, and looked after the fleeing man. Then it rose up, and preferring a fallen form to an erect, it followed him with light majestic tread. It came to within twenty feet of where he lay, and halted, sitting on its haunches again. Rising up, it walked around him twice, looking at him curiously all the time. Satisfied at last that it had an easy prey, it went forward softly, like a cat. Halting, it bent down to sniff the still, white, helpless-like figure, and to seize the flank. The time for action had come. Swiftly Tharsos drew his arm, and with terrific force thrust the dagger right into the would-be devourer's heart! With a mighty yell the lion leaped into the air, and fell heavily across the body of its destroyer--a dangerous struggle or two, and it was dead! Then was the stratagem understood, and when it was coupled with the name and rank of the self-sacrificing victor, a thundering shout of applause filled the amphitheatre. "Well done! brave Tharsos," said the Emperor proudly to the distinguished noblemen around him, who were all delighted, Servilius excepted, who vainly strove to conceal his deep displeasure. Looking deliberately across the arena, the emperor caught Titanus' eye and smiled. That valiant officer rose up and saluted his sovereign with becoming dignity and grace. "Oh father, what a grand fight," exclaimed Carnion, "and the Christian lady is free!" "Yes, my son," replied the trustful soldier, resting back upon the chair for a moment with unutterable satisfaction, for the honor of his friend was upheld, and the virtuous maiden was saved. The vast multitude were greatly gratified in their feeling of the sensational. Yet a few were stirred to better thoughts and high resolves, who would never otherwise be influenced. Thus in the providence of God does the wrath of man work out His purpose and praise. The applause was at its height. But, strange to say, Tharsos moved not. The officials that had gone to his aid removed the huge dead lion from his body. Still Tharsos moved not. Something appeared to be wrong, and the great noise stopped. The spectators leaned forward and looked anxious. Was the dauntless destroyer himself destroyed? The attendants turned him tenderly over--when, alas! there was a frightful gash in his naked side, from which the blood was flowing freely into the sand. His face and lips were white, with an expression of peace, as if in death. Titanus, deeply anxious, arose and hastened away to get the best physician he could find. As he disappeared he glanced upward to the colonnade, but Coryna, the sister, was gone. Carnion remained to see more of the stricken man, and of the pale woman in the centre, silent, unnoticed, and alone. Promptly but gently the attendants lifted up Tharsos and carried him from the arena. And as he passed from their sight the vast audience was hushed in regret. CHAPTER XII. DISCIPLINE. Pathema also watched their movements and departure, fearing that the wounded youth was dead. Her heart yearned anxiously after him. Who was he that had so valiantly fought and bled for her? His name was Tharsos, and he was a brave, self-sacrificing nobleman--that was all she could tell. It was enough. Self-sacrifice vividly recalled another sacrifice, greater, perfect, and for all. The flood-gate of feeling could not be kept closed. She held the lilies in her drooping hand, she raised them, looked at them tenderly for a moment, then buried her face in them, and wept. A herald now approached Pathema and formally announced that she was free, at the same time pointing to the open door through which they had borne the bleeding hero. But to the sensual undiscerning multitude, Pathema was no heroine. She was only a woman; and in those days when heathenism prevailed, women were not honoured as they are now. Besides, Pathema was to them a fanatic, a detested Christian, and at best but a stubborn, unbending, young woman. They knew not her supreme gentleness and modesty, which shrank from publicity like a sensitive plant from touch. They did not know that it was intense love and loyalty to her Head which gave her strength to dare even cruel death. Pathema turned to leave the arena, but the tension and turmoil and reaction were now telling fast upon her fragile frame. As she walked away, her weakness was so great that she had the utmost difficulty to keep from falling, and it was only too visible; but she struggled on. There was no sign of sympathy from the now talkative crowd, wailing for another scene of blood. They treated her with indifference--she was but a very secondary actor in the tragedy. Yet, though they knew her not, she was the greater victor, not that day alone, but in her past daily life of sacrifice. She was greater than he that slays a lion or takes a city! Among the indifferent crowd there was one bright exception. Carnion, though not then a Christian, yet was fulfilling the beautiful words--"Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep." As Pathema walked away with bowed head and faltering steps, the lad stepped to the edge of the balcony, and waiving his silken handkerchief, called out--"Thy God bless thee!" And the sufferer heard the boy's sweet, strengthening voice, and struggled on. Misunderstood and unregarded by the heartless multitude, yet Pathema's discipline and victory were the work of God, and they, even the greatest of them, were but the willing, guilty instruments. She was being fashioned through suffering in the truest beauty and for the highest honour--the beauty of holiness, which endures for ever. She walked meekly and painfully on, she reached the little door, and then she passed from their guilty presence,--a queen, though uncrowned. CHAPTER XIII. NIGHT. The unconscious officer's wound was hastily but skilfully bound up and the blood stanched, he was raised in a _lectica_ or litter, and carried home with great care to his mansion. In the quietest chamber of the house, he was laid upon a costly bed, one of rare wood with feet of ivory and with purple coverlets curiously broidered with gold. Titanus, having done his utmost, had gone away with Carnion, much cast down, the more so that he was under command by the emperor to leave Rome immediately on foreign service. Coryna was left beside her brother, with the physician and a faithful intelligent slave. The depth of her feelings could not be sounded, yet there was staying power of a kind. Grief, admiration and anxiety surged around a will of rock. Within, a whirling storm: without, a pallid calm. She watched for the first signs of consciousness as the eagle watches for its prey. Tharsos lay as if in death, with the soft light of serenity still on his manly face and classic brow. He moved at last and opened his eyes. "Where is the Christian maiden?" said he in dreamy feebleness, his expression changing into a look of anxiety. Much relieved in tension, Coryna answered softly-- "Some kind one quickly conveyed her away, my brother, but I have sent several of our slaves over the city to find out her lodging-place and to enquire after her health." A radiant joy covered his face, and he remained silent for a little. Then he spoke with quiet earnestness:-- "My sister, thou knowest her worth. Look after her, I pray thee, for her own sake, and for the sake of Him she serves so well. But"--and here he halted, trying painfully to take a deep breath. "Speak not, my brother," said Coryna soothingly. Becoming calm, he resumed--"Hasten the search, Coryna; ask the maiden to come and see me before I die. Tell her that I shall regard her visit as a kindness and honour. I desire much to speak to her, my beloved sister, to place thee in her care, and then I shall die in peace." Tharsos spoke these last words very feebly, and then closing his eyes he sank bask into unconsciousness. Coryna's heart was torn, but she would not renounce hope. * * * * * It was difficult to trace where Pathema had gone, humble Christian friends having taken her to a remote, obscure, but comfortable home. One messenger, however, got word of her whereabouts late the same night, but too late to be prudent to call. When he knocked at the door next day he did not know that the object of his search was well informed through her friends concerning Tharsos' critical state, and that already there was a brief, beautiful, tablet-letter in her own handwriting, lying near his unconscious pillow. Weakened by her cruel experience, Pathema was resting quietly upon a couch beside a small open window, her heart full of gratitude to God for deliverance and of anxiety about her human deliverer. "Is there a maiden named Pathema lodging here?" Marcellus, the messenger, enquired. "There is, sir," said a little Roman maid, the daughter of the hostess, much excited as she looked out into the street and saw six slaves in red livery standing beside a grand palanquin. "My master, Tharsos, is at the point of death, but he would like to see the Christian maiden ere he die." Pathema overheard these words, and rose up at once. Though weak in body, she was resolute in mind, and she had enjoyed a providential night's rest. There was no delay in arranging matters, and she stepped into the _lectica_ calmly but as one about to go through a painful ordeal. After elbowing their way through the streets, Marcellus leading, the slaves at length laid their burden down beside a statue of Caractacus in the vestibule before the door of the young nobleman's mansion. Like the usual Roman dwelling, the exterior was not prepossessing; but when Marcellus opened the door, the prospective view was peculiarly magnificent. The doors and curtains of successive courts were drawn aside, revealing active fountains, marble pillars with splendid statuary, and a lawn and shrubbery exposed above to the blue Italian sky. Pathema ascended the marble steps, and passing through the richly gilded door inlaid with tortoise-shell, she stood for a moment on the mosaic floor of the _ostium_ or entrance hall. Overhead, a parrot of brilliant plumage greeted her with the salutation, "Joy be with thee." Going straight on for a few feet, she passed into the _atrium_, a pillared court, where Coryna, the image of Tharsos in finer mould, met her and kissed her hand in touching silence. Leading the way, Coryna went on through the _cavaedium_, a larger Corinthian-columned court, in whose centre stood a splashing fountain, shooting its crystal stream towards the open sky. Passing the _tablinum_ or room of archives, they proceeded into the _peristylium_, a still larger transverse court or lawn with verdant shrubbery and a chaste towering fountain. Here there was a Roman lady, elegantly dressed and richly jewelled. Her dark-complexioned face was strikingly beautiful, yet marred by a lofty look of haughtiness. She walked around the lawn with the alert graceful movements of a panther. Evidently she was laboring under considerable excitement, and when Coryna and Pathema entered, her black eyes flashed out a deadly scorn. Inwardly disturbed, yet meeting the lady's look with a smile, Coryna turned aside between the marble columns into one of the _exedrae_ or rooms for conversation. Guiding Pathema to a comfortable seat, she spoke for the first time, saying, "Welcome to our home!" "I thank thee for the honour," answered Pathema, "and I am glad to come, yet greatly pained." "My brother did right," was the quiet response. "Receive, I pray thee," said Pathema in tears, "my deepest gratitude for thy brother's deed." "Tharsos will yet receive it personally," was the happy answer. "I rejoice to hear thy hope," replied Pathema with brightening eyes. "I have hope, but the physicians have little or none." After a little further conversation during which the visitor's whole heart was drawn out to the noble character before her, Coryna craved liberty for a moment to bid her friend in the _peristylium_ farewell. As she went out, a female slave entered to wait upon Pathema and show her every necessary attention. The slave was not long in her presence when she bewailed the calamity that had come upon her beloved master. Then she mentioned that the young lady in the _peristylium_ was much distressed. "Emerentia," she continued, "loves him exceedingly, and he liked her in return. Her father and mother leave to-day for a distant city of the empire, and she goes with them." Pathema was grieved, and she expressed the fervent hope that the nobleman would recover, for the distressed lady's sake, as well as his own. "Emerentia," added the slave, "is generous and accomplished--that is why the master liked her--but her goodness is not so strong as her pride and jealousy. The lady is fierce in her feelings. She hates the Christians, and more so now than ever." After a few minutes Coryna returned, restrained and quiet, but with the trace of a tear that had stolen down her fair face. "My brother," said she with hesitation, "earnestly desired that thou shouldst come and stay with me for a time. Is this possible? May I hope it is." Pathema was taken by surprise. Her home and beloved parents and the poor of Patara had been much in her heart. Her father had been more than once in Rome, trying to obtain her liberty, and he had provided long ago the temporary abode she had been carried to by Christian friends. This now swept across her vision. But it was quickly followed by another picture--the self-sacrificing act of the nobleman in whose mansion she was now a guest. And he was dying--so the physicians feared. Duty--gratitude--consolation--everything demanded her presence. Her answer was unhesitating and prompt-- "I will stay with thee." And Coryna bent down and kissed her, with a feeling that was warmly returned. Tharsos was beyond the stage of knowing anyone. In spite of the best medical skill, fever had quickly set in, and the battle began in earnest between life and death. Now was the opportunity for a woman's soldiership--soldiership of the highest kind--where woman only can excel. The weapons are experience, presence of mind, patience, endurance and compassion. With all these Pathema was perfectly armed, her value was speedily recognised, and she became an unassuming soldier in the strife. There were days and nights of anxious care and watching, the utmost was performed, and nothing left undone. Yet Tharsos seemed to be marching straight without resource to the grim enemy's gloomy gate. The thought was painful beyond measure, but it seemed to Pathema that the noble-minded man must die! While the fever lay upon him he spoke in bits of sentences about the Nazarene, mysterious, divine! and the devoted disciple Pathema. His language was now subdued and reverential, tender and touching, as if he stood in the presence of unearthly beings; then indignant, emphatic, even wild, as if he were again surrounded by the cruel and inquisitive multitude--a wildness wholly unlike that of the quiet reserved man in health. Sitting up and pointing to the walls he would cry-- "Great God! the fiends, mad, malignant, blood-thirsty, the fiends of Tartarus have entered thy fair world in the bodies of men." CHAPTER XIV. DAY. Tharsos did not die. Had the lion's claws twisted, or torn a little deeper, or had there been incapable nursing, there would have been no hope. But the animal missed the vitals, and the faithful nurse made the most of what remained--she would have readily yielded life at her loving though painful duty. When the consuming fever was completely turned and past, and a little strength gained through death-like sleep and judicious nourishment, it dawned upon the sick man's mind that someone strange but fascinating was constantly by his side. And when he learned that his attendant was Pathema, there came a peace over his soul that could not be expressed. After a long time Tharsos recovered strength, but he was never again the same. He was subject to spells of weakness that kept him to his couch for days, and he had to resign his position in the army. Yet he lived for many years afterwards, and did a noble work, impossible to be done in the service of the emperor, a work that could not be hid, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. Pathema, relieved in due time, went back to her home in Asia Minor. She carried many costly gifts, showered upon her and refused in vain. But, better still, she carried away the undying devotion of Tharsos, the close sisterly affection of Coryna, and the goodwill of all that really knew her worth. Her parents in Patara were overjoyed at her return, and so were many others in the city and wide surroundings--many, who waited for tender attention and waited not in vain. Tharsos sold his mansion in Rome, and followed Pathema to Patara. He bought a beautiful residence in that city, and built another farther up the river Xanthus among the hills. And Pathema became his wife. Staying in these two houses alternately, at different seasons of the year, they passed the rest of their lives. No two beings loved ouch other better, or did a more useful and beneficent work. Their city home was a centre of Christian light and hospitality, while their rural retreat was the scene of many joyous and instructive gatherings of the country people. In these abodes the friendless wanderer, of whatever race or tribe, could lay down his weary head and there find solace and rest. CHAPTER XV. SAINT NICHOLAS. "The house among the olive trees at the base of yonder hill--whose is it, friend?" enquired a traveller of a pagan whom he met. "The hospitable home of Tharsos and Pathema," was the reply. "Thanks be to God!" said the traveller, passing on. "Who are these two men that sit together in the portico?" asked he of a Christian as he came up in front of the house. "Tharsos, the owner of the mansion, and Orestes, a shepherd from the valley beyond." "They speak as brothers," said the traveller, raising his eyebrows and passing by. Going to a side door, he was about to knock when a woman approached from behind luxuriant vines, with a twig of olive blossoms in her hand. She walked towards him with quiet grace, her countenance inspiring all respect and trust. Bowing low, the traveller said--"My name is Timon. I have travelled far, and am footsore and in want." "Enter in," said Pathema kindly, "sit at yonder table with the rest, and thou shalt have water to wash thy feet." Going in, the ex-detective was met by a pretty boy with golden hair and deep blue eyes, the first-born son of Tharsos and Pathema. The child took a gentle hold of his sun-brown hand to lead him to food and rest. The weary stranger clasped the tender fingers, and looking down into the trusting, thoughtful face, he said--- "Child of a noble mother, thou hast made me glad." "Come," said the little one lovingly, "come." "Tell me thy name, darling." "My name is Nicholas," replied the boy. "Thou art a little saint," rejoined the stranger hopefully, "and thou shalt gladden many." Wonderful boy of long ago! Come now and tell-- As aged man, with beard of snow And hair all white, what gave thy name, Adown the years, the glow of fame? Explain thy spell O'er countless children waiting thee In varied home,-- Afar inland, beside the sea, In lonely cot, and crowded town,-- Awatching oft in midnight gown, For thee to come. Wert thou a selfish, cunning boy? Ah no, ah no! Tradition findeth no alloy In thy make-up, but giveth thee A generous heart, from baseness free, Alike the snow. White out and in, a giver pure, With heart all warm,-- This! is thy spell, direct and sure, O'er boy and girl; who think it good To paint thy face in comic mood-- It does no harm. But clothed in loving, reverent mien Tradition gives-- Thou art, in this, by seniors seen, To meet the life of one who was The mother of Saint Nicholas: In thee she lives. 
11413	----	THE REFUGEES A TALE OF TWO CONTINENTS A. CONAN DOYLE CONTENTS. PART I. IN THE OLD WORLD. Chapter I. THE MAN FROM AMERICA. II. A MONARCH IN DESHABILLE III. THE HOLDING OF THE DOOR IV. THE FATHER OF HIS PEOPLE V. CHILDREN OF BELIAL VI. A HOUSE OF STRIFE VII. THE NEW WORLD AND THE OLD VIII. THE RISING SUN IX. LE ROI S'AMUSE X. AN ECLIPSE AT VERSAILLES XI. THE SUN REAPPEARS XII. THE KING RECEIVES XIII. THE KING HAS IDEAS XIV. THE LAST CARD XV. THE MIDNIGHT MISSION XVI. "WHEN THE DEVIL DRIVES" XVII. THE DUNGEON OF PORTILLAC XVIII. A NIGHT OF SURPRISES XIX. IN THE KING'S CABINET XX. THE TWO FRANCOISES XXI. THE MAN IN THE CALECHE XXII. THE SCAFFOLD OF PORTILLAC XXIII. THE FALL OF THE CATINATS PART II. IN THE NEW WORLD. Chapter XXIV. THE START OF THE "GOLDEN ROD" XXV. A BOAT OF THE DEAD XXVI. THE LAST PORT XXVII. A DWINDLING ISLAND XXVIII. IN THE POOL OF QUEBEC XXIX. THE VOICE AT THE PORT-HOLE XXX. THE INLAND WATERS XXXI. THE HAIRLESS MAN XXXII. THE LORD OF SAINTE MARIE XXXIII. THE SLAYING OF BROWN MOOSE XXXIV. THE MEN OF BLOOD XXXV. THE TAPPING OF DEATH XXXVI. THE TAKING OF THE STOCKADE XXXVII. THE COMING OF THE FRIAR XXXVIII. THE DINING-HALL OF SAINTE MARIE XXXIX. THE TWO SWIMMERS XL. THE END NOTE ON THE HUEGENOTS AND THEIR DISPERSION NOTE ON THE FUTURE OF LOUIS, MADAME DE MAINTENON, AND MADAME DE MONTESPAN CHAPTER I. THE MAN FROM AMERICA. It was the sort of window which was common in Paris about the end of the seventeenth century. It was high, mullioned, with a broad transom across the centre, and above the middle of the transom a tiny coat of arms--three caltrops gules upon a field argent--let into the diamond-paned glass. Outside there projected a stout iron rod, from which hung a gilded miniature of a bale of wool which swung and squeaked with every puff of wind. Beyond that again were the houses of the other side, high, narrow, and prim, slashed with diagonal wood-work in front, and topped with a bristle of sharp gables and corner turrets. Between were the cobble-stones of the Rue St. Martin and the clatter of innumerable feet. Inside, the window was furnished with a broad bancal of brown stamped Spanish leather, where the family might recline and have an eye from behind the curtains on all that was going forward in the busy world beneath them. Two of them sat there now, a man and a woman, but their backs were turned to the spectacle, and their faces to the large and richly furnished room. From time to time they stole a glance at each other, and their eyes told that they needed no other sight to make them happy. Nor was it to be wondered at, for they were a well-favoured pair. She was very young, twenty at the most, with a face which was pale, indeed, and yet of a brilliant pallor, which was so clear and fresh, and carried with it such a suggestion of purity and innocence, that one would not wish its maiden grace to be marred by an intrusion of colour. Her features were delicate and sweet, and her blue-black hair and long dark eyelashes formed a piquant contrast to her dreamy gray eyes and her ivory skin. In her whole expression there was something quiet and subdued, which was accentuated by her simple dress of black taffeta, and by the little jet brooch and bracelet which were her sole ornaments. Such was Adele Catinat, the only daughter of the famous Huguenot cloth-merchant. But if her dress was sombre, it was atoned for by the magnificence of her companion. He was a man who might have been ten years her senior, with a keen soldier face, small well-marked features, a carefully trimmed black moustache, and a dark hazel eye which might harden to command a man, or soften to supplicate a woman, and be successful at either. His coat was of sky-blue, slashed across with silver braidings, and with broad silver shoulder-straps on either side. A vest of white calamanca peeped out from beneath it, and knee-breeches of the same disappeared into high polished boots with gilt spurs upon the heels. A silver-hilted rapier and a plumed cap lying upon a settle beside him completed a costume which was a badge of honour to the wearer, for any Frenchman would have recognised it as being that of an officer in the famous Blue Guard of Louis the Fourteenth. A trim, dashing soldier he looked, with his curling black hair and well-poised head. Such he had proved himself before now in the field, too, until the name of Amory de Catinat had become conspicuous among the thousands of the valiant lesser _noblesse_ who had flocked into the service of the king. They were first cousins, these two, and there was just sufficient resemblance in the clear-cut features to recall the relationship. De Catinat was sprung from a noble Huguenot family, but having lost his parents early he had joined the army, and had worked his way without influence and against all odds to his present position. His father's younger brother, however, finding every path to fortune barred to him through the persecution to which men of his faith were already subjected, had dropped the "de" which implied his noble descent, and he had taken to trade in the city of Paris, with such success that he was now one of the richest and most prominent citizens of the town. It was under his roof that the guardsman now sat, and it was his only daughter whose white hand he held in his own. "Tell me, Adele," said he, "why do you look troubled?" "I am not troubled, Amory," "Come, there is just one little line between those curving brows. Ah, I can read you, you see, as a shepherd reads the sky." "It is nothing, Amory, but--" "But what?" "You leave me this evening." "But only to return to-morrow." "And must you really, really go to-night?" "It would be as much as my commission is worth to be absent. Why, I am on duty to-morrow morning outside the king's bedroom! After chapel-time Major de Brissac will take my place, and then I am free once more." "Ah, Amory, when you talk of the king and the court and the grand ladies, you fill me with wonder." "And why with wonder?" "To think that you who live amid such splendour should stoop to the humble room of a mercer." "Ah, but what does the room contain?" "There is the greatest wonder of all. That you who pass your days amid such people, so beautiful, so witty, should think me worthy of your love, me, who am such a quiet little mouse, all alone in this great house, so shy and so backward! It is wonderful!" "Every man has his own taste," said her cousin, stroking the tiny hand. "It is with women as with flowers. Some may prefer the great brilliant sunflower, or the rose, which is so bright and large that it must ever catch the eye. But give me the little violet which hides among the mosses, and yet is so sweet to look upon, and sheds its fragrance round it. But still that line upon your brow, dearest." "I was wishing that father would return." "And why? Are you so lonely, then?" Her pale face lit up with a quick smile. "I shall not be lonely until to-night. But I am always uneasy when he is away. One hears so much now of the persecution of our poor brethren." "Tut! my uncle can defy them." "He has gone to the provost of the Mercer Guild about this notice of the quartering of the dragoons." "Ah, you have not told me of that." "Here it is." She rose and took up a slip of blue paper with a red seal dangling from it which lay upon the table. His strong, black brows knitted together as he glanced at it. "Take notice," it ran, "that you, Theophile Catinat, cloth-mercer of the Rue St. Martin, are hereby required to give shelter and rations to twenty men of the Languedoc Blue Dragoons under Captain Dalbert, until such time as you receive a further notice. [Signed] De Beaupre (Commissioner of the King)." De Catinat knew well how this method of annoying Huguenots had been practised all over France, but he had flattered himself that his own position at court would have insured his kinsman from such an outrage. He threw the paper down with an exclamation of anger. "When do they come?" "Father said to-night." "Then they shall not be here long. To-morrow I shall have an order to remove them. But the sun has sunk behind St. Martin's Church, and I should already be upon my way." "No, no; you must not go yet." "I would that I could give you into your father's charge first, for I fear to leave you alone when these troopers may come. And yet no excuse will avail me if I am not at Versailles. But see, a horseman has stopped before the door. He is not in uniform. Perhaps he is a messenger from your father." The girl ran eagerly to the window, and peered out, with her hand resting upon her cousin's silver-corded shoulder. "Ah!" she cried, "I had forgotten. It is the man from America. Father said that he would come to-day." "The man from America!" repeated the soldier, in a tone of surprise, and they both craned their necks from the window. The horseman, a sturdy, broad-shouldered young man, clean-shaven and crop-haired, turned his long, swarthy face and his bold features in their direction as he ran his eyes over the front of the house. He had a soft-brimmed gray hat of a shape which was strange to Parisian eyes, but his sombre clothes and high boots were such as any citizen might have worn. Yet his general appearance was so unusual that a group of townsfolk had already assembled round him, staring with open mouth at his horse and himself. A battered gun with an extremely long barrel was fastened by the stock to his stirrup, while the muzzle stuck up into the air behind him. At each holster was a large dangling black bag, and a gaily coloured red-slashed blanket was rolled up at the back of his saddle. His horse, a strong-limbed dapple-gray, all shiny with sweat above, and all caked with mud beneath, bent its fore knees as it stood, as though it were overspent. The rider, however, having satisfied himself as to the house, sprang lightly out of his saddle, and disengaging his gun, his blanket, and his bags, pushed his way unconcernedly through the gaping crowd and knocked loudly at the door. "Who is he, then?" asked De Catinat. "A Canadian? I am almost one myself. I had as many friends on one side of the sea as on the other. Perchance I know him. There are not so many white faces yonder, and in two years there was scarce one from the Saguenay to Nipissing that I had not seen." "Nay, he is from the English provinces, Amory. But he speaks our tongue. His mother was of our blood." "And his name?" "Is Amos--Amos--ah, those names! Yes, Green, that was it--Amos Green. His father and mine have done much trade together, and now his son, who, as I understand, has lived ever in the woods, is sent here to see something of men and cities. Ah, my God! what can have happened now?" A sudden chorus of screams and cries had broken out from the passage beneath, with the shouting of a man and the sound of rushing steps. In an instant De Catinat was half-way down the stairs, and was staring in amazement at the scene in the hall beneath. Two maids stood, screaming at the pitch of their lungs, at either side. In the centre the aged man-servant Pierre, a stern old Calvinist, whose dignity had never before been shaken, was spinning round, waving his arms, and roaring so that he might have been heard at the Louvre. Attached to the gray worsted stocking which covered his fleshless calf was a fluffy black hairy ball, with one little red eye glancing up, and the gleam of two white teeth where it held its grip. At the shrieks, the young stranger, who had gone out to his horse, came rushing back, and plucking the creature off, he slapped it twice across the snout, and plunged it head-foremost back into the leather bag from which it had emerged. "It is nothing," said he, speaking in excellent French; "it is only a bear." "Ah, my God!" cried Pierre, wiping the drops from his brow. "Ah, it has aged me five years! I was at the door, bowing to monsieur, and in a moment it had me from behind." "It was my fault for leaving the bag loose. The creature was but pupped the day we left New York, six weeks come Tuesday. Do I speak with my father's friend, Monsieur Catinat?" "No, monsieur," said the guardsman, from the staircase. "My uncle is out, but I am Captain de Catinat, at your service, and here is Mademoiselle Catinat, who is your hostess." The stranger ascended the stair, and paid his greetings to them both with the air of a man who was as shy as a wild deer, and yet who had steeled himself to carry a thing through. He walked with them to the sitting-room, and then in an instant was gone again, and they heard his feet thudding upon the stairs. Presently he was back, with a lovely glossy skin in his hands. "The bear is for your father, mademoiselle," said he. "This little skin I have brought from America for you. It is but a trifle, and yet it may serve to make a pair of mocassins or a pouch." Adele gave a cry of delight as her hands sank into the depths of its softness. She might well admire it, for no king in the world could have had a finer skin. "Ah, it is beautiful, monsieur," she cried; "and what creature is it? and where did it come from?" "It is a black fox. I shot it myself last fall up near the Iroquois villages at Lake Oneida." She pressed it to her cheek, her white face showing up like marble against its absolute blackness. "I am sorry my father is not here to welcome you, monsieur," she said; "but I do so very heartily in his place. Your room is above. Pierre will show you to it, if you wish." "My room? For what?" "Why, monsieur, to sleep in!" "And must I sleep in a room?" De Catinat laughed at the gloomy face of the American. "You shall not sleep there if you do not wish," said he. The other brightened at once and stepped across to the further window, which looked down upon the court-yard. "Ah," he cried. "There is a beech-tree there, mademoiselle, and if I might take my blanket out yonder, I should like it better than any room. In winter, indeed, one must do it, but in summer I am smothered with a ceiling pressing down upon me." "You are not from a town then?" said De Catinat. "My father lives in New York--two doors from the house of Peter Stuyvesant, of whom you must have heard. He is a very hardy man, and he can do it, but I--even a few days of Albany or of Schenectady are enough for me. My life has been in the woods." "I am sure my father would wish you to sleep where you like and to do what you like, as long as it makes you happy." "I thank you, mademoiselle. Then I shall take my things out there, and I shall groom my horse." "Nay, there is Pierre." "I am used to doing it myself." "Then I will come with you," said De Catinat, "for I would have a word with you. Until to-morrow, then, Adele, farewell!" "Until to-morrow, Amory." The two young men passed downstairs together, and the guardsman followed the American out into the yard. "You have had a long journey," he said. "Yes; from Rouen." "Are you tired?" "No; I am seldom tired." "Remain with the lady, then, until her father comes back." "Why do you say that?" "Because I have to go, and she might need a protector." The stranger said nothing, but he nodded, and throwing off his black coat, set to work vigorously rubbing down his travel-stained horse. CHAPTER II. A MONARCH IN DESHABILLE. It was the morning after the guardsman had returned to his duties. Eight o'clock had struck on the great clock of Versailles, and it was almost time for the monarch to rise. Through all the long corridors and frescoed passages of the monster palace there was a subdued hum and rustle, with a low muffled stir of preparation, for the rising of the king was a great state function in which many had a part to play. A servant with a steaming silver saucer hurried past, bearing it to Monsieur de St. Quentin, the state barber. Others, with clothes thrown over their arms, bustled down the passage which led to the ante-chamber. The knot of guardsmen in their gorgeous blue and silver coats straightened themselves up and brought their halberds to attention, while the young officer, who had been looking wistfully out of the window at some courtiers who were laughing and chatting on the terraces, turned sharply upon his heel, and strode over to the white and gold door of the royal bedroom. He had hardly taken his stand there before the handle was very gently turned from within, the door revolved noiselessly upon its hinges, and a man slid silently through the aperture, closing it again behind him. "Hush!" said he, with his finger to his thin, precise lips, while his whole clean-shaven face and high-arched brows were an entreaty and a warning. "The king still sleeps." The words were whispered from one to another among the group who had assembled outside the door. The speaker, who was Monsieur Bontems, head _valet de Chambre_, gave a sign to the officer of the guard, and led him into the window alcove from which he had lately come. "Good-morning, Captain de Catinat," said he, with a mixture of familiarity and respect in his manner. "Good-morning, Bontems. How has the king slept?" "Admirably." "But it is his time." "Hardly." "You will not rouse him yet?" "In seven and a half minutes." The valet pulled out the little round watch which gave the law to the man who _was_ the law to twenty millions of people. "Who commands at the main guard?" "Major de Brissac." "And you will be here?" "For four hours I attend the king." "Very good. He gave me some instructions for the officer of the guard, when he was alone last night after the _petit coucher_. He bade me to say that Monsieur de Vivonne was not to be admitted to the _grand lever_. You are to tell him so." "I shall do so." "Then, should a note come from _her_--you understand me, the new one--" "Madame de Maintenon?" "Precisely. But it is more discreet not to mention names. Should she send a note, you will take it and deliver it quietly when the king gives you an opportunity." "It shall be done." "But if the other should come, as is possible enough--the other, you understand me, the former--" "Madame de Montespan." "Ah, that soldierly tongue of yours, captain! Should she come, I say, you will gently bar her way, with courteous words, you understand, but on no account is she to be permitted to enter the royal room." "Very good, Bontems." "And now we have but three minutes." He strode through the rapidly increasing group of people in the corridor with an air of proud humility as befitted a man who, if he was a valet, was at least the king of valets, by being the valet of the king. Close by the door stood a line of footmen, resplendent in their powdered wigs, red plush coats, and silver shoulder knots. "Is the officer of the oven here?" asked Bontems. "Yes, sir," replied a functionary who bore in front of him an enamelled tray heaped with pine shavings. "The opener of the shutters?" "Here, sir." "The remover of the taper?" "Here, sir." "Be ready for the word." He turned the handle once more, and slipped into the darkened room. It was a large square apartment, with two high windows upon the further side, curtained across with priceless velvet hangings. Through the chinks the morning sun shot a few little gleams, which widened as they crossed the room to break in bright blurs of light upon the primrose-tinted wall. A large arm-chair stood by the side of the burnt-out fire, shadowed over by the huge marble mantel-piece, the back of which was carried up twining and curving into a thousand arabesque and armorial devices until it blended with the richly painted ceiling. In one corner a narrow couch with a rug thrown across it showed where the faithful Bontems had spent the night. In the very centre of the chamber there stood a large four-post bed, with curtains of Gobelin tapestry looped back from the pillow. A square of polished rails surrounded it, leaving a space some five feet in width all round between the enclosure and the bedside. Within this enclosure, or _ruelle_, stood a small round table, covered over with a white napkin, upon which lay a silver platter and an enamelled cup, the one containing a little Frontiniac wine and water, the other bearing three slices of the breast of a chicken, in case the king should hunger during the night. As Bontems passed noiselessly across the room, his feet sinking into the moss-like carpet, there was the heavy close smell of sleep in the air, and he could near the long thin breathing of the sleeper. He passed through the opening in the rails, and stood, watch in hand, waiting for the exact instant when the iron routine of the court demanded that the monarch should be roused. Beneath him, from under the costly green coverlet of Oriental silk, half buried in the fluffy Valenciennes lace which edged the pillow, there protruded a round black bristle of close-cropped hair, with the profile of a curving nose and petulant lip outlined against the white background. The valet snapped his watch, and bent over the sleeper. "I have the honour to inform your Majesty that it is half-past eight," said he. "Ah!" The king slowly opened his large dark-brown eyes, made the sign of the cross, and kissed a little dark reliquary which he drew from under his night-dress. Then he sat up in bed, and blinked about him with the air of a man who is collecting his thoughts. "Did you give my orders to the officer of the guard, Bontems?" he asked. "Yes, sire." "Who is on duty?" "Major de Brissac at the main guard, and Captain de Catinat in the corridor." "De Catinat! Ah, the young man who stopped my horse at Fontainebleau. I remember him. You may give the signal, Bontems." The chief valet walked swiftly across to the door and threw it open. In rushed the officer of the ovens and the four red-coated, white-wigged footmen, ready-handed, silent-footed, each intent upon his own duties. The one seized upon Bontem's rug and couch, and in an instant had whipped them off into an ante-chamber, another had carried away the _en cas_ meal and the silver taper-stand; while a third drew back the great curtains of stamped velvet and let a flood of light into the apartment. Then, as the flames were already flickering among the pine shavings in the fireplace, the officer of the ovens placed two round logs crosswise above them, for the morning air was chilly, and withdrew with his fellow-servants. They were hardly gone before a more august group entered the bed-chamber. Two walked together in front, the one a youth little over twenty years of age, middle-sized, inclining to stoutness, with a slow, pompous bearing, a well-turned leg, and a face which was comely enough in a mask-like fashion, but which was devoid of any shadow of expression, except perhaps of an occasional lurking gleam of mischievous humour. He was richly clad in plum-coloured velvet, with a broad band of blue silk; across his breast, and the glittering edge of the order of St. Louis protruding from under it. His companion was a man of forty, swarthy, dignified, and solemn, in a plain but rich dress of black silk, with slashes of gold at the neck and sleeves. As the pair faced the king there was sufficient resemblance between the three faces to show that they were of one blood, and to enable a stranger to guess that the older was Monsieur, the younger brother of the king, while the other was Louis the Dauphin, his only legitimate child, and heir to a throne to which in the strange workings of Providence neither he nor his sons were destined to ascend. Strong as was the likeness between the three faces, each with the curving Bourbon nose, the large full eye, and the thick Hapsburg under-lip, their common heritage from Anne of Austria, there was still a vast difference of temperament and character stamped upon their features. The king was now in his six-and-fortieth year, and the cropped black head was already thinning a little on the top, and shading away to gray over the temples. He still, however, retained much of the beauty of his youth, tempered by the dignity and sternness which increased with his years. His dark eyes were full of expression, and his clear-cut features were the delight of the sculptor and the painter. His firm and yet sensitive mouth and his thick, well-arched brows gave an air of authority and power to his face, while the more subdued expression which was habitual to his brother marked the man whose whole life had been spent in one long exercise of deference and self-effacement. The dauphin, on the other hand, with a more regular face than his father, had none of that quick play of feature when excited, or that kingly serenity when composed, which had made a shrewd observer say that Louis, if he were not the greatest monarch that ever lived, was at least the best fitted to act the part. Behind the king's son and the king's brother there entered a little group of notables and of officials whom duty had called to this daily ceremony. There was the grand master of the robes, the first lord of the bed-chamber, the Duc du Maine, a pale youth clad in black velvet, limping heavily with his left leg, and his little brother, the young Comte de Toulouse, both of them the illegitimate sons of Madame de Montespan and the king. Behind them, again, was the first valet of the wardrobe, followed by Fagon, the first physician, Telier, the head surgeon, and three pages in scarlet and gold who bore the royal clothes. Such were the partakers in the family entry, the highest honour which the court of France could aspire to. Bontems had poured on the king's hands a few drops of spirits of wine, catching them again in a silver dish; and the first lord of the bedchamber had presented the bowl of holy water with which he made the sign of the cross, muttering to himself the short office of the Holy Ghost. Then, with a nod to his brother and a short word of greeting to the dauphin and to the Due du Maine, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat in his long silken night-dress, his little white feet dangling from beneath it--a perilous position for any man to assume, were it not that he had so heart-felt a sense of his own dignity that he could not realise that under any circumstances it might be compromised in the eyes of others. So he sat, the master of France, yet the slave to every puff of wind, for a wandering draught had set him shivering and shaking. Monsieur de St. Quentin, the noble barber, flung a purple dressing-gown over the royal shoulders, and placed a long many-curled court wig upon his head, while Bontems drew on his red stockings and laid before him his slippers of embroidered velvet. The monarch thrust his feet into them, tied his dressing-gown, and passed out to the fireplace, where he settled himself down in his easy-chair, holding out his thin delicate hands towards the blazing logs, while the others stood round in a semicircle, waiting for the _grand lever_ which was to follow. "How is this, messieurs?" the king asked suddenly, glancing round him with a petulant face. "I am conscious of a smell of scent. Surely none of you would venture to bring perfume into the presence, knowing, as you must all do, how offensive it is to me." The little group glanced from one to the other with protestations of innocence. The faithful Bontems, however, with his stealthy step, had passed along behind them, and had detected the offender. "My lord of Toulouse, the smell comes from you," he said. The Comte de Toulouse, a little ruddy-cheeked lad, flushed up at the detection. "If you please, sire, it is possible that Mademoiselle de Grammont may have wet my coat with her casting-bottle when we all played together at Marly yesterday," he stammered. "I had not observed it, but if it offends your Majesty--" "Take it away! take it away!" cried the king. "Pah! it chokes and stifles me! Open the lower casement, Bontems. No; never heed, now that he is gone. Monsieur de St. Quentin, is not this our shaving morning?" "Yes, sire; all is ready." "Then why not proceed? It is three minutes after the accustomed time. To work, sir; and you, Bontems, give word for the _grand lever_." It was obvious that the king was not in a very good humour that morning. He darted little quick questioning glances at his brother and at his sons, but whatever complaint or sarcasm may have trembled upon his lips, was effectually stifled by De St. Quentin's ministrations. With the nonchalance born of long custom, the official covered the royal chin with soap, drew the razor swiftly round it, and sponged over the surface with spirits of wine. A nobleman then helped to draw on the king's black velvet _haut-de-chausses_, a second assisted in arranging them, while a third drew the night-gown over the shoulders, and handed the royal shirt, which had been warming before the fire. His diamond-buckled shoes, his gaiters, and his scarlet inner vest were successively fastened by noble courtiers, each keenly jealous of his own privilege, and over the vest was placed the blue ribbon with the cross of the Holy Ghost in diamonds, and that of St. Louis tied with red. To one to whom the sight was new, it might have seemed strange to see the little man, listless, passive, with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the burning logs, while this group of men, each with a historic name, bustled round him, adding a touch here and a touch there, like a knot of children with a favourite doll. The black undercoat was drawn on, the cravat of rich lace adjusted, the loose overcoat secured, two handkerchiefs of costly point carried forward upon an enamelled saucer, and thrust by separate officials into each side pocket, the silver and ebony cane laid to hand, and the monarch was ready for the labours of the day. During the half-hour or so which had been occupied in this manner there had been a constant opening and closing of the chamber door, and a muttering of names from the captain of the guard to the attendant in charge, and from the attendant in charge to the first gentleman of the chamber, ending always in the admission of some new visitor. Each as he entered bowed profoundly three times, as a salute to majesty, and then attached himself to his own little clique or coterie, to gossip in a low voice over the news, the weather, and the plans of the day. Gradually the numbers increased, until by the time the king's frugal first breakfast of bread and twice watered wine had been carried in, the large square chamber was quite filled with a throng of men many of whom had helped to make the epoch the most illustrious of French history. Here, close by the king, was the harsh but energetic Louvois, all-powerful now since the death of his rival Colbert, discussing a question of military organisation with two officers, the one a tall and stately soldier, the other a strange little figure, undersized and misshapen, but bearing the insignia of a marshal of France, and owning a name which was of evil omen over the Dutch frontier, for Luxembourg was looked upon already as the successor of Conde, even as his companion Vauban was of Turenne. Beside them, a small white-haired clerical with a kindly face, Pere la Chaise, confessor to the king, was whispering his views upon Jansenism to the portly Bossuet, the eloquent Bishop of Meaux, and to the tall thin young Abbe de Fenelon, who listened with a clouded brow, for it was suspected that his own opinions were tainted with the heresy in question. There, too, was Le Brun, the painter, discussing art in a small circle which contained his fellow-workers Verrio and Laguerre, the architects Blondel and Le Notre, and sculptors Girardon, Puget, Desjardins, and Coysevox, whose works had done so much to beautify the new palace of the king. Close to the door, Racine, with his handsome face wreathed in smiles, was chatting with the poet Boileau and the architect Mansard, the three laughing and jesting with the freedom which was natural to the favourite servants of the king, the only subjects who might walk unannounced and without ceremony into and out of his chamber. "What is amiss with him this morning?" asked Boileau in a whisper, nodding his head in the direction of the royal group. "I fear that his sleep has not improved his temper." "He becomes harder and harder to amuse," said Racine, shaking his head. "I am to be at Madame De Maintenon's room at three to see whether a page or two of the _Phedre_ may not work a change." "My friend," said the architect, "do you not think that madame herself might be a better consoler than your _Phedre_?" "Madame is a wonderful woman. She has brains, she has heart, she has tact--she is admirable." "And yet she has one gift too many." "And that is?" "Age." "Pooh! What matter her years when she can carry them like thirty? What an eye! What an arm! And besides, my friends, he is not himself a boy any longer." "Ah, but that is another thing." "A man's age is an incident, a woman's a calamity." "Very true. But a young man consults his eye, and an older man his ear. Over forty, it is the clever tongue which wins; under it, the pretty face." "Ah, you rascal! Then you have made up your mind that five-and-forty years with tact will hold the field against nine-and-thirty with beauty. Well, when your lady has won, she will doubtless remember who were the first to pay court to her." "But I think that you are wrong, Racine." "Well, we shall see." "And if you are wrong--" "Well, what then?" "Then it may be a little serious for you." "And why?" "The Marquise de Montespan has a memory." "Her influence may soon be nothing more." "Do not rely too much upon it, my friend. When the Fontanges came up from Provence, with her blue eyes and her copper hair, it was in every man's mouth that Montespan had had her day. Yet Fontanges is six feet under a church crypt, and the marquise spent two hours with the king last week. She has won once, and may again." "Ah, but this is a very different rival. This is no slip of a country girl, but the cleverest woman in France." "Pshaw, Racine, you know our good master well, or you should, for you seem to have been at his elbow since the days of the Fronde. Is he a man, think you, to be amused forever by sermons, or to spend his days at the feet of a lady of that age, watching her at her tapestry-work, and fondling her poodle, when all the fairest faces and brightest eyes of France are as thick in his _salons_ as the tulips in a Dutch flower-bed? No, no, it will be the Montespan, or if not she, some younger beauty." "My dear Boileau, I say again that her sun is setting. Have you not heard the news?" "Not a word." "Her brother, Monsieur de Vivonne, has been refused the _entre_." "Impossible!" "But it is a fact." "And when?" "This very morning." "From whom had you it?" "From De Catinat, the captain of the guard. He had his orders to bar the way to him." "Ha! then the king does indeed mean mischief. That is why his brow is so cloudy this morning, then. By my faith, if the marquise has the spirit with which folk credit her, he may find that it was easier to win her than to slight her." "Ay; the Mortemarts are no easy race to handle." "Well, heaven send him a safe way out of it! But who is this gentleman? His face is somewhat grimmer than those to which the court is accustomed. Ha! the king catches sight of him, and Louvois beckons to him to advance. By my faith, he is one who would be more at his ease in a tent than under a painted ceiling." The stranger who had attracted Racine's attention was a tall thin man, with a high aquiline nose, stern fierce gray eyes, peeping out from under tufted brows, and a countenance so lined and marked by age, care, and stress of weather that it stood out amid the prim courtier faces which surrounded it as an old hawk might in a cage of birds of gay plumage. He was clad in a sombre-coloured suit which had become usual at court since the king had put aside frivolity and Fontanges, but the sword which hung from his waist was no fancy rapier, but a good brass-hilted blade in a stained leather-sheath, which showed every sign of having seen hard service. He had been standing near the door, his black-feathered beaver in his hand, glancing with a half-amused, half-disdainful expression at the groups of gossips around him, but at the sign from the minister of war he began to elbow his way forward, pushing aside in no very ceremonious fashion all who barred his passage. Louis possessed in a high degree the royal faculty of recognition. "It is years since I have seen him, but I remember his face well," said he, turning to his minister. "It is the Comte de Frontenac, is it not?" "Yes, sire," answered Louvois; "it is indeed Louis de Buade, Comte de Frontenac, and formerly governor of Canada." "We are glad to see you once more at our _lever_," said the monarch, as the old nobleman stooped his head, and kissed the white hand which was extended to him. "I hope that the cold of Canada has not chilled the warmth of your loyalty." "Only death itself, sire, would be cold enough for that." "Then I trust that it may remain to us for many long years. We would thank you for the care and pains which you have spent upon our province, and if we have recalled you, it is chiefly that we would fain hear from your own lips how all things go there. And first, as the affairs of God take precedence of those of France, how does the conversion of the heathen prosper?" "We cannot complain, sire. The good fathers, both Jesuits and Recollets, have done their best, though indeed they are both rather ready to abandon the affairs of the next world in order to meddle with those of this." "What say you to that, father?" asked Louis, glancing, with a twinkle of the eyes, at his Jesuit confessor. "I say, sire, that when the affairs of this world have a bearing upon those of the next, it is indeed the duty of a good priest, as of every other good Catholic, to guide them right." "That is very true, sire," said De Frontenac, with an angry flush upon his swarthy cheek; "but as long as your Majesty did me the honour to intrust those affairs no my own guidance, I would brook no interference in the performance of my duties, whether the meddler were clad in coat or cassock." "Enough, sir, enough!" said Louis sharply. "I had asked you about the missions." "They prosper, sire. There are Iroquois at the Sault and the mountain, Hurons at Lorette, and Algonquins along the whole river _cotes_ from Tadousac in the East to Sault la Marie, and even the great plains of the Dakotas, who have all taken the cross as their token. Marquette has passed down the river of the West to preach among the Illinois, and Jesuits have carried the Gospel to the warriors of the Long House in their wigwams at Onondaga." "I may add, your Majesty," said Pere la Chaise, "that in leaving the truth there, they have too often left their lives with it." "Yes, sire, it is very true," cried De Frontenac cordially. "Your Majesty has many brave men within your domains, but none braver than these. They have come back up the Richelieu River from the Iroquois villages with their nails gone, their fingers torn out, a cinder where their eye should be, and the scars of the pine splinters as thick upon their bodies as the _fleurs-de-lis_ on yonder curtain. Yet, with a month of nursing from the good Ursulines, they have used their remaining eye to guide them back to the Indian country once more, where even the dogs have been frightened at their haggled faces and twisted limbs." "And you have suffered this?" cried Louis hotly. "You allow these infamous assassins to live?" "I have asked for troops, sire." "And I have sent some." "One regiment." "The Carignan-Saliere. I have no better in my service. "But more is needed, sire." "There are the Canadians themselves. Have you not a militia? Could you not raise force enough to punish these rascally murderers of God's priests? I had always understood that you were a soldier." De Frontenac's eyes flashed, and a quick answer seemed for an instant to tremble upon his lips, but with an effort the fiery old man restrained himself. "Your Majesty will learn best whether I am a soldier or not," said he, "by asking those who have seen me at Seneffe, Mulhausen, Salzbach, and half a score of other places where I had the honour of upholding your Majesty's cause." "Your services have not been forgotten." "It is just because I am a soldier and have seen something of war that I know how hard it is to penetrate into a country much larger than the Lowlands, all thick with forest and bog, with a savage lurking behind every tree, who, if he has not learned to step in time or to form line, can at least bring down the running caribou at two hundred paces, and travel three leagues to your one. And then when you have at last reached their villages, and burned their empty wigwams and a few acres of maize fields, what the better are you then? You can but travel back again to your own land with a cloud of unseen men lurking behind you, and a scalp-yell for every straggler. You are a soldier yourself, sire. I ask you if such a war is an easy task for a handful of soldiers, with a few _censitaires_ straight from the plough, and a troop of _coureurs-de-bois_ whose hearts are all the time are with their traps and their beaver-skins." "No, no; I am sorry if I spoke too hastily," said Louis. "We shall look into the matter at our council." "Then it warms my heart to hear you say so," cried the old governor. "There will be joy down the long St. Lawrence, in white hearts and in red, when it is known that their great father over the waters has turned his mind towards them." "And yet you must not look for too much, for Canada has been a heavy cost to us, and we have many calls in Europe." "Ah, sire, I would that you could see that great land. When your Majesty has won a campaign over here, what may come of it? Glory, a few miles of land Luxembourg, Strassburg, one more city in the kingdom; but over there, with a tenth of the cost and a hundredth part of the force, there is a world ready to your hand. It is so vast, sire, so rich, so beautiful! Where are there such hills, such forests, such rivers? And it is all for us if we will but take it. Who is there to stand in our way? A few nations of scattered Indians and a thin strip of English farmers and fishermen. Turn your thoughts there, sire, and in a few years you would be able to stand upon your citadel at Quebec, and to say there is one great empire here from the snows of the North to the warm Southern Gulf, and from the waves of the ocean to the great plains beyond Marquette's river, and the name of this empire is France, and her king is Louis, and her flag is the _fleurs-de-lis_." Louis's cheek had flushed at this ambitious picture, and he had leaned forward in his chair, with flashing eyes, but he sank back again as the governor concluded. "On my word, count," said he, "you have caught something of this gift of Indian eloquence of which we have heard. But about these English folk. They are Huguenots, are they not?" "For the most part. Especially in the North." "Then it might be a service to Holy Church to send them packing. They have a city there, I am told. New--New--How do they call it?" "New York, sire. They took it from the Dutch." "Ah, New York. And have I not heard of another? Bos--Bos--" "Boston, sire." "That is the name. The harbours might be of service to us. Tell me, now, Frontenac," lowering his voice so that his words might be audible only to the count, Louvois, and the royal circle, "what force would you need to clear these people out? One regiment, two regiments, and perhaps a frigate or two?" But the ex-governor shook his grizzled head. "You do not know them, sire," said he. "They are stern folk, these. We in Canada, with all your gracious help, have found it hard to hold our own. Yet these men have had no help, but only hindrance, with cold and disease, and barren lands, and Indian wars, but they have thriven and multiplied until the woods thin away in front of them like ice in the sun, and their church bells are heard where but yesterday the wolves were howling. They are peaceful folk, and slow to war, but when they have set their hands to it, though they may be slack to begin, they are slacker still to cease. To put New England into your Majesty's hands, I would ask fifteen thousand of your best troops and twenty ships of the line." Louis sprang impatiently from his chair, and caught up his cane. "I wish," said he, "that you would imitate these people who seem to you to be so formidable, in their excellent habit of doing things for themselves. The matter may stand until our council. Reverend father, it has struck the hour of chapel, and all else may wait until we have paid out duties to heaven." Taking a missal from the hands of an attendant, he walked as fast as his very high heels would permit him, towards the door, the court forming a lane through which he might pass, and then closing up behind to follow him in order of precedence. CHAPTER III. THE HOLDING OF THE DOOR. Whilst Louis had been affording his court that which he had openly stated to be the highest of human pleasures--the sight of the royal face--the young officer of the guard outside had been very busy passing on the titles of the numerous applicants for admission, and exchanging usually a smile or a few words of greeting with them, for his frank, handsome face was a well-known one at the court. With his merry eyes and his brisk bearing, he looked like a man who was on good terms with Fortune. Indeed, he had good cause to be so, for she had used him well. Three years ago he had been an unknown subaltern bush-fighting with Algonquins and Iroquois in the wilds of Canada. An exchange had brought him back to France and into the regiment of Picardy, but the lucky chance of having seized the bridle of the king's horse one winter's day in Fontainebleau when the creature was plunging within a few yards of a deep gravel-pit had done for him what ten campaigns might have failed to accomplish. Now as a trusted officer of the king's guard, young, gallant, and popular, his lot was indeed an enviable one. And yet, with the strange perversity of human nature, he was already surfeited with the dull if magnificent routine of the king's household, and looked back with regret to the rougher and freer days of his early service. Even there at the royal door his mind had turned away from the frescoed passage and the groups of courtiers to the wild ravines and foaming rivers of the West, when suddenly his eyes lit upon a face which he had last seen among those very scenes. "Ah, Monsieur de Frontenac!" he cried. "You cannot have forgotten me." "What! De Catinat! Ah, it is a joy indeed to see a face from over the water! But there is a long step between a subaltern in the Carignan and a captain in the guards. You have risen rapidly." "Yes; and yet I may be none the happier for it. There are times when I would give it all to be dancing down the Lachine Rapids in a birch canoe, or to see the red and the yellow on those hill-sides once more at the fall of the leaf." "Ay," sighed De Frontenac. "You know that my fortunes have sunk as yours have risen. I have been recalled, and De la Barre is in my place. But there will be a storm there which such a man as he can never stand against. With the Iroquois all dancing the scalp-dance, and Dongan behind them in New York to whoop them on, they will need me, and they will find me waiting when they send. I will see the king now, and try if I cannot rouse him to play the great monarch there as well as here. Had I but his power in my hands, I should change the world's history." "Hush! No treason to the captain of the guard," cried De Catinat, laughing, while the stern old soldier strode past him into the king's presence. A gentleman very richly dressed in black and silver had come up during this short conversation, and advanced, as the door opened, with the assured air of a man whose rights are beyond dispute. Captain de Catinat, however, took a quick step forward, and barred him off from the door. "I am very sorry, Monsieur de Vivonne," said he, "but you are forbidden the presence." "Forbidden the presence! I? You are mad!" He stepped back with gray face and staring eyes, one shaking hand half raised in protest, "I assure you that it is his order." "But it is incredible. It is a mistake." "Very possibly." "Then you will let me past." "My orders leave me no discretion." "If I could have one word with the king." "Unfortunately, monsieur, it is impossible." "Only one word." "It really does not rest with me, monsieur." The angry nobleman stamped his foot, and stared at the door as though he had some thoughts of forcing a passage. Then turning on his heel, he hastened away down the corridor with the air of a man who has come to a decision. "There, now," grumbled De Catinat to himself, as he pulled at his thick dark moustache, "he is off to make some fresh mischief. I'll have his sister here presently, as like as not, and a pleasant little choice between breaking my orders and making an enemy of her for life. I'd rather hold Fort Richelieu against the Iroquois than the king's door against an angry woman. By my faith, here _is_ a lady, as I feared! Ah, Heaven be praised! it is a friend, and not a foe. Good-morning, Mademoiselle Nanon." "Good-morning, Captain de Catinat." The new-comer was a tall, graceful brunette, her fresh face and sparkling black eyes the brighter in contrast with her plain dress. "I am on guard, you see. I cannot talk with you." "I cannot remember having asked monsieur to talk with me." "Ah, but you must not pout in that pretty way, or else I cannot help talking to you," whispered the captain. "What is this in your hand, then?" "A note from Madame de Maintenon to the king. You will hand it to him, will you not?" "Certainly, mademoiselle. And how is Madame, your mistress?" "Oh, her director has been with her all the morning, and his talk is very, very good; but it is also very, very sad. We are not very cheerful when Monsieur Godet has been to see us. But I forget monsieur is a Huguenot, and knows nothing of directors." "Oh, but I do not trouble about such differences. I let the Sorbonne and Geneva fight it out between them. Yet a man must stand by his family, you know." "Ah! if Monsieur could talk to Madame de Maintenon a little! She would convert him." "I would rather talk to Mademoiselle Nanon, but if--" "Oh!" There was an exclamation, a whisk of dark skirts, and the soubrette had disappeared down a side passage. Along the broad, lighted corridor was gliding a very stately and beautiful lady, tall, graceful, and exceedingly haughty. She was richly clad in a bodice of gold-coloured camlet and a skirt of gray silk trimmed with gold and silver lace. A handkerchief of priceless Genoa point half hid and half revealed her beautiful throat, and was fastened in front by a cluster of pearls, while a rope of the same, each one worth a bourgeois' income, was coiled in and out through her luxuriant hair. The lady was past her first youth, it is true, but the magnificent curves of her queenly figure, the purity of her complexion, the brightness of her deep-lashed blue eyes and the clear regularity of her features enabled her still to claim to be the most handsome as well as the most sharp-tongued woman in the court of France. So beautiful was her bearing, the carriage of her dainty head upon her proud white neck, and the sweep of her stately walk, that the young officer's fears were overpowered in his admiration, and he found it hard, as he raised his hand in salute, to retain the firm countenance which his duties demanded. "Ah, it is Captain de Catinat," said Madame de Montespan, with a smile which was more embarrassing to him than any frown could have been. "Your humble servant, marquise." "I am fortunate in finding a friend here, for there has been some ridiculous mistake this morning." "I am concerned to hear it." "It was about my brother, Monsieur de Vivonne. It is almost too laughable to mention, but he was actually refused admission to the _lever_." "It was my misfortune to have to refuse him, madame." "You, Captain de Catinat? And by what right?" She had drawn up her superb figure, and her large blue eyes were blazing with indignant astonishment. "The king's order, madame." "The king! Is it likely that the king would cast a public slight upon my family? From whom had you this preposterous order?" "Direct from the king through Bontems." "Absurd! Do you think that the king would venture to exclude a Mortemart through the mouth of a valet? You have been dreaming, captain." "I trust that it may prove so, madame." "But such dreams are not very fortunate to the dreamer. Go, tell the king that I am here, and would have a word with him." "Impossible, madame." "And why?" "I have been forbidden to carry a message." "To carry any message?" "Any from you, madame." "Come, captain, you improve. It only needed this insult to make the thing complete. You may carry a message to the king from any adventuress, from any decayed governess"--she laughed shrilly at her description of her rival--"but none from Francoise de Mortemart, Marquise de Montespan?" "Such are my orders, madame. It pains me deeply to be compelled to carry them out." "You may spare your protestations, captain. You may yet find that you have every reason to be deeply pained. For the last time, do you refuse to carry my message to the king?" "I must, madame." "Then I carry it myself." She sprang forward at the door, but he slipped in front of her with outstretched arms. "For God's sake, consider yourself, madame!" he entreated. "Other eyes are upon you." "Pah! Canaille!" She glanced at the knot of Switzers, whose sergeant had drawn them off a few paces, and who stood open-eyed, staring at the scene. "I tell you that I _will_ see the king." "No lady has ever been at the morning _lever_." "Then I shall be the first." "You will ruin me if you pass." "And none the less, I shall do so." The matter looked serious. De Catinat was a man of resource, but for once he was at his wits' end. Madame de Montespan's resolution, as it was called in her presence, or effrontery, as it was termed behind her back, was proverbial. If she attempted to force her way, would he venture to use violence upon one who only yesterday had held the fortunes of the whole court in the hollow of her hand, and who, with her beauty, her wit, and her energy, might very well be in the same position to-morrow? If she passed him, then his future was ruined with the king, who never brooked the smallest deviation from his orders. On the other hand, if he thrust her back, he did that which could never be forgiven, and which would entail some deadly vengeance should she return to power. It was an unpleasant dilemma. But a happy thought flashed into his mind at the very moment when she, with clenched hand and flashing eyes, was on the point of making a fresh attempt to pass him. "If madame would deign to wait," said he soothingly, "the king will be on his way to the chapel in an instant." "It is not yet time." "I think the hour has just gone." "And why should I wait, like a lackey?" "It is but a moment, madame." "No, I shall not wait." She took a step forward towards the door. But the guardsman's quick ear had caught the sound of moving feet from within, and he knew that he was master of the situation. "I will take Madame's message," said he. "Ah, you have recovered your senses! Go, tell the king that I wish to speak with him." He must gain a little time yet. "Shall I say it through the lord in waiting?" "No; yourself." "Publicly?" "No, no; for his private ear." "Shall I give a reason for your request?" "Oh, you madden me! Say what I have told you, and at once." But the young officer's dilemma was happily over. At that instant the double doors were swung open, and Louis appeared in the opening, strutting forwards on his high-heeled shoes, his stick tapping, his broad skirts flapping, and his courtiers spreading out behind him. He stopped as he came out, and turned to the captain of the guard. "You have a note for me?" "Yes, sire." The monarch slipped it into the pocket of his scarlet undervest, and was advancing once more when his eyes fell upon Madame de Montespan standing very stiff and erect in the middle of the passage. A dark flush of anger shot to his brow, and he walked swiftly past her without a word; but she turned and kept pace with him down the corridor. "I had not expected this honour, madame," said he. "Nor had I expected this insult, sire." "An insult, madame? You forget yourself." "No; it is you who have forgotten me, sire." "You intrude upon me." "I wished to hear my fate from your own lips," she whispered. "I can bear to be struck myself, sire, even by him who has my heart. But it is hard to hear that one's brother has been wounded through the mouths of valets and Huguenot soldiers for no fault of his, save that his sister has loved too fondly." "It is no time to speak of such things." "When can I see you, then, sire?" "In your chamber." "At what hour?" "At four." "Then I shall trouble your Majesty no further." She swept him one of the graceful courtesies for which she was famous, and turned away down a side passage with triumph shining in her eyes. Her beauty and her spirit had never failed her yet, and now that she had the monarch's promise of an interview she never doubted that she could do as she had done before, and win back the heart of the man, however much against the conscience of the king. CHAPTER IV. THE FATHER OF HIS PEOPLE. Louis had walked on to his devotions in no very charitable frame of mind, as was easily to be seen from his clouded brow and compressed lips. He knew his late favourite well, her impulsiveness, her audacity, her lack of all restraint when thwarted or opposed. She was capable of making a hideous scandal, of turning against him that bitter tongue which had so often made him laugh at the expense of others, perhaps even of making some public exposure which would leave him the butt and gossip of Europe. He shuddered at the thought. At all costs such a catastrophe must be averted. And yet how could he cut the tie which bound them? He had broken other such bonds as these; but the gentle La Valliere had shrunk into a convent at the very first glance which had told her of waning love. That was true affection. But this woman would struggle hard, fight to the bitter end, before she would quit the position which was so dear to her. She spoke of her wrongs. What were her wrongs? In his intense selfishness, nurtured by the eternal flattery which was the very air he breathed, he could not see that the fifteen years of her life which he had absorbed, or the loss of the husband whom he had supplanted, gave her any claim upon him. In his view he had raised her to the highest position which a subject could occupy. Now he was weary of her, and it was her duty to retire with resignation, nay, even with gratitude for past favours. She should have a pension, and the children should be cared for. What could a reasonable woman ask for more? And then his motives for discarding her were so excellent. He turned them over in his mind as he knelt listening to the Archbishop of Paris reciting the Mass, and the more he thought, the more he approved. His conception of the deity was as a larger Louis, and of heaven as a more gorgeous Versailles. If he exacted obedience from his twenty millions, then he must show it also to this one who had a right to demand it of him. On the whole, his conscience acquitted him. But in this one matter he had been lax. From the first coming of his gentle and forgiving young wife from Spain, he had never once permitted her to be without a rival. Now that she was dead, the matter was no better. One favourite had succeeded another, and if De Montespan had held her own so long, it was rather from her audacity than from his affection. But now Father La Chaise and Bossuet were ever reminding him that he had topped the summit of his life, and was already upon that downward path which leads to the grave. His wild outburst over the unhappy Fontanges had represented the last flicker of his passions. The time had come for gravity and for calm, neither of which was to be expected in the company of Madame de Montespan. But he had found out where they were to be enjoyed. From the day when De Montespan had introduced the stately and silent widow as a governess for his children, he had found a never-failing and ever-increasing pleasure in her society. In the early days of her coming he had sat for hours in the rooms of his favourite, watching the tact and sweetness of temper with which her dependent controlled the mutinous spirits of the petulant young Duc du Maine and the mischievous little Comte de Toulouse. He had been there nominally for the purpose of superintending the teaching, but he had confined himself to admiring the teacher. And then in time he too had been drawn into the attraction of that strong sweet nature, and had found himself consulting her upon points of conduct, and acting upon her advice with a docility which he had never shown before to minister or mistress. For a time he had thought that her piety and her talk of principle might be a mere mask, for he was accustomed to hypocrisy all round him. It was surely unlikely that a woman who was still beautiful, with as bright an eye and as graceful a figure as any in his court, could, after a life spent in the gayest circles, preserve the spirit of a nun. But on this point he was soon undeceived, for when his own language had become warmer than that of friendship, he had been met by an iciness of manner and a brevity of speech which had shown him that there was one woman at least in his dominions who had a higher respect for herself than for him. And perhaps it was better so. The placid pleasures of friendship were very soothing after the storms of passion. To sit in her room every afternoon, to listen to talk which was not tainted with flattery, and to hear opinions which were not framed to please his ear, were the occupations now of his happiest hours. And then her influence over him was all so good! She spoke of his kingly duties, of his example to his subjects, of his preparation for the World beyond, and of the need for an effort to snap the guilty ties which he had formed. She was as good as a confessor--a confessor with a lovely face and a perfect arm. And now he knew that the time had come when he must choose between her and De Montespan. Their influences were antagonistic. They could not continue together. He stood between virtue and vice, and he must choose. Vice was very attractive too, very comely, very witty, and holding him by that chain of custom which is so hard to shake off. There were hours when his nature swayed strongly over to that side, and when he was tempted to fall back into his old life. But Bossuet and Pere la Chaise were ever at his elbows to whisper encouragement, and, above all, there was Madame de Maintenon to remind him of what was due to his position and to his six-and-forty years. Now at last he had braced himself for a supreme effort. There was no safety for him while his old favourite was at court. He knew himself too well to have any faith in a lasting change so long as she was there ever waiting for his moment of weakness. She must be persuaded to leave Versailles, if without a scandal it could be done. He would be firm when he met her in the afternoon, and make her understand once for all that her reign was forever over. Such were the thoughts which ran through the king's head as he bent over the rich crimson cushion which topped his _prie-dieu_ of carved oak. He knelt in his own enclosure to the right of the altar, with his guards and his immediate household around him, while the court, ladies and cavaliers, filled the chapel. Piety was a fashion now, like dark overcoats and lace cravats, and no courtier was so worldly-minded as not to have had a touch of grace since the king had taken to religion. Yet they looked very bored, these soldiers and seigneurs, yawning and blinking over the missals, while some who seemed more intent upon their devotions were really dipping into the latest romance of Scudery or Calpernedi, cunningly bound up in a sombre cover. The ladies, indeed, were more devout, and were determined that all should see it, for each had lit a tiny taper, which she held in front of her on the plea of lighting up her missal, but really that her face might be visible to the king, and inform him that hers was a kindred spirit. A few there may have been, here and there, whose prayers rose from their hearts, and who were there of their own free will; but the policy of Louis had changed his noblemen into courtiers and his men of the world into hypocrites, until the whole court was like one gigantic mirror which reflected his own likeness a hundredfold. It was the habit of Louis, as he walked back from the chapel, to receive petitions or to listen to any tales of wrong which his subjects might bring to him. His way, as he returned to his rooms, lay partly across an open space, and here it was that the suppliants were wont to assemble. On this particular morning there were but two or three--a Parisian, who conceived himself injured by the provost of his guild, a peasant whose cow had been torn by a huntsman's dog, and a farmer who had had hard usage from his feudal lord. A few questions and then a hurried order to his secretary disposed of each case, for if Louis was a tyrant himself, he had at least the merit that he insisted upon being the only one within his kingdom. He was about to resume his way again, when an elderly man, clad in the garb of a respectable citizen, and with a strong deep-lined face which marked him as a man of character, darted forward, and threw himself down upon one knee in front of the monarch. "Justice, sire, justice!" he cried. "What is this, then?" asked Louis. "Who are you, and what is it that you want?" "I am a citizen of Paris, and I have been cruelly wronged." "You seem a very worthy person. If you have indeed been wronged you shall have redress. What have you to complain of?" "Twenty of the Blue Dragoons of Languedoc are quartered in my house, with Captain Dalbert at their head. They have devoured my food, stolen my property, and beaten my servants, yet the magistrates will give me no redress.' "On my life, justice seems to be administered in a strange fashion in our city of Paris!" exclaimed the king wrathfully. "It is indeed a shameful case," said Bossuet. "And yet there may be a very good reason for it," suggested Pere la Chaise. "I would suggest that your Majesty should ask this man his name, his business, and why it was that the dragoons were quartered upon him." "You hear the reverend father's question." "My name, sire, is Catinat, by trade I am a merchant in cloth, and I am treated in this fashion because I am of the Reformed Church." "I thought as much!" cried the confessor. "That alters matters," said Bossuet. The king shook his head and his brow darkened. "You have only yourself to thank, then. The remedy is in your hands." "And how, sire?" "By embracing the only true faith." "I am already a member of it, sire." The king stamped his foot angrily. "I can see that you are a very insolent heretic," said he. "There is but one Church in France, and that is my Church. If you are outside that, you cannot look to me for aid." "My creed is that of my father, sire, and of my grandfather." "If they have sinned it is no reason why you should. My own grandfather erred also before his eyes were opened." "But he nobly atoned for his error," murmured the Jesuit. "Then you will not help me, sire?" "You must first help yourself." The old Huguenot stood up with a gesture of despair, while the king continued on his way, the two ecclesiastics, on either side of him, murmuring their approval into his ears. "You have done nobly, sire." "You are truly the first son of the Church." "You are the worthy successor of St. Louis." But the king bore the face of a man who was not absolutely satisfied with his own action. "You do not think, then, that these people have too hard a measure?" said he. "Too hard? Nay, your Majesty errs on the side of mercy." "I hear that they are leaving my kingdom in great numbers." "And surely it is better so, sire; for what blessing can come upon a country which has such stubborn infidels within its boundaries?" "Those who are traitors to God can scarce be loyal to the king," remarked Bossuet. "Your Majesty's power would be greater if there were no temple, as they call their dens of heresy, within your dominions." "My grandfather promised them protection. They are shielded, as you well know, by the edict which be gave at Nantes." "But it lies with your Majesty to undo the mischief that has been done." "And how?" "By recalling the edict." "And driving into the open arms of my enemies two millions of my best artisans and of my bravest servants. No, no, father, I have, I trust, every zeal for Mother-Church, but there is some truth in what De Frontenac said this morning of the evil which comes from mixing the affairs of this world with those of the next. How say you, Louvois?" "With all respect to the Church, sire, I would say that the devil has given these men such cunning of hand and of brain that they are the best workers and traders in your Majesty's kingdom. I know not how the state coffers are to be filled if such tax-payers go from among us. Already many have left the country and taken their trades with them. If all were to go, it would be worse for us than a lost campaign." "But," remarked Bossuet, "if it were once known that the king's will had been expressed, your Majesty may rest assured that even the worst of his subjects bear him such love that they would hasten to come within the pale of Holy Church. As long as the edict stands, it seems to them that the king is lukewarm, and that they may abide in their error." The king shook his head. "They have always been stubborn folk," said he. "Perhaps," remarked Louvois, glancing maliciously at Bossuet, "were the bishops of France to make an offering to the state of the treasures of their sees, we might then do without these Huguenot taxes." "All that the Church has is at the king's service," answered Bossuet curtly. "The kingdom is mine and all that is in it," remarked Louis, as they entered the _Grand Salon_, in which the court assembled after chapel, "yet I trust that it may be long before I have to claim the wealth of the Church." "We trust so, sire," echoed the ecclesiastics. "But we may reserve such topics for our council-chamber. Where is Mansard? I must see his plans for the new wing at Marly." He crossed to a side table, and was buried in an instant in his favourite pursuit, inspecting the gigantic plans of the great architect, and inquiring eagerly as to the progress of the work. "I think," said Pere la Chaise, drawing Bossuet aside, "that your Grace has made some impression upon the king's mind." "With your powerful assistance, father." "Oh, you may rest assured that I shall lose no opportunity of pushing on the good work." "If you take it in hand, it is done." "But there is another who has more weight than I." "The favourite, De Montespan?" "No, no; her day is gone. It is Madame de Maintenon." "I hear that she is very devout." "Very. But she has no love for my Order. She is a Sulpitian. Yet we may all work to one end. Now if you were to speak to her, your Grace." "With all my heart." "Show her how good a service it would be could she bring about the banishment of the Huguenots." "I shall do so." "And offer her in return that we will promote--" he bent forward and whispered into the prelate's ear. "What! He would not do it!" "And why? The queen is dead." "The widow of the poet Scarron!" "She is of good birth. Her grandfather and his were dear friends." "It is impossible." "But I know his heart, and I say it is possible." "You certainly know his heart, father, if any can. But such a thought had never entered my head." "Then let it enter and remain there. If she will serve the Church, the Church will serve her. But the king beckons, and I must go." The thin dark figure hastened off through the throng of courtiers, and the great Bishop of Meaux remained standing with his chin upon his breast, sunk in reflection. By this time all the court was assembled in the _Grand Salon_, and the huge room was gay from end to end with the silks, the velvets, and the brocades of the ladies, the glitter of jewels, the flirt of painted fans, and the sweep of plume or aigrette. The grays, blacks, and browns of the men's coats toned down the mass of colour, for all must be dark when the king was dark, and only the blues of the officers' uniforms, and the pearl and gray of the musketeers of the guard, remained to call back those early days of the reign when the men had vied with the women in the costliness and brilliancy of their wardrobes. And if dresses had changed, manners had done so even more. The old levity and the old passions lay doubtless very near the surface, but grave faces and serious talk were the fashion of the hour. It was no longer the lucky _coup_ at the lansquenet table, the last comedy of Moliere, or the new opera of Lully about which they gossiped, but it was on the evils of Jansenism, on the expulsion of Arnauld from the Sorbonne, on the insolence of Pascal, or on the comparative merits of two such popular preachers as Bourdaloue and Massilon. So, under a radiant ceiling and over a many-coloured floor, surrounded by immortal paintings, set thickly in gold and ornament, there moved these nobles and ladies of France, all moulding themselves upon the one little dark figure in their midst, who was himself so far from being his own master that he hung balanced even now between two rival women, who were playing a game in which the future of France and his own destiny were the stakes. CHAPTER V. CHILDREN OF BELIAL. The elderly Huguenot had stood silent after his repulse by the king, with his eyes cast moodily downwards, and a face in which doubt, sorrow, and anger contended for the mastery. He was a very large, gaunt man, raw-boned and haggard, with a wide forehead, a large, fleshy nose, and a powerful chin. He wore neither wig nor powder, but Nature had put her own silvering upon his thick grizzled locks, and the thousand puckers which clustered round the edges of his eyes, or drew at the corners of his mouth, gave a set gravity to his face which needed no device of the barber to increase it. Yet in spite of his mature years, the swift anger with which he had sprung up when the king refused his plaint, and the keen fiery glance which he had shot at the royal court as they filed past him with many a scornful smile and whispered gibe at his expense, all showed that he had still preserved something of the strength and of the spirit of his youth. He was dressed as became his rank, plainly and yet well, in a sad-coloured brown kersey coat with silver-plated buttons, knee-breeches of the same, and white woollen stockings, ending in broad-toed black leather shoes cut across with a great steel buckle. In one hand he carried his low felt hat, trimmed with gold edging, and in the other a little cylinder of paper containing a recital of his wrongs, which he had hoped to leave in the hands of the king's secretary. His doubts as to what his next step should be were soon resolved for him in a very summary fashion. These were days when, if the Huguenot was not absolutely forbidden in France, he was at least looked upon as a man who existed upon sufferance, and who was unshielded by the laws which protected his Catholic fellow-subjects. For twenty years the stringency of the persecution had increased until there was no weapon which bigotry could employ, short of absolute expulsion, which had not been turned against him. He was impeded in his business, elbowed out of all public employment, his house filled with troops, his children encouraged to rebel against him, and all redress refused him for the insults and assaults to which he was subjected. Every rascal who wished to gratify his personal spite, or to gain favour with his bigoted superiors, might do his worst upon him without fear of the law. Yet, in spite of all, these men clung to the land which disowned them, and, full of the love for their native soil which lies so deep in a Frenchman's heart, preferred insult and contumely at home to the welcome which would await them beyond the seas. Already, however, the shadow of those days was falling upon them when the choice should no longer be theirs. Two of the king's big blue-coated guardsmen were on duty at that side of the palace, and had been witnesses to his unsuccessful appeal. Now they tramped across together to where he was standing, and broke brutally into the current of his thoughts. "Now, Hymn-books," said one gruffly, "get off again about your business." "You're not a very pretty ornament to the king's pathway," cried the other, with a hideous oath. "Who are you, to turn up your nose at the king's religion, curse you?" The old Huguenot shot a glance of anger and contempt at them, and was turning to go, when one of them thrust at his ribs with the butt end of his halberd. "Take that, you dog!" he cried. "Would you dare to look like that at the king's guard?" "Children of Belial," cried the old man, with his hand pressed to his side, "were I twenty years younger you would not have dared to use me so." "Ha! you would still spit your venom, would you? That is enough, Andre! He has threatened the king's guard. Let us seize him and drag him to the guard-room." The two soldiers dropped their halberds and rushed upon the old man, but, tall and strong as they were, they found it no easy matter to secure him. With his long sinewy arms and his wiry frame, he shook himself clear of them again and again, and it was only when his breath had failed him that the two, torn and panting, were able to twist round his wrists, and so secure him. They had hardly won their pitiful victory, however, before a stern voice and a sword flashing before their eyes, compelled them to release their prisoner once more. It was Captain de Catinat, who, his morning duties over, had strolled out on to the terrace, and had come upon this sudden scene of outrage. At the sight of the old man's face he gave a violent start, and drawing his sword, had rushed forward with such fury that the two guardsmen not only dropped their victim, but, staggering back from the threatening sword-point, one of them slipped and the other rolled over him, a revolving mass of blue coat and white kersey. "Villains!" roared De Catinat. "What is the meaning of this?" The two had stumbled on to their feet again, very shamefaced and ruffled. "If you please, captain," said one, saluting, "this is a Huguenot who abused the royal guard." "His petition had been rejected by the king, captain, and yet he refused to go." De Catinat was white with fury. "And so, when a French citizen has come to have a word with the great master of his country, he must be harassed by two Swiss dogs like you?" he cried. "By my faith, we shall soon see about that!" He drew a little silver whistle from his pocket, and at the shrill summons an old sergeant and half a dozen soldiers came running from the guard-room. "Your names?" asked the captain sternly. "Andre Meunier." "And yours?" "Nicholas Klopper." "Sergeant, you will arrest these men, Meunier and Klopper." "Certainly, captain," said the sergeant, a dark grizzled old soldier of Conde and Turenne. "See that they are tried to-day." "And on what charge, captain?" "For assaulting an aged and respected citizen who had come on business to the king." "He was a Huguenot on his own confession," cried the culprits together. "Hum!" The sergeant pulled doubtfully at his long moustache. "Shall we put the charge in that form, captain? Just as the captain pleases." He gave a little shrug of his epauletted shoulders to signify his doubt whether any good could arise from it. "No," said De Catinat, with a sudden happy thought. "I charge them with laying their halberds down while on duty, and with having their uniforms dirty and disarranged." "That is better," answered the sergeant, with the freedom of a privileged veteran. "Thunder of God, but you have disgraced the guards! An hour on the wooden horse with a musket at either foot may teach you that halberds were made for a soldier's hand, and not for the king's grass-plot. Seize them! Attention! Right half turn! March!" And away went the little clump of guardsmen with the sergeant in the rear. The Huguenot had stood in the background, grave and composed, without any sign of exultation, during this sudden reversal of fortune; but when the soldiers were gone, he and the young officer turned warmly upon each other. "Amory, I had not hoped to see you!" "Nor I you, uncle. What, in the name of wonder, brings you to Versailles?" "My wrongs, Amory. The hand of the wicked is heavy upon us, and whom can we turn to save only the king?" The young officer shook his head. "The king is at heart a good man," said he. "But he can only see the world through the glasses which are held before him. You have nothing to hope from him." "He spurned me from his presence." "Did he ask your name?" "He did, and I gave it." The young guardsman whistled. "Let us walk to the gate," said he. "By my faith, if my kinsmen are to come and bandy arguments with the king, it may not be long before my company finds itself without its captain." "The king would not couple us together. But indeed, nephew, it is strange to me how you can live in this house of Baal and yet bow down to no false gods." "I keep my belief in my own heart." The older man shook his head gravely. "Your ways lie along a very narrow path," said he, "with temptation and danger ever at your feet. It is hard for you to walk with the Lord, Amory, and yet go hand in hand with the persecutors of His people." "Tut, uncle!" said the young man impatiently. "I am a soldier of the king's, and I am willing to let the black gown and the white surplice settle these matters between them. Let me live in honour and die in my duty, and I am content to wait to know the rest." "Content, too, to live in palaces, and eat from fine linen," said the Huguenot bitterly, "when the hands of the wicked are heavy upon your kinsfolk, and there is a breaking of phials, and a pouring forth of tribulation, and a wailing and a weeping throughout the land." "What is amiss, then?" asked the young soldier, who was somewhat mystified by the scriptural language in use among the French Calvinists of the day. "Twenty men of Moab have been quartered upon me, with one Dalbert, their captain, who has long been a scourge to Israel." "Captain Claude Dalbert, of the Languedoc Dragoons? I have already some small score to settle with him." "Ay, and the scattered remnant has also a score against this murderous dog and self-seeking Ziphite." "What has he done, then?" "His men are over my house like moths in a cloth bale. No place is free from them. He sits in the room which should be mine, his great boots on my Spanish leather chairs, his pipe in his mouth, his wine-pot at his elbow, and his talk a hissing and an abomination. He has beaten old Pierre of the warehouse." "Ha!" "And thrust me into the cellar." "Ha!" "Because I have dragged him back when in his drunken love he would have thrown his arms about your cousin Adele." "Oh!" The young man's colour had been rising and his brows knitted at each successive charge, but at this last his anger boiled over, and he hurried forward with fury in his face, dragging his elderly companion by the elbow. They had been passing through one of those winding paths, bordered by high hedges, which thinned away every here and there to give a glimpse of some prowling faun or weary nymph who slumbered in marble amid the foliage. The few courtiers who met them gazed with surprise at so ill-assorted a pair of companions. But the young soldier was too full of his own plans to waste a thought upon their speculations. Still hurrying on, he followed a crescent path which led past a dozen stone dolphins shooting water out of their mouths over a group of Tritons, and so through an avenue of great trees which looked as if they had grown there for centuries, and yet had in truth been carried over that very year by incredible labour from St. Germain and Fontainebleau. Beyond this point a small gate led out of the grounds, and it was through it that the two passed, the elder man puffing and panting with this unusual haste. "How did you come, uncle?" "In a caleche." "Where is it?" "That is it, beyond the auberge." "Come, let us make for it." "And you, Amory, are you coming?" "My faith, it is time that I came, from what you tell me. There is room for a man with a sword at his side in this establishment of yours." "But what would you do?" "I would have a word with this Captain Dalbert." "Then I have wronged you, nephew, when I said even now that you were not whole-hearted towards Israel." "I know not about Israel," cried De Catinat impatiently. "I only know that if my Adele chose to worship the thunder like an Abenaqui squaw, or turned her innocent prayers to the Mitche Manitou, I should like to set eyes upon the man who would dare to lay a hand upon her. Ha, here comes our caleche! Whip up, driver, and five livres to you if you pass the gate of the Invalides within the hour." It was no light matter to drive fast in an age of springless carriages and deeply rutted roads, but the driver lashed at his two rough unclipped horses, and the caleche jolted and clattered upon its way. As they sped on, with the road-side trees dancing past the narrow windows, and the white dust streaming behind them, the guardsman drummed his fingers upon his knees, and fidgeted in his seat with impatience, shooting an occasional question across at his grim companion. "When was all this, then?" "It was yesterday night." "And where is Adele now?" "She is at home." "And this Dalbert?" "Oh, he is there also!" "What! you have left her in his power while you came away to Versailles?" "She is locked in her room." "Pah! what is a lock?" The young man raved with his hands in the air at the thought of his own impotence. "And Pierre is there?" "He is useless." "And Amos Green." "Ah, that is better. He is a man, by the look of him." "His mother was one of our own folk from Staten Island, near Manhattan. She was one of those scattered lambs who fled early before the wolves, when first it was seen that the king's hand waxed heavy upon Israel. He speaks French, and yet he is neither French to the eye, nor are his ways like our ways." "He has chosen an evil time for his visit." "Some wise purpose may lie hid in it." "And you have left him in the house?" "Yes; he was sat with this Dalbert, smoking with him, and telling him strange tales." "What guard could he be? He is a stranger in a strange land. You did ill to leave Adele thus, uncle." "She is in God's hands, Amory." "I trust so. Oh, I am on fire to be there!" He thrust his head through the cloud of dust which rose from the wheels, and craned his neck to look upon the long curving river and broad-spread city, which was already visible before them, half hid by a thin blue haze, through which shot the double tower of Notre Dame, with the high spire of St. Jacques and a forest of other steeples and minarets, the monuments of eight hundred years of devotion. Soon, as the road curved down to the river-bank, the city wall grew nearer and nearer, until they had passed the southern gate, and were rattling over the stony causeway, leaving the broad Luxembourg upon their right, and Colbert's last work, the Invalides, upon their left. A sharp turn brought them on to the river quays, and crossing over the Pont Neuf, they skirted the stately Louvre, and plunged into the labyrinth of narrow but important streets which extended to the northward. The young officer had his head still thrust out of the window, but his view was obscured by a broad gilded carriage which lumbered heavily along in front of them. As the road broadened, however, it swerved to one side, and he was able to catch a glimpse of the house to which they were making. It was surrounded on every side by an immense crowd. CHAPTER VI. A HOUSE OF STRIFE. The house of the Huguenot merchant was a tall, narrow building standing at the corner of the Rue St. Martin and the Rue de Biron. It was four stories in height, grim and grave like its owner, with high peaked roof, long diamond-paned windows, a frame-work of black wood, with gray plaster filling the interstices, and five stone steps which led up to the narrow and sombre door. The upper story was but a warehouse in which the trader kept his stock, but the second and third were furnished with balconies edged with stout wooden balustrades. As the uncle and the nephew sprang out of the caleche, they found themselves upon the outskirts of a dense crowd of people, who were swaying and tossing with excitement, their chins all thrown forwards and their gaze directed upwards. Following their eyes, the young officer saw a sight which left him standing bereft of every sensation save amazement. From the upper balcony there was hanging head downwards a man clad in the bright blue coat and white breeches of one of the king's dragoons. His hat and wig had dropped off, and his close-cropped head swung slowly backwards and forwards a good fifty feet above the pavement. His face was turned towards the street, and was of a deadly whiteness, while his eyes were screwed up as though he dared not open them upon the horror which faced them. His voice, however, resounded over the whole place until the air was filled with his screams for mercy. Above him, at the corner of the balcony, there stood a young man who leaned with a bent back over the balustrades, and who held the dangling dragoon by either ankle. His face, however, was not directed towards his victim, but was half turned over his shoulder to confront a group of soldiers who were clustering at the long, open window which led out into the balcony. His head, as he glanced at them, was poised with a proud air of defiance, while they surged and oscillated in the opening, uncertain whether to rush on or to retire. Suddenly the crowd gave a groan of excitement. The young man had released his grip upon one of the ankles, and the dragoon hung now by one only, his other leg flapping helplessly in the air. He grabbed aimlessly with his hands at the wall and the wood-work behind him, still yelling at the pitch of his lungs. "Pull me up, son of the devil, pull me up!" he screamed. "Would you murder me, then? Help, good people, help!" "Do you want to come up, captain?" said the strong clear voice of the young man above him, speaking excellent French, but in an accent which fell strangely upon the ears of the crowd beneath. "Yes, sacred name of God, yes!" "Order off your men, then." "Away, you dolts, you imbeciles! Do you wish to see me dashed to pieces? Away, I say! Off with you!" "That is better," said the youth, when the soldiers had vanished from the window. He gave a tug at the dragoon's leg as he spoke, which jerked him up so far that he could twist round and catch hold of the lower edge of the balcony. "How do you find yourself now?" he asked. "Hold me, for heaven's sake, hold me!" "I have you quite secure." "Then pull me up!" "Not so fast, captain. You can talk very well where you are." "Let me up, sir, let me up!" "All in good time. I fear that it is inconvenient to you to talk with your heels in the air." "Ah, you would murder me!" "On the contrary, I am going to pull you up." "Heaven bless you!" "But only on conditions." "Oh, they are granted! I am slipping!" "You will leave this house--you and your men. You will not trouble this old man or this young girl any further. Do you promise?" "Oh yes; we shall go." "Word of honour?" "Certainly. Only pull me up!" "Not so fast. It may be easier to talk to you like this. I do not know how the laws are over here. Maybe this sort of thing is not permitted. You will promise me that I shall have no trouble over the matter." "None, none. Only pull me up!" "Very good. Come along!" He dragged at the dragoon's leg while the other gripped his way up the balustrade until, amid a buzz of congratulation from the crowd, he tumbled all in a heap over the rail on to the balcony, where he lay for a few moments as he had fallen. Then staggering to his feet, without a glance at his opponent, he rushed, with a bellow of rage, through the open window. While this little drama had been enacted overhead, the young guardsman had shaken off his first stupor of amazement, and had pushed his way through the crowd with such vigour that he and his companion had nearly reached the bottom of the steps. The uniform of the king's guard was in itself a passport anywhere, and the face of old Catinat was so well known in the district that everyone drew back to clear a path for him towards his house. The door was flung open for them, and an old servant stood wringing his hands in the dark passage. "Oh, master! Oh, master!" he cried. "Such doings, such infamy! They will murder him!" "Whom, then?" "This brave monsieur from America. Oh, my God, hark to them now!" As he spoke, a clatter and shouting which had burst out again upstairs ended suddenly in a tremendous crash, with volleys of oaths and a prolonged bumping and smashing, which shook the old house to its foundations. The soldier and the Huguenot rushed swiftly up the first flight of stairs, and were about to ascend the second one, from the head of which the uproar seemed to proceed, when a great eight-day clock came hurtling down, springing four steps at a time, and ending with a leap across the landing and a crash against the wall, which left it a shattered heap of metal wheels and wooden splinters. An instant afterwards four men, so locked together that they formed but one rolling bundle, came thudding down amid a _debris_ of splintered stair-rails, and writhed and struggled upon the landing, staggering up, falling down, and all breathing together like the wind in a chimney. So twisted and twined were they that it was hard to pick one from the other, save that the innermost was clad in black Flemish cloth, while the three who clung to him were soldiers of the king. Yet so strong and vigorous was the man whom they tried to hold that as often as he could find his feet he dragged them after him from end to end of the passage, as a boar might pull the curs which had fastened on to his haunches. An officer, who had rushed down at the heels of the brawlers, thrust his hands in to catch the civilian by the throat, but he whipped them back again with an oath as the man's strong white teeth met in his left thumb. Clapping the wound to his mouth, he flashed out his sword and was about to drive it through the body of his unarmed opponent, when De Catinat sprang forward and caught him by the wrist. "You villain, Dalbert!" he cried. The sudden appearance of one of the king's own bodyguard had a magic effect upon the brawlers. Dalbert sprang back, with his thumb still in his mouth, and his sword drooping, scowling darkly at the new-comer. His long sallow face was distorted with anger, and his small black eyes blazed with passion and with the hell-fire light of unsatisfied vengeance. His troopers had released their victim, and stood panting in a line, while the young man leaned against the wall, brushing the dust from his black coat, and looking from his rescuer to his antagonists. "I had a little account to settle with you before, Dalbert," said De Catinat, unsheathing his rapier. "I am on the king's errand," snarled the other. "No doubt. On guard, sir!" "I am here on duty, I tell you!" "Very good. Your sword, sir!" "I have no quarrel with you." "No?" De Catinat stepped forward and struck him across the face with his open hand. "It seems to me that you have one now," said he. "Hell and furies!" screamed the captain. "To your arms, men! _Hola_, there, from above! Cut down this fellow, and seize your prisoner! _Hola_! In the king's name!" At his call a dozen more troopers came hurrying down the stairs, while the three upon the landing advanced upon their former antagonist. He slipped by them, however, and caught out of the old merchant's hand the thick oak stick which he carried. "I am with you, sir," said he, taking his place beside the guardsman. "Call off your canaille, and fight me like a gentleman," cried De Catinat. "A gentleman! Hark to the bourgeois Huguenot, whose family peddles cloth!" "You coward! I will write liar on you with my sword-point!" He sprang forward, and sent in a thrust which might have found its way to Dalbert's heart had the heavy sabre of a dragoon not descended from the side and shorn his more delicate weapon short off close to the hilt. With a shout of triumph, his enemy sprang furiously upon him with his rapier shortened, but was met by a sharp blow from the cudgel of the young stranger which sent his weapon tinkling on to the ground. A trooper, however, on the stair had pulled out a pistol, and clapping it within a foot of the guardsman's head, was about to settle the combat, once and forever, when a little old gentleman, who had quietly ascended from the street, and who had been looking on with an amused and interested smile at this fiery sequence of events, took a sudden step forward, and ordered all parties to drop their weapons with a voice so decided, so stern, and so full of authority, that the sabre points all clinked down together upon the parquet flooring as though it were a part of their daily drill. "Upon my word, gentlemen, upon my word!" said he, looking sternly from one to the other. He was a very small, dapper man, as thin as a herring, with projecting teeth and a huge drooping many-curled wig, which cut off the line of his skinny neck and the slope of his narrow shoulders. His dress was a long overcoat of mouse-coloured velvet slashed with gold, beneath which were high leather boots, which, with his little gold-laced, three-cornered hat, gave a military tinge to his appearance. In his gait and bearing he had a dainty strut and backward cock of the head, which, taken with his sharp black eyes, his high thin features, and his assured manner, would impress a stranger with the feeling that this was a man of power. And, indeed, in France or out of it there were few to whom this man's name was not familiar, for in all France the only figure which loomed up as large as that of the king was this very little gentleman who stood now, with gold snuff-box in one hand, and deep-laced handkerchief in the other, upon the landing of the Huguenot's house. For who was there who did not know the last of the great French nobles, the bravest of French captains, the beloved Conde, victor of Recroy and hero of the Fronde? At the sight of his pinched, sallow face the dragoons and their leader had stood staring, while De Catinat raised the stump of his sword in a salute. "Heh, heh!" cried the old soldier, peering at him. "You were with me on the Rhine--heh? I know your face, captain. But the household was with Turenne." "I was in the regiment of Picardy, your Highness. De Catinat is my name." "Yes, yes. But you, sir, who the devil are you?" "Captain Dalbert, your Highness, of the Languedoc Blue Dragoons." "Heh! I was passing in my carriage, and I saw you standing on your head in the air. The young man let you up on conditions, as I understood." "He swore he would go from the house," cried the young stranger. "Yet when I had let him up, he set his men upon me, and we all came downstairs together." "My faith, you seem to have left little behind you," said Conde, smiling, as he glanced at the litter which was strewed all over the floor. "And so you broke your parole, Captain Dalbert?" "I could not hold treaty with a Huguenot and an enemy of the king," said the dragoon sulkily. "You could hold treaty, it appears, but not keep it. And why did you let him go, sir, when you had him at such a vantage?" "I believed his promise." "You must be of a trusting nature." "I have been used to deal with Indians." "Heh! And you think an Indian's word is better than that of an officer in the king's dragoons?" "I did not think so an hour ago." "Hem!" Conde took a large pinch of snuff, and brushed the wandering grains from his velvet coat with his handkerchief of point. "You are very strong, monsieur," said he, glancing keenly at the broad shoulders and arching chest of the young stranger. "You are from Canada, I presume?" "I have been there, sir. But I am from New York." Conde shook his head. "An island?" "No, sir; a town." "In what province?" "The province of New York." "The chief town, then?" "Nay; Albany is the chief town." "And how came you to speak French?" "My mother was of French blood." "And how long have you been in Paris?" "A day." "Heh! And you already begin to throw your mother's country-folk out of windows!" "He was annoying a young maid, sir, and I asked him to stop, whereon he whipped out his sword, and would have slain me had I not closed with him, upon which he called upon his fellows to aid him. To keep them off, I swore that I would drop him over if they moved a step. Yet when I let him go, they set upon me again, and I know not what the end might have been had this gentleman not stood my friend." "Hem! You did very well. You are young, but you have resource." "I was reared in the woods, sir." "If there are many of your kidney, you may give my friend De Frontenac some work ere he found this empire of which he talks. But how is this, Captain Dalbert? What have you to say?" "The king's orders, your Highness." "Heh! Did he order you to molest the girl? I have never yet heard that his Majesty erred by being too _harsh_ with a woman." He gave a little dry chuckle in his throat, and took another pinch of snuff. "The orders are, your Highness, to use every means which may drive these people into the true Church." "On my word, you look a very fine apostle and a pretty champion for a holy cause," said Conde, glancing sardonically out of his twinkling black eyes at the brutal face of the dragoon. "Take your men out of this, sir, and never venture to set your foot again across this threshold." "But the king's command, your Highness." "I will tell the king when I see him that I left soldiers and that I find brigands. Not a word, sir! Away! You take your shame with you, and you leave your honour behind." He had turned in an instant from the sneering, strutting old beau to the fierce soldier with set face and eye of fire. Dalbert shrank back from his baleful gaze, and muttering an order to his men, they filed off down the stair with clattering feet and clank of sabres. "Your Highness," said the old Huguenot, coming forward and throwing open one of the doors which led from the landing, "you have indeed been a saviour of Israel and a stumbling-block to the froward this day. Will you not deign to rest under my roof, and even to take a cup of wine ere you go onwards?" Conde raised his thick eyebrows at the scriptural fashion of the merchant's speech, but he bowed courteously to the invitation, and entered the chamber, looking around him in surprise and admiration at its magnificence. With its panelling of dark shining oak, its polished floor, its stately marble chimney-piece, and its beautifully moulded ceiling, it was indeed a room which might have graced a palace. "My carriage waits below," said he, "and I must not delay longer. It is not often that I leave my castle of Chantilly to come to Paris, and it was a fortunate chance which made me pass in time to be of service to honest men. When a house hangs out such a sign as an officer of dragoons with his heels in the air, it is hard to drive past without a question. But I fear that as long as you are a Huguenot, there will be no peace for you in France, monsieur." "The law is indeed heavy upon us." "And will be heavier if what I hear from court is correct. I wonder that you do not fly the country." "My business and my duty lie here." "Well, every man knows his own affairs best. Would it not be wise to bend to the storm, heh?" The Huguenot gave a gesture of horror. "Well, well, I meant no harm. And where is this fair maid who has been the cause of the broil?" "Where is Adele, Pierre?" asked the merchant of the old servant, who had carried in the silver tray with a squat flask and tinted Venetian glasses. "I locked her in my room, master." "And where is she now?" "I am here, father." The young girl sprang into the room, and threw her arms round the old merchant's neck. "Oh, I trust these wicked men have not hurt you, love!" "No, no, dear child; none of us have been hurt, thanks to his Highness the Prince of Conde here." Adele raised her eyes, and quickly drooped them again before the keen questioning gaze of the old soldier. "May God reward your Highness!" she stammered. In her confusion the blood rushed to her face, which was perfect in feature and expression. With her sweet delicate contour, her large gray eyes, and the sweep of the lustrous hair, setting off with its rich tint the little shell-like ears and the alabaster whiteness of the neck and throat, even Conde, who had seen all the beauties of three courts and of sixty years defile before him, stood staring in admiration at the Huguenot maiden. "Heh! On my word, mademoiselle, you make me wish that I could wipe forty years from my account." He bowed, and sighed in the fashion that was in vogue when Buckingham came to the wooing of Anne of Austria, and the dynasty of cardinals was at its height. "France could ill spare those forty years, your Highness." "Heh, heh! So quick of tongue too? Your daughter has a courtly wit, monsieur." "God forbid, your Highness! She is as pure and good--" "Nay, that is but a sorry compliment to the court. Surely, mademoiselle, you would love to go out into the great world, to hear sweet music, see all that is lovely, and wear all that is costly, rather than look out ever upon the Rue St. Martin, and bide in this great dark house until the roses wither upon your cheeks." "Where my father is, I am happy at his side," said she, putting her two hands upon his sleeve. "I ask nothing more than I have got." "And I think it best that you go up to your room again," said the old merchant shortly, for the prince, in spite of his age, bore an evil name among women. He had come close to her as he spoke, and had even placed one yellow hand upon her shrinking arm, while his little dark eyes twinkled with an ominous light. "Tut, tut!" said he, as she hastened to obey. "You need not fear for your little dove. This hawk, at least, is far past the stoop, however tempting the quarry. But indeed, I can see that she is as good as she is fair, and one could not say more than that if she were from heaven direct. My carriage waits, gentlemen, and I wish you all a very good day!" He inclined his be-wigged head, and strutted off in his dainty, dandified fashion. From the window De Catinat could see him slip into the same gilded chariot which had stood in his way as he drove from Versailles. "By my faith," said he, turning to the young American, "we all owe thanks to the prince, but it seems to me, sir, that we are your debtors even more. You have risked your life for my cousin, and but for your cudgel, Dalbert would have had his blade through me when he had me at a vantage. Your hand, sir! These are things which a man cannot forget." "Ay, you may well thank him, Amory," broke in the old Huguenot, who had returned after escorting his illustrious guest to the carriage. "He has been raised up as a champion for the afflicted, and as a helper for those who are in need. An old man's blessing upon you, Amos Green, for my own son could not have done for me more than you, a stranger." But their young visitor appeared to be more embarrassed by their thanks than by any of his preceding adventures. The blood flushed to his weather-tanned, clear-cut face, as smooth as that of a boy, and yet marked by a firmness of lip and a shrewdness in the keen blue eyes which spoke of a strong and self-reliant nature. "I have a mother and two sisters over the water," said he diffidently. "And you honour women for their sake?" "We always honour women over there. Perhaps it is that we have so few. Over in these old countries you have not learned what it is to be without them. I have been away up the lakes for furs, living for months on end the life of a savage among the wigwams of the Sacs and the Foxes, foul livers and foul talkers, ever squatting like toads around their fires. Then when I have come back to Albany where my folk then dwelt, and have heard my sisters play upon the spinet and sing, and my mother talk to us of the France of her younger days and of her childhood, and of all that they had suffered for what they thought was right, then I have felt what a good woman is, and how, like the sunshine, she draws out of one's soul all that is purest and best." "Indeed, the ladies should be very much obliged to monsieur, who is as eloquent as he is brave," said Adele Catinat, who, standing in the open door, had listened to the latter part of his remarks. He had forgotten himself for the instant, and had spoken freely and with energy. At the sight of the girl, however, he coloured up again, and cast down his eyes. "Much of my life has been spent in the woods," said he, "and one speaks so little there that one comes to forget how to do it. It was for this that my father wished me to stay some time in France, for he would not have me grow up a mere trapper and trader." "And how long do you stop in Paris?" asked the guardsman. "Until Ephraim Savage comes for me." "And who is he?" "The master of the _Golden Rod_." "And that is your ship?" "My father's ship. She has been to Bristol, is now at Rouen, and then must go to Bristol again. When she comes back once more, Ephraim comes to Paris for me, and it will be time for me to go." "And how like you Paris?" The young man smiled. "They told me ere I came that it was a very lively place, and truly from the little that I have seen this morning, I think that it is the liveliest place that I have seen." "By my faith," said De Catinat, "you came down those stairs in a very lively fashion, four of you together with a Dutch clock as an _avant-courier_, and a whole train of wood-work at your heels. And you have not seen the city yet?" "Only as I journeyed through it yester-evening on my way to this house. It is a wondrous place, but I was pent in for lack of air as I passed through it. New York is a great city. There are said to be as many as three thousand folk living there, and they say that they could send out four hundred fighting-men, though I can scarce bring myself to believe it. Yet from all parts of the city one may see something of God's handiwork--the trees, the green of the grass, and the shine of the sun upon the bay and the rivers. But here it is stone and wood, and wood and stone, look where you will. In truth, you must be very hardy people to keep your health in such a place." "And to us it is you who seem so hardy, with your life in the forest and on the river," cried the young girl. "And then the wonder that you can find your path through those great wildernesses, where there is naught to guide you." "Well, there again! I marvel how you can find your way among these thousands of houses. For myself, I trust that it will be a clear night to-night." "And why?" "That I may see the stars." "But you will find no change in them." "That is it. If I can but see the stars, it will be easy for me to know how to walk when I would find this house again. In the daytime I can carry a knife and notch the door-posts as I pass, for it might be hard to pick up one's trail again, with so many folk ever passing over it." De Catinat burst out laughing again. "By my faith, you will find Paris livelier than ever," said he, "if you blaze your way through on the door-posts as you would on the trees of a forest. But perchance it would be as well that you should have a guide at first; so, if you have two horses ready in your stables, uncle, our friend and I might shortly ride back to Versailles together, for I have a spell of guard again before many hours are over. Then for some days he might bide with me there, if he will share a soldier's quarters, and so see more than the Rue St. Martin can offer. How would that suit you, Monsieur Green?" "I should be right glad to come out with you, if we may leave all here in safety." "Oh, fear not for that," said the Huguenot. "The order of the Prince of Conde will be as a shield and a buckler to us for many a day. I will order Pierre to saddle the horses." "And I must use the little time I have," said the guardsman, as he turned away to where Adele waited for him in the window. CHAPTER VII. THE NEW WORLD AND THE OLD. The young American was soon ready for the expedition, but De Catinat lingered until the last possible minute. When at last he was able to tear himself away, he adjusted his cravat, brushed his brilliant coat, and looked very critically over the sombre suit of his companion. "Where got you those?" he asked. "In New York, ere I left." "Hem! There is naught amiss with the cloth, and indeed the sombre colour is the mode, but the cut is strange to our eyes." "I only know that I wish that I had my fringed hunting tunic and leggings on once more." "This hat, now. We do not wear our brims flat like that. See if I cannot mend it." He took the beaver, and looping up one side of the brim, he fastened it with a golden brooch taken from his own shirt front. "There is a martial cock," said he, laughing, "and would do credit to the King's Own Musketeers. The black broad-cloth and silk hose will pass, but why have you not a sword at your side?" "I carry a gun when I ride out." "_Mon Dieu_, you will be laid by the heels as a bandit!" "I have a knife, too." "Worse and worse! Well, we must dispense with the sword, and with the gun too, I pray! Let me re-tie your cravat. So! Now if you are in the mood for a ten-mile gallop, I am at your service." They were indeed a singular contrast as they walked their horses together through the narrow and crowded causeways of the Parisian streets. De Catinat, who was the older by five years, with his delicate small-featured face, his sharply trimmed moustache, his small but well-set and dainty figure, and his brilliant dress, looked the very type of the great nation to which he belonged. His companion, however, large-limbed and strong, turning his bold and yet thoughtful face from side to side, and eagerly taking in all the strange, new life amidst which he found himself, was also a type, unfinished, it is true, but bidding fair to be the higher of the two. His close yellow hair, blue eyes, and heavy build showed that it was the blood of his father, rather than that of his mother, which ran in his veins; and even the sombre coat and swordless belt, if less pleasing to the eye, were true badges of a race which found its fiercest battles and its most glorious victories in bending nature to its will upon the seas and in the waste places of the earth. "What is yonder great building?" he asked, as they emerged into a broader square. "It is the Louvre, one of the palaces of the king." "And is he there?" "Nay; he lives at Versailles." "What! Fancy that a man should have two such houses!" "Two! He has many more--St. Germain, Marly, Fontainebleau, Clugny." "But to what end? A man can but live at one at a time." "Nay; he can now come or go as the fancy takes him." "It is a wondrous building. I have seen the Seminary of St. Sulpice at Montreal, and thought that it was the greatest of all houses, and yet what is it beside this?" "You have been to Montreal, then? You remember the fort?" "Yes, and the Hotel Dieu, and the wooden houses in a row, and eastward the great mill with the wall; but what do you know of Montreal?" "I have soldiered there, and at Quebec, too. Why, my friend, you are not the only man of the woods in Paris, for I give you my word that I have worn the caribou mocassins, the leather jacket, and the fur cap with the eagle feather for six months at a stretch, and I care not how soon I do it again," Amos Green's eyes shone with delight at finding that his companion and he had so much in common, and he plunged into a series of questions which lasted until they had crossed the river and reached the south-westerly gate of the city. By the moat and walls long lines of men were busy at their drill. "Who are those, then?" he asked, gazing at them with curiosity. "They are some of the king's soldiers." "But why so many of them? Do they await some enemy?" "Nay; we are at peace with all the world. Worse luck!" "At peace. Why then all these men?" "That they may be ready." The young man shook his head in bewilderment. "They might be as ready in their own homes surely. In our country every man has his musket in his chimney corner, and is ready enough, yet he does not waste his time when all is at peace." "Our king is very great, and he has many enemies." "And who made the enemies?" "Why, the king, to be sure." "Then would it not be better to be without him?" The guardsman shrugged his epaulettes in despair. "We shall both wind up in the Bastille or Vincennes at this rate," said he. "You must know that it is in serving the country that he has made these enemies. It is but five years since he made a peace at Nimeguen, by which he tore away sixteen fortresses from the Spanish Lowlands. Then, also, he had laid his hands upon Strassburg and upon Luxembourg, and has chastised the Genoans, so that there are many who would fall upon him if they thought that he was weak." "And why has he done all this?" "Because he is a great king, and for the glory of France." The stranger pondered over this answer for some time as they rode on between the high, thin poplars, which threw bars across the sunlit road. "There was a great man in Schenectady once," said he at last. "They are simple folk up yonder, and they all had great trust in each other. But after this man came among them they began to miss--one a beaver-skin and one a bag of ginseng, and one a belt of wampum, until at last old Pete Hendricks lost his chestnut three-year-old. Then there was a search and a fuss until they found all that had been lost in the stable of the new-comer, so we took him, I and some others, and we hung him up on a tree, without ever thinking what a great man he had been." De Catinat shot an angry glance at his companion. "Your parable, my friend, is scarce polite," said he. "If you and I are to travel in peace you must keep a closer guard upon your tongue." "I would not give you offence, and it may be that I am wrong," answered the American, "but I speak as the matter seems to me, and it is the right of a free man to do that." De Catinat's frown relaxed as the other turned his earnest blue eyes upon him. "By my soul, where would the court be if every man did that?" said he. "But what in the name of heaven is amiss now?" His companion had hurled himself off his horse, and was stooping low over the ground, with his eyes bent upon the dust. Then, with quick, noiseless steps, he zigzagged along the road, ran swiftly across a grassy bank, and stood peering at the gap of a fence, with his nostrils dilated, his eyes shining, and his whole face aglow with eagerness. "The fellow's brain is gone," muttered De Catinat, as he caught at the bridle of the riderless horse. "The sight of Paris has shaken his wits. What in the name of the devil ails you, that you should stand glaring there?" "A deer has passed," whispered the other, pointing down at the grass. "Its trail lies along there and into the wood. It could not have been long ago, and there is no slur to the track, so that it was not going fast. Had we but fetched my gun, we might have followed it, and brought the old man back a side of venison." "For God's sake get on your horse again!" cried De Catinat distractedly. "I fear that some evil will come upon you ere I get you safe to the Rue St. Martin again!" "And what is wrong now?" asked Amos Green, swinging himself into the saddle. "Why, man, these woods are the king's preserves and you speak as coolly of slaying his deer as though you were on the shores of Michigan!" "Preserves! They are tame deer!" An expression of deep disgust passed over his face, and spurring his horse, he galloped onwards at such a pace that De Catinat, after vainly endeavouring to keep up, had to shriek to him to stop. "It is not usual in this country to ride so madly along the roads," he panted. "It is a very strange country," cried the stranger, in perplexity. "Maybe it would be easier for me to remember what _is_ allowed. It was but this morning that I took my gun to shoot a pigeon that was flying over the roofs in yonder street, and old Pierre caught my arm with a face as though it were the minister that I was aiming at. And then there is that old man--why, they will not even let him say his prayers." De Catinat laughed. "You will come to know our ways soon," said he. "This is a crowded land, and if all men rode and shot as they listed, much harm would come from it. But let us talk rather of your own country. You have lived much in the woods from what you tell me." "I was but ten when first I journeyed with my uncle to Sault la Marie, where the three great lakes meet, to trade with the Chippewas and the tribes of the west." "I know not what La Salle or De Frontenac would have said to that. The trade in those parts belongs to France." "We were taken prisoners, and so it was that I came to see Montreal and afterwards Quebec. In the end we were sent back because they did not know what they could do with us." "It was a good journey for a first." "And ever since I have been trading--first, on the Kennebec with the Abenaquis, in the great forests of Maine, and with the Micmac fish-eaters over the Penobscot. Then later with the Iroquois, as far west as the country of the Senecas. At Albany and Schenectady we stored our pelts, and so on to New York, where my father shipped them over the sea." "But he could ill spare you surely?" "Very ill. But as he was rich, he thought it best that I should learn some things that are not to be found in the woods. And so he sent me in the _Golden Rod_, under the care of Ephraim Savage." "Who is also of New York?" "Nay; he is the first man that ever was born at Boston." "I cannot remember the names of all these villages." "And yet there may come a day when their names shall be as well known as that of Paris." De Catinat laughed heartily. "The woods may have given you much, but not the gift of prophecy, my friend. Well, my heart is often over the water even as yours is, and I would ask nothing better than to see the palisades of Point Levi again, even if all the Five Nations were raving upon the other side of them. But now, if you will look there in the gap of the trees, you will see the king's new palace." The two young men pulled up their horses, and looked down at the wide-spreading building in all the beauty of its dazzling whiteness, and at the lovely grounds, dotted with fountain and with statue, and barred with hedge and with walk, stretching away to the dense woods which clustered round them. It amused De Catinat to watch the swift play of wonder and admiration which flashed over his companion's features. "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked at last. "I think that God's best work is in America, and man's in Europe." "Ay, and in all Europe there is no such palace as that, even as there is no such king as he who dwells within it." "Can I see him, think you?" "Who, the king? No, no; I fear that you are scarce made for a court." "Nay, I should show him all honour." "How, then? What greeting would you give him?" "I would shake him respectfully by the hand, and ask as to his health and that of his family." "On my word, I think that such a greeting might please him more than the bent knee and the rounded back, and yet, I think, my son of the woods, that it were best not to lead you into paths where you would be lost, as would any of the courtiers if you dropped them in the gorge of the Saguenay. But _hola_! what comes here? It looks like one of the carriages of the court." A white cloud of dust, which had rolled towards them down the road, was now so near that the glint of gilding and the red coat of the coachman could be seen breaking out through it. As the two cavaliers reined their horses aside to leave the roadway clear, the coach rumbled heavily past them, drawn by two dapple grays, and the Horsemen caught a glimpse, as it passed, of a beautiful but haughty face which looked out at them. An instant afterwards a sharp cry had caused the driver to pull up his horses, and a white hand beckoned to them through the carriage window. "It is Madame de Montespan, the proudest woman in France," whispered De Catinat. "She would speak with us, so do as I do." He touched his horse with the spur, gave a _gambade_ which took him across to the carriage, and then, sweeping off his hat, he bowed to his horse's neck; a salute in which he was imitated, though in a somewhat ungainly fashion, by his companion. "Ha, captain!" said the lady, with no very pleasant face, "we meet again." "Fortune has ever been good to me, madame." "It was not so this morning." "You say truly. It gave me a hateful duty to perform." "And you performed it in a hateful fashion." "Nay, madame, what could I do more?" The lady sneered, and her beautiful face turned as bitter as it could upon occasion. "You thought that I had no more power with the king. You thought that my day was past. No doubt it seemed to you that you might reap favour with the new by being the first to cast a slight upon the old." "But, madame--" "You may spare your protestations. I am one who judges by deeds and not by words. Did you, then, think that my charm had so faded, that any beauty which I ever have had is so withered?" "Nay, madame, I were blind to think that." "Blind as a noontide owl," said Amos Green with emphasis. Madame de Montespan arched her eyebrows and glanced at her singular admirer. "Your friend at least speaks that which he really feels," said she. "At four o'clock to-day we shall see whether others are of the same mind; and if they are, then it may be ill for those who mistook what was but a passing shadow for a lasting cloud." She cast another vindictive glance at the young guardsman, and rattled on once more upon her way. "Come on!" cried De Catinat curtly, for his companion was staring open-mouthed after the carriage. "Have you never seen a woman before?" "Never such a one as that." "Never one with so railing a tongue, I dare swear," said De Catinat. "Never one with so lovely a face. And yet there is a lovely face at the Rue St. Martin also." "You seem to have a nice taste in beauty, for all your woodland training." "Yes, for I have been cut away from women so much that when I stand before one I feel that she is something tender and sweet and holy." "You may find dames at the court who are both tender and sweet, but you will look long, my friend, before you find the holy one. This one would ruin me if she can, and only because I have done what it was my duty to do. To keep oneself in this court is like coming down the La Chine Rapids where there is a rock to right, and a rock to left, and another perchance in front, and if you so much as graze one, where are you and your birch canoe? But our rocks are women, and in our canoe we bear all our worldly fortunes. Now here is another who would sway me over to her side, and indeed I think it may prove to be the better side too." They had passed through the gateway of the palace, and the broad sweeping drive lay in front of them, dotted with carriages and horsemen. On the gravel walks were many gaily dressed ladies, who strolled among the flower-beds or watched the fountains with the sunlight glinting upon their high water sprays. One of these, who had kept her eyes turned upon the gate, came hastening forward the instant that De Catinat appeared. It was Mademoiselle Nanon, the _confidante_ of Madame de Maintenon. "I am so pleased to see you, captain," she cried, "and I have waited so patiently. Madame would speak with you. The king comes to her at three, and we have but twenty minutes. I heard that you had gone to Paris, and so I stationed myself here. Madame has something which she would ask you." "Then I will come at once. Ah, De Brissac, it is well met!" A tall, burly officer was passing in the same uniform which De Catinat wore. He turned at once, and came smiling towards his comrade. "Ah, Amory, you have covered a league or two from the dust on your coat!" "We are fresh from Paris. But I am called on business. This is my friend, Monsieur Amos Green. I leave him in your hands, for he is a stranger from America, and would fain see all that you can show. He stays with me at my quarters. And my horse, too, De Brissac. You can give it to the groom." Throwing the bridle to his brother officer, and pressing the hand of Amos Green, De Catinat sprang from his horse, and followed at the top of his speed in the direction which the young lady had already taken. CHAPTER VIII. THE RISING SUN. The rooms which were inhabited by the lady who had already taken so marked a position at the court of France were as humble as were her fortunes at the time when they were allotted to her, but with that rare tact and self-restraint which were the leading features in her remarkable character, she had made no change in her living with the increase of her prosperity, and forbore from provoking envy and jealousy by any display of wealth or of power. In a side wing of the palace, far from the central _salons_, and only to be reached by long corridors and stairs, were the two or three small chambers upon which the eyes, first of the court, then of France, and finally of the world, were destined to be turned. In such rooms had the destitute widow of the poet Scarron been housed when she had first been brought to court by Madame de Montespan as the governess of the royal children, and in such rooms she still dwelt, now that she had added to her maiden Francoise d'Aubigny the title of Marquise de Maintenon, with the pension and estate which the king's favour had awarded her. Here it was that every day the king would lounge, finding in the conversation of a clever and virtuous woman a charm and a pleasure which none of the professed wits of his sparkling court had ever been able to give to him, and here, too, the more sagacious of the courtiers were beginning to understand, was the point, formerly to be found in the magnificent _salons_ of De Montespan, whence flowed those impulses and tendencies which were so eagerly studied, and so keenly followed up by all who wished to keep the favour of the king. It was a simple creed, that of the court. Were the king pious, then let all turn to their missals and their rosaries. Were he rakish, then who so rakish as his devoted followers? But woe to the man who was rakish when he should be praying, or who pulled a long face when the king wore a laughing one! And thus it was that keen eyes were ever fixed upon him, and upon every influence that came near him, so that the wary courtier, watching the first subtle signs of a coming change, might so order his conduct as to seem to lead rather than to follow. The young guardsman had scarce ever exchanged a word with this powerful lady, for it was her taste to isolate herself, and to appear with the court only at the hours of devotion. It was therefore with some feelings both of nervousness and of curiosity that he followed his guide down the gorgeous corridors, where art and wealth had been strewn with so lavish a hand. The lady paused in front of the chamber door, and turned to her companion. "Madame wishes to speak to you of what occurred this morning," said she. "I should advise you to say nothing to madame about your creed, for it is the only thing upon which her heart can be hard." She raised her finger to emphasise the warning, and tapping at the door, she pushed it open. "I have brought Captain de Catinat, madame," said she. "Then let the captain step in." The voice was firm, and yet sweetly musical. Obeying the command, De Catinat found himself in a room which was no larger and but little better furnished than that which was allotted to his own use. Yet, though simple, everything in the chamber was scrupulously neat and clean, betraying the dainty taste of a refined woman. The stamped-leather furniture, the La Savonniere carpet, the pictures of sacred subjects, exquisite from an artist's point of view, the plain but tasteful curtains, all left an impression half religious and half feminine but wholly soothing. Indeed, the soft light, the high white statue of the Virgin in a canopied niche, with a perfumed red lamp burning before it, and the wooden _prie-dieu_ with the red-edged prayer-book upon the top of it, made the apartment look more like a private chapel than a fair lady's boudoir. On each side of the empty fireplace was a little green-covered arm-chair, the one for madame and the other reserved for the use of the king. A small three-legged stool between them was heaped with her work-basket and her tapestry. On the chair which was furthest from the door, with her back turned to the light, madame was sitting as the young officer entered. It was her favourite position, and yet there were few women of her years who had so little reason to fear the sun, for a healthy life and active habits had left her with a clear skin and delicate bloom which any young beauty of the court might have envied. Her figure was graceful and queenly, her gestures and pose full of a natural dignity, and her voice, as he had already remarked, most sweet and melodious. Her face was handsome rather than beautiful, set in a statuesque classical mould, with broad white forehead, firm, delicately sensitive mouth, and a pair of large serene gray eyes, earnest and placid in repose, but capable of reflecting the whole play of her soul, from the merry gleam of humour to the quick flash of righteous anger. An elevating serenity was, however, the leading expression of her features, and in that she presented the strongest contrast to her rival, whose beautiful face was ever swept by the emotion of the moment, and who gleamed one hour and shadowed over the next like a corn-field in the wind. In wit and quickness of tongue it is true that De Montespan had the advantage, but the strong common-sense and the deeper nature of the elder woman might prove in the end to be the better weapon. De Catinat, at the moment, without having time to notice details, was simply conscious that he was in the presence of a very handsome woman, and that her large pensive eyes were fixed critically upon him, and seemed to be reading his thoughts as they had never been read before. "I think that I have already seen you, sir, have I not?" "Yes, madame, I have once or twice had the honour of attending upon you though it may not have been my good fortune to address you." "My life is so quiet and retired that I fear that much of what is best and worthiest at the court is unknown to me. It is the curse of such places that evil flaunts itself before the eye and cannot be overlooked, while the good retires in its modesty, so that at times we scarce dare hope that it is there. You have served, monsieur?" "Yes, madame. In the Lowlands, on the Rhine, and in Canada." "In Canada! Ah! What nobler ambition could woman have than to be a member of that sweet sisterhood which was founded by the holy Marie de l'Incarnation and the sainted Jeanne le Ber at Montreal? It was but the other day that I had an account of them from Father Godet des Marais. What joy to be one of such a body, and to turn from the blessed work of converting the heathen to the even more precious task of nursing back health and strength into those of God's warriors who have been struck down in the fight with Satan!" It was strange to De Catinat, who knew well the sordid and dreadful existence led by these same sisters, threatened ever with misery, hunger, and the scalping-knife, to hear this lady at whose feet lay all the good things of this earth speaking enviously of their lot. "They are very good women," said he shortly, remembering Mademoiselle Nanon's warning, and fearing to trench upon the dangerous subject. "And doubtless you have had the privilege also of seeing the holy Bishop Laval?" "Yes, madame, I have seen Bishop Laval." "And I trust that the Sulpitians still hold their own against the Jesuits?" "I have heard, madame, that the Jesuits are the stronger at Quebec, and the others at Montreal." "And who is your own director, monsieur?" De Catinat felt that the worst had come upon him. "I have none, madame." "Ah, it is too common to dispense with a director, and yet I know not how I could guide my steps in the difficult path which I tread if it were not for mine. Who is your confessor, then?" "I have none. I am of the Reformed Church, madame." The lady gave a gesture of horror, and a sudden hardening showed itself in mouth and eye. "What, in the court itself," she cried, "and in the neighbourhood of the king's own person!" De Catinat was lax enough in matters of faith, and held his creed rather as a family tradition than from any strong conviction, but it hurt his self-esteem to see himself regarded as though he had confessed to something that was loathsome and unclean. "You will find, madame," said he sternly, "that members of my faith have not only stood around the throne of France, but have even seated themselves upon it." "God has for His own all-wise purposes permitted it, and none should know it better than I, whose grandsire, Theodore d'Aubigny, did so much to place a crown upon the head of the great Henry. But Henry's eyes were opened ere his end came, and I pray--oh, from my heart I pray--that yours may be also." She rose, and throwing herself down upon the _prie-dieu_ sunk her face in her hands for some few minutes, during which the object of her devotions stood in some perplexity in the middle of the room, hardly knowing whether such an attention should be regarded as an insult or as a favour. A tap at the door brought the lady back to this world again, and her devoted attendant answered her summons to enter. "The king is in the Hall of Victories, madame," said she. "He will be here in five minutes." "Very well. Stand outside, and let me know when he comes. Now, sir," she continued, when they were alone once more, "you gave a note of mine to the king this morning?" "I did, madame." "And, as I understand, Madame de Montespan was refused admittance to the _grand lever_?" "She was, madame." "But she waited for the king in the passage?" "She did." "And wrung from him a promise that he would see her to-day?" "Yes, madame." "I would not have you tell me that which it may seem to you a breach of your duty to tell. But I am fighting now against a terrible foe, and for a great stake. Do you understand me?" De Catinat bowed. "Then what do I mean?" "I presume that what madame means is that she is fighting for the king's favour with the lady you mentioned." "As heaven is my judge, I have no thought of myself. I am fighting with the devil for the king's soul." "'Tis the same thing, madame." The lady smiled. "If the king's body were in peril, I could call on the aid of his faithful guards, and not less so now, surely, when so much more is at stake. Tell me, then, at what hour was the king to meet the marquise in her room?" "At four, madame." "I thank you. You have done me a service, and I shall not forget it." "The king comes, madame," said Mademoiselle Nanon, again protruding her head. "Then you must go, captain. Pass through the other room, and so into the outer passage. And take this. It is Bossuet's statement of the Catholic faith. It has softened the hearts of others, and may yours. Now, adieu!" De Catinat passed out through another door, and as he did so he glanced back. The lady had her back to him, and her hand was raised to the mantel-piece. At the instant that he looked she moved her neck, and he could see what she was doing. She was pushing back the long hand of the clock. CHAPTER IX. LE ROI S'AMUSE. Captain de Catinat had hardly vanished through the one door before the other was thrown open by Mademoiselle Nanon, and the king entered the room. Madame de Maintenon rose with a pleasant smile and curtsied deeply, but there was no answering light upon her visitor's face, and he threw himself down upon the vacant arm-chair with a pouting lip and a frown upon his forehead. "Nay, now this is a very bad compliment," she cried, with the gaiety which she could assume whenever it was necessary to draw the king from his blacker humours. "My poor little dark room has already cast a shadow over you." "Nay; it is Father la Chaise and the Bishop of Meaux who have been after me all day like two hounds on a stag, with talk of my duty and my position and my sins, with judgment and hell-fire ever at the end of their exhortations." "And what would they have your Majesty do?" "Break the promise which I made when I came upon the throne, and which my grandfather made before me. They wish me to recall the Edict of Nantes, and drive the Huguenots from the kingdom." "Oh, but your Majesty must not trouble your mind about such matters." "You would not have me do it, madame?" "Not if it is to be a grief to your Majesty." "You have, perchance, some soft feeling for the religion of your youth?" "Nay, sire; I have nothing but hatred for heresy." "And yet you would not have them thrust out?" "Bethink you, sire, that the Almighty can Himself incline their hearts to better things if He is so minded, even as mine was inclined. May you not leave it in His hands?" "On my word," said Louis, brightening, "it is well put. I shall see if Father la Chaise can find an answer to that. It is hard to be threatened with eternal flames because one will not ruin one's kingdom. Eternal torment! I have seen the face of a man who had been in the Bastille, for fifteen years. It was like a dreadful book, with a scar or a wrinkle to mark every hour of that death in life. But Eternity!" He shuddered, and his eyes were filled with the horror of his thought. The higher motives had but little power over his soul, as those about him had long discovered, but he was ever ready to wince at the image of the terrors to come. "Why should you think of such things, sire?" said the lady, in her rich, soothing voice. "What have you to fear, you who have been the first son of the Church?" "You think that I am safe, then?" "Surely, sire." "But I have erred, and erred deeply. You have yourself said as much." "But that is all over, sire. Who is there who is without stain? You have turned away from temptation. Surely, then, you have earned your forgiveness." "I would that the queen were living once more. She would find me a better man." "I would that she were, sire." "And she should know that it was to you that she owed the change. Oh, Francoise, you are surely my guardian angel, who has taken bodily form! How can I thank you for what you have done for me?" He leaned forward and took her hand, but at the touch a sudden fire sprang into his eyes, and he would have passed his other arm round her had she not risen hurriedly to avoid the embrace. "Sire!" said she, with a rigid face and one finger upraised. "You are right, you are right, Francoise. Sit down, and I will control myself. Still at the same tapestry, then! My workers at the Gobelins must look to their laurels." He raised one border of the glossy roll, while she, having reseated herself, though not without a quick questioning glance at her companion, took the other end into her lap and continued her work. "Yes, sire. It is a hunting scene in your forests at Fontainebleau. A stag of ten tines, you see, and the hounds in full cry, and a gallant band of cavaliers and ladies. Has your Majesty ridden to-day?" "No. How is it, Francoise, that you have such a heart of ice?" "I would it were so, sire. Perhaps you have hawked, then?" "No. But surely no man's love has ever stirred you! And yet you have been a wife." "A nurse, sire, but never a wife. See the lady in the park! It is surely mademoiselle. I did not know that she had come up from Choisy." But the king was not to be distracted from his subject. "You did not love this Scarron, then?" he persisted. "He was old, I have heard, and as lame as some of his verses." "Do not speak lightly of him, sire. I was grateful to him; I honoured him; I liked him." "But you did not love him." "Why should you seek to read the secrets of a woman's heart?" "You did not love him, Francoise?" "At least I did my duty towards him." "Has that nun's heart never yet been touched by love then?" "Sire, do not question me." "Has it never--" "Spare me, sire, I beg of you!" "But I must ask, for my own peace hangs upon your answer." "Your words pain me to the soul." "Have you never, Francoise, felt in your heart some little flicker of the love which glows in mine?" He rose with his hands outstretched, a pleading monarch, but she, with half-turned bead, still shrank away from him. "Be assured of one thing, sire," said she, "that even if I loved you as no woman ever loved a man yet, I should rather spring from that window on to the stone terraces beneath than ever by word or sign confess as much to you." "And why, Francoise?" "Because, sire, it is my highest hope upon earth that I have been chosen to lift up your mind towards loftier things--that mind the greatness and nobility of which none know more than I." "And is my love so base, then?" "You have wasted too much of your life and of your thoughts upon woman's love. And now, sire, the years steal on and the day is coming when even you will be called upon to give an account of your actions, and of the innermost thoughts of your heart. I would see you spend the time that is left to you, sire, in building up the Church, in showing a noble example to your subjects, and in repairing any evil which that example may have done in the past." The king sank back into his chair with a groan. "Forever the same," said he. "Why, you are worse than Father la Chaise and Bossuet." "Nay, nay," said she gaily, with the quick tact in which she never failed. "I have wearied you, when you have stooped to honour my little room with your presence. That is indeed ingratitude, and it were a just punishment if you were to leave me in solitude to-morrow, and so cut off all the light of my day. But tell me, sire, how go the works at Marly? I am all on fire to know whether the great fountain will work." "Yes, the fountain plays well, but Mansard has thrown the right wing too far back. I have made him a good architect, but I have still much to teach him. I showed him his fault on the plan this morning, and he promised to amend it." "And what will the change cost, sire?" "Some millions of livres, but then the view will be much improved from the south side. I have taken in another mile of ground in that direction, for there were a number of poor folk living there, and their hovels were far from pretty." "And why have you not ridden to-day, sire?" "Pah! it brings me no pleasure. There was a time when my blood was stirred by the blare of the horn and the rush of the hoofs, but now it is all wearisome to me." "And hawking too?" "Yes; I shall hawk no more." "But, sire, you must have amusement." "What is so dull as an amusement which has ceased to amuse? I know not how it is. When I was but a lad, and my mother and I were driven from place to place, with the Fronde at war with us and Paris in revolt, with our throne and even our lives in danger, all life seemed to be so bright, so new, and so full of interest. Now that there is no shadow, and that my voice is the first in France, as France's is in Europe, all is dull and lacking in flavour. What use is it to have all pleasure before me, when it turns to wormwood when it is tasted?" "True pleasure, sire, lies rather in the inward life, the serene mind, the easy conscience. And then, as we grow older, is it not natural that our minds should take a graver bent? We might well reproach ourselves if it were not so, for it would show that we had not learned the lesson of life." "It may be so, and yet it is sad and weary when nothing amuses. But who is there?" "It is my companion knocking. What is it, mademoiselle?" "Monsieur Corneille, to read to the king," said the young lady, opening the door. "Ah, yes, sire; I know how foolish is a woman's tongue, and so I have brought a wiser one than mine here to charm you. Monsieur Racine was to have come, but I hear that he has had a fall from his horse, and he sends his friend in his place. Shall I admit him?" "Oh, as you like, madame, as you like," said the king listlessly. At a sign from Mademoiselle Nanon a little peaky man with a shrewd petulant face, and long gray hair falling back over his shoulders, entered the room. He bowed profoundly three times, and then seated himself nervously on the very edge of the stool, from which the lady had removed her work-basket. She smiled and nodded to encourage the poet, while the monarch leaned back in his chair with an air of resignation. "Shall it be a comedy, or a tragedy, or a burlesque pastoral?" Corneille asked timidly. "Not the burlesque pastoral," said the king with decision. "Such things may be played, but cannot be read, since they are for the eye rather than the ear." The poet bowed his acquiescence. "And not the tragedy, monsieur," said Madame de Maintenon, glancing up from her tapestry. "The king has enough that is serious in his graver hours, and so I trust that you will use your talent to amuse him." "Ay, let it be a comedy," said Louis; "I have not had a good laugh since poor Moliere passed away." "Ah, your Majesty has indeed a fine taste," cried the courtier poet. "Had you condescended to turn your own attention to poetry, where should we all have been then?" Louis smiled, for no flattery was too gross to please him. "Even as you have taught our generals war and our builders art, so you would have set your poor singers a loftier strain. But Mars would hardly deign to share the humbler laurels of Apollo." "I have sometimes thought that I had some such power," answered the king complacently; "though amid my toils and the burdens of state I have had, as you say, little time for the softer arts." "But you have encouraged others to do what you could so well have done yourself, sire. You have brought out poets as the sun brings out flowers. How many have we not seen--Moliere, Boileau, Racine, one greater than the other? And the others, too, the smaller ones--Scarron, so scurrilous and yet so witty--Oh, holy Virgin! what have I said?" Madame had laid down her tapestry, and was staring in intense indignation at the poet, who writhed on his stool under the stern rebuke of those cold gray eyes. "I think, Monsieur Corneille, that you had better go on with your reading," said the king dryly. "Assuredly, sire. Shall I read my play about Darius?" "And who was Darius?" asked the king, whose education had been so neglected by the crafty policy of Cardinal Mazarin that he was ignorant of everything save what had come under his own personal observation. "Darius was King of Persia, sire." "And where is Persia?" "It is a kingdom of Asia." "Is Darius still king there?" "Nay, sire; he fought against Alexander the Great." "Ah, I have heard of Alexander. He was a famous king and general, was he not?" "Like your Majesty, he both ruled wisely and led his armies victoriously." "And was King of Persia, you say?" "No, sire; of Macedonia. It was Darius who was King of Persia." The king frowned, for the slightest correction was offensive to him. "You do not seem very clear about the matter, and I confess that it does not interest me deeply," said he. "Pray turn to something else." "There is my _Pretended Astrologer_." "Yes, that will do." Corneille commenced to read his comedy, while Madame de Maintenon's white and delicate fingers picked among the many-coloured silks which she was weaving into her tapestry. From time to time she glanced across, first at the clock and then at the king, who was leaning back, with his lace handkerchief thrown over his face. It was twenty minutes to four now, but she knew that she had put it back half an hour, and that the true time was ten minutes past. "Tut! tut!" cried the king suddenly. "There is something amiss there. The second last line has a limp in it, surely." It was one of his foibles to pose as a critic, and the wise poet would fall in with his corrections, however unreasonable they might be. "Which line, sire? It is indeed an advantage to have one's faults made clear." "Read the passage again." "Et si, quand je lui dis le secret de mon ame, Avec moins de rigueur elle eut traite ma flamme, Dans ma fayon de vivre, et suivant mon humeur, Une autre eut bientot le present de mon coeur." "Yes, the third line has a foot too many. Do you not remark it, madame?" "No; but I fear that I should make a poor critic." "Your Majesty is perfectly right," said Corneille unblushingly. "I shall mark the passage, and see that it is corrected." "I thought that it was wrong. If I do not write myself, you can see that I have at least got the correct ear. A false quantity jars upon me. It is the same in music. Although I know little of the matter, I can tell a discord where Lully himself would miss it. I have often shown him errors of the sort in his operas, and I have always convinced him that I was right." "I can readily believe it, your Majesty." Corneille had picked up his book again, and was about to resume his reading when there came a sharp tap at the door. "It is his Highness the minister, Monsieur de Louvois," said Mademoiselle Nanon. "Admit him," answered Louis. "Monsieur Corneille, I am obliged to you for what you have read, and I regret that an affair of state will now interrupt your comedy. Some other day perhaps I may have the pleasure of hearing the rest of it." He smiled in the gracious fashion which made all who came within his personal influence forget his faults and remember him only as the impersonation of dignity and of courtesy. The poet, with his book under his arm, slipped out, while the famous minister, tall, heavily wigged, eagle-nosed, and commanding, came bowing into the little room. His manner was that of exaggerated politeness, but his haughty face marked only too plainly his contempt for such a chamber and for the lady who dwelt there. She was well aware of the feeling with which he regarded her, but her perfect self-command prevented her from ever by word or look returning his dislike. "My apartments are indeed honoured to-day," said she, rising with outstretched hand. "Can monsieur condescend to a stool, since I have no fitter seat to offer you in this little doll's house? But perhaps I am in the way, if you wish to talk of state affairs to the king. I can easily withdraw into my boudoir." "No, no, nothing of the kind, madame," cried Louis. "It is my wish that you should remain here. What is it, Louvois?" "A messenger arrived from England with despatches, your Majesty," answered the minister, his ponderous figure balanced upon the three-legged stool. "There is very ill feeling there, and there is some talk of a rising. The letter from Lord Sunderland wished to know whether, in case the Dutch took the side of the malcontents, the king might look to France for help. Of course, knowing your Majesty's mind, I answered unhesitatingly that he might." "You did what?" "I answered, sire, that he might." King Louis flushed with anger, and he caught up the tongs from the grate with a motion as though he would have struck his minister with them. Madame sprang from her chair, and laid her hand upon his arm with a soothing gesture. He threw down the tongs again, but his eyes still flashed with passion as he turned them upon Louvois. "How dared you?" he cried. "But, sire--" "How dared you, I say? What! You venture to answer such a message without consulting me! How often am I to tell you that I am the state-- I alone; that all is to come from me; and that I am answerable to God only? What are you? My instrument! my tool! And you venture to act without my authority!" "I thought that I knew your wishes, sire," stammered Louvois, whose haughty manner had quite deserted him, and whose face was as white as the ruffles of his shirt. "You are not there to think about my wishes, sir. You are there to consult them and to obey them. Why is it that I have turned away from my old nobility, and have committed the affairs of my kingdom to men whose names have never been heard of in the history of France, such men as Colbert and yourself? I have been blamed for it. There was the Duc de St. Simon, who said, the last time that he was at the court, that it was a bourgeois government. So it is. But I wished it to be so, because I knew that the nobles have a way of thinking for themselves, and I ask for no thought but mine in the governing of France. But if my bourgeois are to receive messages and give answers to embassies, then indeed I am to be pitied. I have marked you of late, Louvois. You have grown beyond your station. You take too much upon yourself. See to it that I have not again to complain to you upon this matter." The humiliated minister sat as one crushed, with his chin sunk upon his breast. The king muttered and frowned for a few minutes, but the cloud cleared gradually from his face, for his fits of anger were usually as short as they were fierce and sudden. "You will detain that messenger, Louvois," he said at last, in a calm voice. "Yes, sire." "And we shall see at the council meeting to-morrow that a fitting reply be sent to Lord Sunderland. It would be best perhaps not to be too free with our promises in the matter. These English have ever been a thorn in our sides. If we could leave them among their own fogs with such a quarrel as would keep them busy for a few years, then indeed we might crush this Dutch prince at our leisure. Their last civil war lasted ten years, and their next may do as much. We could carry our frontier to the Rhine long ere that. Eh, Louvois?" "Your armies are ready, sire, on the day that you give the word." "But war is a costly business. I do not wish to have to sell the court plate, as we did the other day. How are the public funds?" "We are not very rich, sire. But there is one way in which money may very readily be gained. There was some talk this morning about the Huguenots, and whether they should dwell any longer in this Catholic kingdom. Now, if they are driven out, and if their property were taken by the state, then indeed your Majesty would at once become the richest monarch in Christendom." "But you were against it this morning, Louvois?" "I had not had time to think of it, sire." "You mean that Father la Chaise and the bishop had not had time to get at you," said Louis sharply. "Ah, Louvois, I have not lived with a court round me all these years without learning how things are done. It is a word to him, and so on to another, and so to a third, and so to the king. When my good fathers of the Church have set themselves to bring anything to pass, I see traces of them at every turn, as one traces a mole by the dirt which it has thrown up. But I will not be moved against my own reason to do wrong to those who, however mistaken they may be, are still the subjects whom God has given me." "I would not have you do so, sire," cried Louvois in confusion. The king's accusation had been so true that he had been unable at the moment even to protest. "I know but one person," continued Louis, glancing across at Madame de Maintenon, "who has no ambitions, who desires neither wealth nor preferment, and who can therefore never be bribed to sacrifice my interests. That is why I value that person's opinion so highly." He smiled at the lady as he spoke, while his minister cast a glance at her which showed the jealousy which ate into his soul. "It was my duty to point this out to you, sire, not as a suggestion, but as a possibility," said he, rising. "I fear that I have already taken up too much of your Majesty's time, and I shall now withdraw." Bowing slightly to the lady, and profoundly to the monarch, he walked from the room. "Louvois grows intolerable," said the king. "I know not where his insolence will end. Were it not that he is an excellent servant, I should have sent him from the court before this. He has his own opinions upon everything. It was but the other day that he would have it that I was wrong when I said that one of the windows in the Trianon was smaller than any of the others. It was the same size, said he. I brought Le Metre with his measures, and of course the window was, as I had said, too small. But I see by your clock that it is four o'clock. I must go." "My clock, sire, is half an hour slow." "Half an hour!" The king looked dismayed for an instant, and then began to laugh. "Nay, in that case," said he, "I had best remain where I am, for it is too late to go, and I can say with a clear conscience that it was the clock's fault rather than mine." "I trust that it was nothing of very great importance, sire," said the lady, with a look of demure triumph in her eyes. "By no means." "No state affair?" "No, no; it was only that it was the hour at which I had intended to rebuke the conduct of a presumptuous person. But perhaps it is better as it is. My absence will in itself convey my message, and in such a sort that I trust I may never see that person's face more at my court. But, ah, what is this?" The door had been flung open, and Madame de Montespan, beautiful and furious, was standing before them. CHAPTER X. AN ECLIPSE AT VERSAILLES. Madame de Maintenon was a woman who was always full of self-restraint and of cool resource. She had risen in an instant, with an air as if she had at last seen the welcome guest for whom she had pined in vain. With a frank smile of greeting, she advanced with outstretched hand. "This is indeed a pleasure," said she. But Madame de Montespan was very angry, so angry that she was evidently making strong efforts to keep herself within control, and to avoid breaking into a furious outburst. Her face was very pale, her lips compressed, and her blue eyes had the set stare and the cold glitter of a furious woman. So for an instant they faced each other, the one frowning, the other smiling, two of the most beautiful and queenly women in France. Then De Montespan, disregarding her rival's outstretched hand, turned towards the king, who had been looking at her with a darkening face. "I fear that I intrude, sire." "Your entrance, madame, is certainly somewhat abrupt." "I must crave pardon if it is so. Since this lady has been the governess of my children I have been in the habit of coming into her room unannounced." "As far as I am concerned, you are most welcome to do so," said her rival, with perfect composure. "I confess that I had not even thought it necessary to ask your permission, madame," the other answered coldly. "Then you shall certainly do so in the future, madame," said the king sternly. "It is my express order to you that every possible respect is to be shown in every way to this lady." "Oh, to _this_ lady!" with a wave of her hand in her direction. "Your Majesty's commands are of course our laws. But I must remember that it _is_ this lady, for sometimes one may get confused as to which name it is that your Majesty has picked out for honour. To-day it is De Maintenon; yesterday it was Fontanges; to-morrow--Ah, well, who can say who it may be to-morrow?" She was superb in her pride and her fearlessness as she stood, with her sparkling blue eyes and her heaving bosom, looking down upon her royal lover. Angry as he was, his gaze lost something of its sternness as it rested upon her round full throat and the delicate lines of her shapely shoulders. There was something very becoming in her passion, in the defiant pose of her dainty head, and the magnificent scorn with which she glanced at her rival. "There is nothing to be gained, madame, by being insolent," said he. "Nor is it my custom, sire." "And yet I find your words so." "Truth is always mistaken for insolence, sire, at the court of France." "We have had enough of this." "A very little truth is enough." "You forget yourself, madame. I beg that you will leave the room." "I must first remind your Majesty that I was so far honoured as to have an appointment this afternoon. At four o'clock I had your royal promise that you would come to me. I cannot doubt that your Majesty will keep that promise in spite of the fascinations which you may find here." "I should have come, madame, but the clock, as you may observe, is half an hour slow, and the time had passed before I was aware of it." I beg, sire, that you will not let that distress you. I am returning to my chamber, and five o'clock will suit me as well as four." "I thank you, madame, but I have not found this interview so pleasant that I should seek another." "Then your Majesty will not come?" "I should prefer not." "In spite of your promise!" "Madame!" "You will break your word!" "Silence, madame; this is intolerable." "It is indeed intolerable!" cried the angry lady, throwing all discretion to the winds. "Oh, I am not afraid of you, sire. I have loved you, but I have never feared you. I leave you here. I leave you with your conscience and your--your lady confessor. But one word of truth you shall hear before I go. You have been false to your wife, and you have been false to your mistress, but it is only now that I find that you can be false also to your word." She swept him an indignant courtesy, and glided, with head erect, out of the room. The king sprang from his chair as if he had been stung. Accustomed as he was to his gentle little wife, and the even gentler La Valliere, such language as this had never before intruded itself upon the royal ears. It was like a physical blow to him. He felt stunned, humiliated, bewildered, by so unwonted a sensation. What odour was this which mingled for the first time with the incense amid which he lived? And then his whole soul rose up in anger at her, at the woman who had dared to raise her voice against him. That she should be jealous of and insult another woman, that was excusable. It was, in fact, an indirect compliment to himself. But that she should turn upon him, as if they were merely man and woman, instead of monarch and subject, that was too much. He gave an inarticulate cry of rage, and rushed to the door. "Sire!" Madame de Maintenon, who had watched keenly the swift play of his emotions over his expressive face, took two quick steps forward, and laid her hand upon his arm. "I will go after her." "And why, sire?" To forbid her the court." "But, sire--" "You heard her! It is infamous! I shall go." "But, sire, could you not write?" "No, no; I shall see her." He pulled open the door. "Oh, sire, be firm, then!" It was with an anxious face that she watched him start off, walking rapidly, with angry gestures, down the corridor. Then she turned back, and dropping upon her knees on the _prie-dieu_, bowed her head in prayer for the king, for herself, and for France. De Catinat, the guardsman, had employed himself in showing his young friend from over the water all the wonders of the great palace, which the other had examined keenly, and had criticised or admired with an independence of judgment and a native correctness of taste natural to a man whose life had been spent in freedom amid the noblest works of nature. Grand as were the mighty fountains and the artificial cascades, they had no overwhelming effect on one who had travelled up from Erie to Ontario, and had seen the Niagara River hurl itself over its precipice, nor were the long level swards so very large to eyes which had rested upon the great plains of the Dakotas. The building itself, however, its extent, its height, and the beauty of its stone, filled him with astonishment. "I must bring Ephraim Savage here," he kept repeating. "He Would never believe else that there was one house in the world which would weigh more than all Boston and New York put together." De Catinat had arranged that the American should remain with his friend Major de Brissac, as the time had come round for his own second turn of guard. He had hardly stationed himself in the corridor when he was astonished to see the King, without escort or attendants, walking swiftly down the passage. His delicate face was disfigured with anger, and his mouth was set grimly, like that of a man who had taken a momentous resolution. "Officer of the guard," said he shortly. "Yes, sire." "What! You again, Captain de Catinat? You have not been on duty since morning?" "No, sire. It is my second guard." "Very good. I wish your assistance." "I am at your command, sire." "Is there a subaltern here?" "Lieutenant de la Tremouille is at the side guard." "Very well. You will place him in command." "Yes, sire." "You will yourself go to Monsieur de Vivonne. You know his apartments?" "Yes, sire." "If he is not there, you must go and seek him. Wherever he is, you must find him within the hour." "Yes, sire." "You will give him an order from me. At six o'clock he is to be in his carriage at the east gate of the palace. His sister, Madame de Montespan, will await him there, and he is charged by me to drive her to the Chateau of Petit Bourg. You will tell him that he is answerable to me for her arrival there." "Yes, sire." De Catinat raised his sword in salute, and started upon his mission. The king passed on down the corridor, and opened a door which led him into a magnificent ante-room, all one blaze of mirrors and gold, furnished to a marvel with the most delicate ebony and silver suite, on a deep red carpet of Aleppo, as soft and yielding as the moss of a forest. In keeping with the furniture was the sole occupant of this stately chamber--a little negro boy in a livery of velvet picked out with silver tinsel, who stood as motionless as a small swart statuette against the door which faced that through which the king entered. "Is your mistress there?" "She has just returned, sire." "I wish to see her." "Pardon, sire, but she--" "Is everyone to thwart me to-day?" snarled the king, and taking the little page by his velvet collar, he hurled him to the other side of the room. Then, without knocking, he opened the door, and passed on into the lady's boudoir. It was a large and lofty room, very different to that from which he had just come. Three long windows from ceiling to floor took up one side, and through the delicate pink-tinted blinds the evening sun cast a subdued and dainty light. Great gold candelabra glittered between the mirrors upon the wall, and Le Brun had expended all his wealth of colouring upon the ceiling, where Louis himself, in the character of Jove, hurled down his thunder-bolts upon a writhing heap of Dutch and Palatine Titans. Pink was the prevailing tone in tapestry, carpet, and furniture, so that the whole room seemed to shine with the sweet tints of the inner side of a shell, and when lit up, as it was then, formed such a chamber as some fairy hero might have built up for his princess. At the further side, prone upon an ottoman, her face buried in the cushion, her beautiful white arms thrown over it, the rich coils of her brown hair hanging in disorder across the long curve of her ivory neck, lay, like a drooping flower, the woman whom he had come to discard. At the sound of the closing door she had glanced up, and then, at the sight of the king, she sprang to her feet and ran towards him, her hands out, her blue eyes bedimmed with tears, her whole beautiful figure softening into womanliness and humility. "Ah, sire," she cried, with a pretty little sunburst of joy through her tears, "then I have wronged you! I have wronged you cruelly! You have kept your promise. You were but trying my faith! Oh, how could I have said such words to you--how could I pain that noble heart! But you have come after me to tell me that you have forgiven me!" She put her arms forward with the trusting air of a pretty child who claims an embrace as her due, but the king stepped swiftly back from her, and warned her away from him with an angry gesture. "All is over forever between us," he cried harshly. "Your brother will await you at the east gate at six o'clock, and it is my command that you wait there until you receive my further orders." She staggered back as if he had struck her. "Leave you!" she cried. "You must leave the court." "The court! Ay, willingly, this instant! But you! Ah, sire, you ask what is impossible." "I do not ask, madame; I order. Since you have learned to abuse your position, your presence has become intolerable. The united kings of Europe have never dared to speak to me as you have spoken to-day. You have insulted me in my own palace--me, Louis, the king. Such things are not done twice, madame. Your insolence has carried you too far this time. You thought that because I was forbearing, I was therefore weak. It appeared to you that if you only humoured me one moment, you might treat me as if I were your equal the next, for that this poor puppet of a king could always be bent this way or that. You see your mistake now. At six o'clock you leave Versailles forever." His eyes flashed, and his small upright figure seemed to swell in the violence of his indignation, while she leaned away from him, one hand across her eyes and one thrown forward, as if to screen her from that angry gaze. "Oh, I have been wicked!" she cried. "I know it, I know it!" "I am glad, madame, that you have the grace to acknowledge it." "How could I speak to you so! How could I! Oh, that some blight may come upon this unhappy tongue! I, who have had nothing but good from you! I to insult you, who are the author of all my happiness! Oh, sire, forgive me, forgive me! for pity's sake forgive me!" Louis was by nature a kind-hearted man. His feelings were touched, and his pride also was flattered by the abasement of this beautiful and haughty woman. His other favourites had been amiable to all, but this one was so proud, so unyielding, until she felt his master-hand. His face softened somewhat in its expression as he glanced at her, but he shook his head, and his voice was as firm as ever as he answered. "It is useless, madame," said he. "I have thought this matter over for a long time, and your madness to-day has only hurried what must in any case have taken place. You must leave the palace." "I will leave the palace. Say only that you forgive me. Oh, sire, I cannot bear your anger. It crushes me down. I am not strong enough. It is not banishment, it is death to which you sentence me. Think of our long years of love, sire, and say that you forgive me. I have given up all for your sake--husband, honour, everything. Oh, will you not give your anger up for mine? My God, he weeps! Oh, I am saved, I am saved!" "No, no, madame," cried the king, dashing his hand across his eyes. "You see the weakness of the man, but you shall also see the firmness of the king. As to your insults to-day, I forgive them freely, if that will make you more happy in your retirement. But I owe a duty to my subjects also, and that duty is to set them an example. We have thought too little of such things. But a time has come when it is necessary to review our past life, and to prepare for that which is to come." "Ah, sire, you pain me. You are not yet in the prime of your years, and you speak as though old age were upon you. In a score of years from now it may be time for folk to say that age has made a change in your life." The king winced. "Who says so?" he cried angrily. "Oh, sire, it slipped from me unawares. Think no more of it. Nobody says so. Nobody." "You are hiding something from me. Who is it who says this?" "Oh, do not ask me, sire." "You said that it was reported that I had changed my life not through religion, but through stress of years. Who said so?" "Oh, sire, it was but foolish court gossip, all unworthy of your attention. It was but the empty common talk of cavaliers who had nothing else to say to gain a smile from their ladies." "The common talk?" Louis flushed crimson. "Have I, then, grown so aged? You have known me for nearly twenty years. Do you see such changes in me?" "To me, sire, you are as pleasing and as gracious as when you first won the heart of Mademoiselle Tonnay-Charente." The king smiled as he looked at the beautiful woman before him. "In very truth," said he, "I can say that there has been no such great change in Mademoiselle Tonnay-Charente either. But still it is best that we should part, Francoise." "If it will add aught to your happiness, sire, I shall go through it, be it to my death." "Now that is the proper spirit." "You have but to name the place, sire--Petit Bourg, Chargny, or my own convent of St. Joseph in the Faubourg St. Germain. What matter where the flower withers, when once the sun has forever turned from it? At least, the past is my own, and I shall live in the remembrance of the days when none had come between us, and when your sweet love was all my own. Be happy, sire, be happy, and think no more of what I said about the foolish gossip of the court. Your life lies in the future. Mine is in the past. Adieu, dear sire, adieu!" She threw forward her hands, her eyes dimmed over, and she would have fallen had Louis not sprung forward and caught her in his arms. Her beautiful head drooped upon his shoulder, her breath was warm upon his cheek, and the subtle scent of her hair was in his nostrils. His arm, as he held her, rose and fell with her bosom, and he felt her heart, beneath his hand, fluttering like a caged bird. Her broad white throat was thrown back, her eyes almost closed, her lips just parted enough to show the line of pearly teeth, her beautiful face not three inches from his own. And then suddenly the eyelids quivered, and the great blue eyes looked up at him, lovingly, appealingly, half deprecating, half challenging, her whole soul in a glance. Did he move? or was it she? Who could tell? But their lips had met in a long kiss, and then in another, and plans and resolutions were streaming away from Louis like autumn leaves in the west wind. "Then I am not to go? You would not have the heart to send me away, would you?" "No, no; but you must not annoy me, Francoise." "I had rather die than cause you an instant of grief. Oh, sire, I have seen so little of you lately! And I love you so! It has maddened me. And then that dreadful woman--" "Who, then?" "Oh, I must not speak against her. I will be civil for your sake even to her, the widow of old Scarron." "Yes, yes, you must be civil. I cannot have any unpleasantness." "But you will stay with me, sire?" Her supple arms coiled themselves round his neck. Then she held him for an instant at arm's length to feast her eyes upon his face, and then drew him once more towards her. "You will not leave me, dear sire. It is so long since you have been here." The sweet face, the pink glow in the room, the hush of the evening, all seemed to join in their sensuous influence. Louis sank down upon the settee. "I will stay," said he. "And that carriage, dear sire, at the east door?" "I have been very harsh with you, Francoise. You will forgive me. Have you paper and pencil, that I may countermand the order?" "They are here, sire, upon the side table. I have also a note which, if I may leave you for an instant, I will write in the anteroom." She swept out with triumph in her eyes. It had been a terrible fight, but all the greater the credit of her victory. She took a little pink slip of paper from an inlaid desk, and dashed off a few words upon it. They were: "Should Madame de Maintenon have any message for his Majesty, he will be for the next few hours in the room of Madame de Montespan." This she addressed to her rival, and it was sent on the spot, together with the king's order, by the hands of the little black page. CHAPTER XI. THE SUN REAPPEARS. For nearly a week the king was constant to his new humour. The routine of his life remained unchanged, save that it was the room of the frail beauty, rather than of Madame de Maintenon, which attracted him in the afternoon. And in sympathy with this sudden relapse into his old life, his coats lost something of their sombre hue, and fawn-colour, buff-colour, and lilac began to replace the blacks and the blues. A little gold lace budded out upon his hats also and at the trimmings of his pockets, while for three days on end his _prie-dieu_ at the royal chapel had been unoccupied. His walk was brisker, and he gave a youthful flourish to his cane as a defiance to those who had seen in his reformation the first symptoms of age. Madame had known her man well when she threw out that artful insinuation. And as the king brightened, so all the great court brightened too. The _salons_ began to resume their former splendour, and gay coats and glittering embroidery which had lain in drawers for years were seen once more in the halls of the palace. In the chapel, Bourdaloue preached in vain to empty benches, but a ballet in the grounds was attended by the whole court, and received with a frenzy of enthusiasm. The Montespan ante-room was crowded every morning with men and women who had some suit to be urged, while her rival's chambers were as deserted as they had been before the king first turned a gracious look upon her. Faces which had been long banished the court began to reappear in the corridors and gardens unchecked and unrebuked, while the black cassock of the Jesuit and the purple soutane of the bishop were less frequent colours in the royal circle. But the Church party, who, if they were the champions of bigotry, were also those of virtue, were never seriously alarmed at this relapse. The grave eyes of priest or of prelate followed Louis in his escapade as wary huntsmen might watch a young deer which gambols about in the meadow under the impression that it is masterless, when every gap and path is netted, and it is in truth as much in their hands as though it were lying bound before them. They knew how short a time it would be before some ache, some pain, some chance word, would bring his mortality home to him again, and envelop him once more in those superstitious terrors which took the place of religion in his mind. They waited, therefore, and they silently planned how the prodigal might best be dealt with on his return. To this end it was that his confessor, Pere la Chaise, and Bossuet, the great Bishop of Meaux, waited one morning upon Madame de Maintenon in her chamber. With a globe beside her, she was endeavouring to teach geography to the lame Due du Maine and the mischievous little Comte de Toulouse, who had enough of their father's disposition to make them averse to learning, and of their mother's to cause them to hate any discipline or restraint. Her wonderful tact, however, and her unwearying patience had won the love and confidence even of these little perverse princes, and it was one of Madame de Montespan's most bitter griefs that not only her royal lover, but even her own children, turned away from the brilliancy and riches of her salon to pass their time in the modest apartment of her rival. Madame de Maintenon dismissed her two pupils, and received the ecclesiastics with the mixture of affection and respect which was due to those who were not only personal friends, but great lights of the Gallican Church. She had suffered the minister Louvois to sit upon a stool in her presence, but the two chairs were allotted to the priests now, and she insisted upon reserving the humbler seat for herself. The last few days had cast a pallor over her face which spiritualised and refined the features, but she wore unimpaired the expression of sweet serenity which was habitual to her. "I see, my dear daughter, that you have sorrowed," said Bossuet, glancing at her with a kindly and yet searching eye. "I have indeed, your Grace. All last night I spent in prayer that this trial may pass away from us." "And yet you have no need for fear, madame--none, I assure you. Others may think that your influence has ceased; but we, who know the king's heart, we think otherwise. A few days may pass, a few weeks at the most, and once more it will be upon your rising fortunes that every eye in France will turn." The lady's brow clouded, and she glanced at the prelate as though his speech were not altogether to her taste. "I trust that pride does not lead me astray," she said. "But if I can read my own soul aright, there is no thought of myself in the grief which now tears my heart. What is power to me? What do I desire? A little room, leisure for my devotions, a pittance to save me from want--what more can I ask for? Why, then, should I covet power? If I am sore at heart, it is not for any poor loss which I have sustained. I think no more of it than of the snapping of one of the threads on yonder tapestry frame. It is for the king I grieve--for the noble heart, the kindly soul, which might rise so high, and which is dragged so low, like a royal eagle with some foul weight which ever hampers its flight. It is for him and for France that my days are spent in sorrow and my nights upon my knees." "For all that, my daughter, you are ambitious." It was the Jesuit who had spoken. His voice was clear and cold, and his piercing gray eyes seemed to read into the depths of her soul. "You may be right, father. God guard me from self-esteem. And yet I do not think that I am. The king, in his goodness, has offered me titles-- I have refused them; money--I have returned it. He has deigned to ask my advice in matters of state, and I have withheld it. Where, then, is my ambition?" "In your heart, my daughter. But it is not a sinful ambition. It is not an ambition of this world. Would you not love to turn the king towards good?" "I would give my life for it." "And there is your ambition. Ah, can I not read your noble soul? Would you not love to see the Church reign pure and serene over all this realm--to see the poor housed, the needy helped, the wicked turned from their ways, and the king ever the leader in all that is noble and good? Would you not love that, my daughter?" Her cheeks had flushed, and her eyes shone as she looked at the gray face of the Jesuit, and saw the picture which his words had conjured up before her. "Ah, that would be joy indeed!" she cried. "And greater joy still to know, not from the mouths of the people, but from the voice of your own heart in the privacy of your chamber, that you had been the cause of it, that your influence had brought this blessing upon the king and upon the country." "I would die to do it." "We wish you to do what may be harder. We wish you to live to do it." "Ah!" She glanced from one to the other with questioning eyes. "My daughter," said Bossuet solemnly, leaning forward, with his broad white hand outstretched and his purple pastoral ring sparkling in the sunlight, "it is time for plain speaking. It is in the interests of the Church that we do it. None hear, and none shall ever hear, what passes between us now. Regard us, if you will, as two confessors, with whom your secret is inviolable. I call it a secret, and yet it is none to us, for it is our mission to read the human heart. You love the king." "Your Grace!" She started, and a warm blush, mantling up in her pale cheeks, deepened and spread until it tinted her white forehead and her queenly neck. "You love the king." "Your Grace--father!" She turned in confusion from one to the other. "There is no shame in loving, my daughter. The shame lies only in yielding to love. I say again that you love the king." "At least I have never told him so," she faltered. "And will you never?" "May heaven wither my tongue first!" "But consider, my daughter. Such love in a soul like yours is heaven's gift, and sent for some wise purpose. This human love is too often but a noxious weed which blights the soil it grows in, but here it is a gracious flower, all fragrant with humility and virtue." "Alas! I have tried to tear it from my heart." "Nay; rather hold it firmly rooted there. Did the king but meet with some tenderness from you, some sign that his own affection met with an answer from your heart, it might be that this ambition which you profess would be secured, and that Louis, strengthened by the intimate companionship of your noble nature, might live in the spirit as well as in the forms of the Church. All this might spring from the love which you hide away as though it bore the brand of shame." The lady half rose, glancing from the prelate to the priest with eyes which had a lurking horror in their depths. "Can I have understood you!" she gasped. "What meaning lies behind these words? You cannot counsel me to--" The Jesuit had risen, and his spare figure towered above her. "My daughter, we give no counsel which is unworthy of our office. We speak for the interests of Holy Church, and those interests demand that you should marry the king." "Marry the king!" The little room swam round her. "Marry the king!" "There lies the best hope for the future. We see in you a second Jeanne d'Arc, who will save both France and France's king." Madame sat silent for a few moments. Her face had regained its composure, and her eyes were bent vacantly upon her tapestry frame as she turned over in her mind all that was involved in the suggestion. "But surely--surely this could never be," she said at last, "Why should we plan that which can never come to pass?" "And why?" "What King of France has married a subject? See how every princess of Europe stretches out her hand to him. The Queen of France must be of queenly blood, even as the last was." "All this may be overcome." "And then there are the reasons of state. If the king marry, it should be to form a powerful alliance, to cement a friendship with a neighbour nation, or to gain some province which may be the bride's dowry. What is my dowry? A widow's pension and a work-box." She laughed bitterly, and yet glanced eagerly at her companions, as one who wished to be confuted. "Your dowry, my daughter, would be those gifts of body and of mind with which heaven has endowed you. The king has money enough, and the king has provinces enough. As to the state, how can the state be better served than by the assurance that the king will be saved in future from such sights as are to be seen in this palace to-day?" "Oh, if it could be so! But think, father, think of those about him-- the dauphin, monsieur his brother, his ministers. You know how little this would please them, and how easy it is for them to sway his mind. No, no; it is a dream, father, and it can never be." The faces of the two ecclesiastics, who had dismissed her other objections with a smile and a wave, clouded over at this, as though she had at last touched upon the real obstacle. "My daughter," said the Jesuit gravely, "that is a matter which you may leave to the Church. It may be that we, too, have some power over the king's mind, and that we may lead him in the right path, even though those of his own blood would fain have it otherwise. The future only can show with whom the power lies. But you? Love and duty both draw you one way now, and the Church may count upon you." "To my last breath, father." "And you upon the Church. It will serve you, if you in turn will but serve it." "What higher wish could I have?" "You will be our daughter, our queen, our champion, and you will heal the wounds of the suffering Church." "Ah! if I could!" "But you can. While there is heresy within the land there can be no peace or rest for the faithful. It is the speck of mould which will in time, if it be not pared off, corrupt the whole fruit." "What would you have, then, father?" "The Huguenots must go. They must be driven forth. The goats must be divided from the sheep. The king is already in two minds. Louvois is our friend now. If you are with us, then all will be well." "But, father, think how many there are!" "The more reason that they should be dealt with." "And think, too, of their sufferings should they be driven forth." "Their cure lies in their own hands." "That is true. And yet my heart softens for them." Pere la Chaise and the bishop shook their heads. Nature had made them both kind and charitable men, but the heart turns to flint when the blessing of religion is changed to the curse of sect. "You would befriend God's enemies then?" "No, no; not if they are indeed so." "Can you doubt it? Is it possible that your heart still turns towards the heresy of your youth?" "No, father; but it is not in nature to forget that my father and my grandfather--" "Nay, they have answered for their own sins. Is it possible that the Church has been mistaken in you? Do you then refuse the first favour which she asks of you? You would accept her aid, and yet you would give none in return." Madame de Maintenon rose with the air of one who has made her resolution. "You are wiser than I," said she, "and to you have been committed the interests of the Church. I will do what you advise." "You promise it?" "I do." Her two visitors threw up their hands together. "It is a blessed day," they cried, "and generations yet unborn will learn to deem it so." She sat half stunned by the prospect which was opening out in front of her. Ambitious she had, as the Jesuit had surmised, always been-- ambitious for the power which would enable her to leave the world better than she found it. And this ambition she had already to some extent been able to satisfy, for more than once she had swayed both king and kingdom. But to marry the king--to marry the man for whom she would gladly lay down her life, whom in the depths of her heart she loved in as pure and as noble a fashion as woman ever yet loved man--that was indeed a thing above her utmost hopes. She knew her own mind, and she knew his. Once his wife, she could hold him to good, and keep every evil influence away from him. She was sure of it. She should be no weak Maria Theresa, but rather, as the priest had said, a new Jeanne d'Arc, come to lead France and France's king into better ways. And if, to gain this aim, she had to harden her heart against the Huguenots, at least the fault, if there were one, lay with those who made this condition rather than with herself. The king's wife! The heart of the woman and the soul of the enthusiast both leaped at the thought. But close at the heels of her joy there came a sudden revulsion to doubt and despondency. Was not all this fine prospect a mere day-dream? and how could these men be so sure that they held the king in the hollow of their hand? The Jesuit read the fears which dulled the sparkle of her eyes, and answered her thoughts before she had time to put them into words. "The Church redeems its pledges swiftly," said he. "And you, my daughter, you must be as prompt when your own turn comes." "I have promised, father." "Then it is for us to perform. You will remain in your room all evening." "Yes, father." "The king already hesitates. I spoke with him this morning, and his mind was full of blackness and despair. His better self turns in disgust from his sins, and it is now when the first hot fit of repentance is just coming upon him that he may best be moulded to our ends. I have to see and speak with him once more, and I go from your room to his. And when I have spoken, he will come from his room to yours, or I have studied his heart for twenty years in vain. We leave you now, and you will not see us, but you will see the effects of what we do, and you will remember your pledge to us." They bowed low to her both together, and left her to her thoughts. An hour passed, and then a second one, as she sat in her _fauteuil_, her tapestry before her, but her hands listless upon her lap, waiting for her fate. Her life's future was now being settled for her, and she was powerless to turn it in one way or the other. Daylight turned to the pearly light of evening, and that again to dusk, but she still sat waiting in the shadow. Sometimes as a step passed in the corridor she would glance expectantly towards the door, and the light of welcome would spring up in her gray eyes, only to die away again into disappointment. At last, however, there came a quick sharp tread, crisp and authoritative, which brought her to her feet with flushed cheeks and her heart beating wildly. The door opened, and she saw outlined against the gray light of the outer passage the erect and graceful figure of the king. "Sire! One instant, and mademoiselle will light the lamp." "Do not call her." He entered and closed the door behind him. "Francoise, the dusk is welcome to me, because it screens me from the reproaches which must lie in your glance, even if your tongue be too kindly to speak them." "Reproaches, sire! God forbid that I should utter them!" "When I last left you, Francoise, it was with a good resolution in my mind. I tried to carry it out, and I failed--I failed. I remember that you warned me. Fool that I was not to follow your advice!" "We are all weak and mortal, sire. Who has not fallen? Nay, sire, it goes to my heart to see you thus." He was standing by the fireplace, his face buried in his hands, and she could tell by the catch of his breath that he was weeping. All the pity of her woman's nature went out to that silent and repenting figure dimly seen in the failing light. She put out her hand with a gesture of sympathy, and it rested for an instant upon his velvet sleeve. The next he had clasped it between his own, and she made no effort to release it. "I cannot do without you, Francoise," he cried. "I am the loneliest man in all this world, like one who lives on a great mountain-peak, with none to bear him company. Who have I for a friend? Whom can I rely upon? Some are for the Church; some are for their families; most are for themselves. But who of them all is single-minded? You are my better self, Francoise; you are my guardian angel. What the good father says is true, and the nearer I am to you the further am I from all that is evil. Tell me, Francoise, do you love me?" "I have loved you for years, sire." Her voice was low but clear--the voice of a woman to whom coquetry was abhorrent. "I had hoped it, Francoise, and yet it thrills me to hear you say it. I know that wealth and title have no attraction for you, and that your heart turns rather towards the convent than the palace. Yet I ask you to remain in the palace, and to reign there. Will you be my wife, Francoise?" And so the moment had in very truth come. She paused for an instant, only an instant, before taking this last great step; but even that was too long for the patience of the king. "Will you not, Francoise?" he cried, with a ring of fear in his voice. "May God make me worthy of such an honour, sire!" said she. "And here I swear that if heaven double my life, every hour shall be spent in the one endeavour to make you a happier man!" She had knelt down, and the king, still holding her hand, knelt down beside her. "And I swear too," he cried, "that if my days also are doubled, you will now and forever be the one and only woman for me." And so their double oath was taken, an oath which was to be tested in the future, for each did live almost double their years, and yet neither broke the promise made hand in hand on that evening in the shadow-girt chamber. CHAPTER XII. THE KING RECEIVES. It may have been that Mademoiselle Nanon, the faithful _confidante_ of Madame de Maintenon, had learned something of this interview, or it may be that Pere la Chaise, with the shrewdness for which his Order is famous, had come to the conclusion that publicity was the best means of holding the king to his present intention; but whatever the source, it was known all over the court next day that the old favourite was again in disgrace, and that there was talk of a marriage between the king and the governess of his children. It was whispered at the _petit lever_, confirmed at the _grand entree_, and was common gossip by the time that the king had returned from chapel. Back into wardrobe and drawer went the flaring silks and the feathered hats, and out once more came the sombre coat and the matronly dress. Scudery and Calpernedi gave place to the missal and St. Thomas a Kempis, while Bourdaloue, after preaching for a week to empty benches, found his chapel packed to the last seat with weary gentlemen and taper-bearing ladies. By midday there was none in the court who had not heard the tidings, save only Madame de Montespan, who, alarmed by her lover's absence, had remained in haughty seclusion in her room, and knew nothing of what had passed. Many there were who would have loved to carry her the tidings; but the king's changes had been frequent of late, and who would dare to make a mortal enemy of one who might, ere many weeks were past, have the lives and fortunes of the whole court in the hollow of her hand? Louis, in his innate selfishness, had been so accustomed to regard every event entirely from the side of how it would affect himself, that it had never struck him that his long-suffering family, who had always yielded to him the absolute obedience which he claimed as his right, would venture to offer any opposition to his new resolution. He was surprised, therefore, when his brother demanded a private interview that afternoon, and entered his presence without the complaisant smile and humble air with which he was wont to appear before him. Monsieur was a curious travesty of his elder brother. He was shorter, but he wore enormously high boot-heels, which brought him to a fair stature. In figure he had none of that grace which marked the king, nor had he the elegant hand and foot which had been the delight of sculptors. He was fat, waddled somewhat in his walk, and wore an enormous black wig, which rolled down in rows and rows of curls over his shoulders. His face was longer and darker than the king's, and his nose more prominent, though he shared with his brother the large brown eyes which each had inherited from Anne of Austria. He had none of the simple and yet stately taste which marked the dress of the monarch, but his clothes were all tagged over with fluttering ribbons, which rustled behind him as he walked, and clustered so thickly over his feet as to conceal them from view. Crosses, stars, jewels, and insignia were scattered broadcast over his person, and the broad blue ribbon of the Order of the Holy Ghost was slashed across his coat, and was gathered at the end into a great bow, which formed the incongruous support of a diamond-hilted sword. Such was the figure which rolled towards the king, bearing in his right hand his many-feathered beaver, and appearing in his person, as he was in his mind, an absurd burlesque of the monarch. "Why, monsieur, you seem less gay than usual to-day," said the king, with a smile. "Your dress, indeed, is bright, but your brow is clouded. I trust that all is well with Madame and with the Duc de Chartres?" "Yes, sire, they are well; but they are sad like myself, and from the same cause." "Indeed! and why?" "Have I ever failed in my duty as your younger brother, sire?" "Never, Philippe, never!" said the king, laying his hand affectionately upon the other's shoulder. "You have set an excellent example to my subjects." "Then why set a slight upon me?" "Philippe!" "Yes, sire, I say it is a slight. We are of royal blood, and our wives are of royal blood also. You married the Princess of Spain; I married the Princess of Bavaria. It was a condescension, but still I did it. My first wife was the Princess of England. How can we admit into a house which has formed such alliances as these a woman who is the widow of a hunchback singer, a mere lampooner, a man whose name is a byword through Europe?" The king had stared in amazement at his brother, but his anger now overcame his astonishment. "Upon my word!" he cried; "upon my word! I have said just now that you have been an excellent brother, but I fear that I spoke a little prematurely. And so you take upon yourself to object to the lady whom I select as my wife!" "I do, sire." "And by what right?" "By the right of the family honour, sire, which is as much mine as yours." "Man," cried the king furiously, "have you not yet learned that within this kingdom I am the fountain of honour, and that whomsoever I may honour becomes by that very fact honourable? Were I to take a cinder-wench out of the Rue Poissonniere, I could at my will raise her up until the highest in France would be proud to bow down before her. Do you not know this?" "No, I do not," cried his brother, with all the obstinacy of a weak man who has at last been driven to bay. "I look upon it as a slight upon me and a slight upon my wife." "Your wife! I have every respect for Charlotte Elizabeth of Bavaria, but how is she superior to one whose grandfather was the dear friend and comrade in arms of Henry the Great? Enough! I will not condescend to argue such a matter with you! Begone, and do not return to my presence until you have learned not to interfere in my affairs." "For all that, my wife shall not know her!" snarled monsieur; and then, as his brother took a fiery step or two towards him, he turned and scuttled out of the room as fast as his awkward gait and high heels would allow him. But the king was to have no quiet that day. If Madame de Maintenon's friends had rallied to her yesterday, her enemies were active to-day. Monsieur had hardly disappeared before there rushed into the room a youth who bore upon his rich attire every sign of having just arrived from a dusty journey. He was pale-faced and auburn-haired, with features which would have been strikingly like the king's if it were not that his nose had been disfigured in his youth. The king's face had lighted up at the sight of him, but it darkened again as he hurried forward and threw himself down at his feet. "Oh, sire," he cried, "spare us this grief--spare us this humiliation! I implore you to pause before you do what will bring dishonour upon yourself and upon us!" The king started back from him, and paced angrily up and down the room. "This is intolerable!" he cried. "It was bad from my brother, but worse from my son. You are in a conspiracy with him, Louis. Monsieur has told you to act this part." The dauphin rose to his feet and looked steadfastly at his angry father. "I have not seen my uncle," he said. "I was at Meudon when I heard this news--this dreadful news--and I sprang upon my horse, sire, and galloped over to implore you to think again before you drag our royal house so low." "You are insolent, Louis." "I do not mean to be so, sire. But consider, sire, that my mother was a queen, and that it would be strange indeed if for a step-mother I had a--" The king raised his hand with a gesture of authority which checked the word upon his lips. "Silence!" he cried, "or you may say that which would for ever set a gulf between us. Am I to be treated worse than my humblest subject, who is allowed to follow his own bent in his private affairs?" "This is not your own private affair, sire; all that you do reflects upon your family. The great deeds of your reign have given a new glory to the name of Bourbon. Oh, do not mar it now, sire! I implore it of you upon my bended knees!" "You talk like a fool!" cried his father roughly. "I propose to marry a virtuous and charming lady of one of the oldest noble families of France, and you talk as if I were doing something degrading and unheard of. What is your objection to this lady?" "That she is the daughter of a man whose vices were well known, that her brother is of the worst repute, that she has led the life of an adventuress, is the widow of a deformed scribbler, and that she occupies a menial position in the palace." The king had stamped with his foot upon the carpet more than once during this frank address, but his anger blazed into a fury at its conclusion. "Do you dare," he cried, with flashing eyes, "to call the charge of my children a menial position? I say that there is no higher in the kingdom. Go back to Meudon, sir, this instant, and never dare to open your mouth again on the subject. Away, I say! When, in God's good time, you are king of this country, you may claim your own way, but until then do not venture to cross the plans of one who is both your parent and your monarch." The young man bowed low, and walked with dignity from the chamber; but he turned with his hand upon the door. "The Abbe Fenelon came with me, sire. Is it your pleasure to see him?" "Away! away!" cried the king furiously, still striding up and down the room with angry face and flashing eyes. The dauphin left the cabinet, and was instantly succeeded by a tall thin priest, some forty years of age, strikingly handsome, with a pale refined face, large well-marked features, and the easy deferential bearing of one who has had a long training in courts. The king turned sharply upon him, and looked hard at him with a distrustful eye. "Good-day, Abbe Fenelon," said he. "May I ask what the object of this interview is?" "You have had the condescension, sire, on more than one occasion, to ask my humble advice, and even to express yourself afterwards as being pleased that you had acted upon it." "Well? Well? Well?" growled the monarch. "If rumour says truly, sire, you are now at a crisis when a word of impartial counsel might be of value to you. Need I say that it would--" "Tut! tut! Why all these words?" cried the king. "You have been sent here by others to try and influence me against Madame de Maintenon." "Sire, I have had nothing but kindness from that lady. I esteem and honour her more than any lady in France." "In that case, abbe, you will, I am sure, be glad to hear that I am about to marry her. Good-day, abbe. I regret that I have not longer time to devote to this very interesting conversation." "But, sire--" "When my mind is in doubt, abbe, I value your advice very highly. On this occasion my mind is happily _not_ in doubt. I have the honour to wish you a very good-day." The king's first hot anger had died away by now, and had left behind it a cold, bitter spirit which was even more formidable to his antagonists. The abbe, glib of tongue and fertile of resource as he was, felt himself to be silenced and overmatched. He walked backwards, with three long bows, as was the custom of the court, and departed. But the king had little breathing space. His assailants knew that with persistence they had bent his will before, and they trusted that they might do so again. It was Louvois, the minister, now who entered the room, with his majestic port, his lofty bearing, his huge wig, and his aristocratic face, which, however, showed some signs of trepidation as it met the baleful eye of the king. "Well, Louvois, what now?" he asked impatiently. "Has some new state matter arisen?" "There is but one new state matter which has arisen, sire, but it is of such importance as to banish all others from our mind." "What then?" "Your marriage, sire." "You disapprove of it?" "Oh, sire, can I help it?" "Out of my room, sir! Am I to be tormented to death by your importunities? What! You dare to linger when I order you to go!" The king advanced angrily upon the minister, but Louvois suddenly flashed out his rapier. Louis sprang back with alarm and amazement upon his face, but it was the hilt and not the point which was presented to him. "Pass it through my heart, sire!" the minister cried, falling upon his knees, his whole great frame in a quiver with emotion. "I will not live to see your glory fade!" "Great heaven!" shrieked Louis, throwing the sword down upon the ground, and raising his hands to his temples, "I believe that this is a conspiracy to drive me mad. Was ever a man so tormented in his life? This will be a private marriage, man, and it will not affect the state in the least degree. Do you hear me? Have you understood me? What more do you want?" Louvois gathered himself up, and shot his rapier back into its sheath. "Your Majesty is determined?" he asked. "Absolutely." "Then I say no more. I have done my duty." He bowed his head as one in deep dejection when he departed, but in truth his heart was lightened within him, for he had the king's assurance that the woman whom he hated would, even though his wife, not sit on the throne of the Queens of France. These repeated attacks, if they had not shaken the king's resolution, had at least irritated and exasperated him to the utmost. Such a blast of opposition was a new thing to a man whose will had been the one law of the land. It left him ruffled and disturbed, and without regretting his resolution, he still, with unreasoning petulance, felt inclined to visit the inconvenience to which he had been put upon those whose advice he had followed. He wore accordingly no very cordial face when the usher in attendance admitted the venerable figure of Father la Chaise, his confessor. "I wish you all happiness, sire," said the Jesuit, "and I congratulate you from my heart that you have taken the great step which must lead to content both in this world and the next." "I have had neither happiness nor contentment yet, father," answered the king peevishly. "I have never been so pestered in my life. The whole court has been on its knees to me to entreat me to change my intention." The Jesuit looked at him anxiously out of his keen gray eyes. "Fortunately, your Majesty is a man of strong will," said he, "and not to be so easily swayed as they think." "No, no, I did not give an inch. But still, it must be confessed that it is very unpleasant to have so many against one. I think that most men would have been shaken." "Now is the time to stand firm, sire; Satan rages to see you passing out of his power, and he stirs up all his friends and sends all his emissaries to endeavour to detain you." But the king was not in a humour to be easily consoled. "Upon my word, father," said he, "you do not seem to have much respect for my family. My brother and my son, with the Abbe Fenelon and the Minister of War, are the emissaries to whom you allude." "Then there is the more credit to your Majesty for having resisted them. You have done nobly, sire. You have earned the praise and blessing of Holy Church." "I trust that what I have done is right, father," said the king gravely. "I should be glad to see you again later in the evening, but at present I desire a little leisure for solitary thought." Father la Chaise left the cabinet with a deep distrust of the king's intentions. It was obvious that the powerful appeals which had been made to him had shaken if they had failed to alter his resolution. What would be the result if more were made? And more would be made; that was as certain as that darkness follows light. Some master-card must be played now which would bring the matter to a crisis at once, for every day of delay was in favour of their opponents. To hesitate was to lose. All must be staked upon one final throw. The Bishop of Meaux was waiting in the ante-room, and Father la Chaise in a few brief words let him see the danger of the situation and the means by which they should meet it. Together they sought Madame de Maintenon in her room. She had discarded the sombre widow's dress which she had chosen since her first coming to court, and wore now, as more in keeping with her lofty prospects, a rich yet simple costume of white satin with bows of silver serge. A single diamond sparkled in the thick coils of her dark tresses. The change had taken years from a face and figure which had always looked much younger than her age, and as the two plotters looked upon her perfect complexion, her regular features, so calm and yet so full of refinement, and the exquisite grace of her figure and bearing, they could not but feel that if they failed in their ends, it was not for want of having a perfect tool at their command. She had risen at their entrance, and her expression showed that she had read upon their faces something of the anxiety which filled their minds. "You have evil news!" she cried. "No, no, my daughter." It was the bishop who spoke. "But we must be on our guard against our enemies, who would turn the king away from you if they could." Her face shone at the mention of her lover. "Ah, you do not know!" she cried. "He has made a vow. I would trust him as I would trust myself. I know that he will be true." But the Jesuit's intellect was arrayed against the intuition of the woman. "Our opponents are many and strong," said he shaking his head. "Even if the king remain firm, he will be annoyed at every turn, so that he will feel his life is darker instead of lighter, save, of course, madame, for that brightness which you cannot fail to bring with you. We must bring the matter to an end." "And how, father?" "The marriage must be at once!" "At once!" "Yes. This very night, if possible." "Oh, father, you ask too much. The king would never consent to such a proposal." "It is he that will propose it." "And why?" "Because we shall force him to. It is only thus that all the opposition can be stopped. When it is done, the court will accept it. Until it is done, they will resist it." "What would you have me do, then, father?" "Resign the king." "Resign him!" She turned as pale as a lily, and looked at him in bewilderment. "It is the best course, madame." "Ah, father, I might have done it last month, last week, even yesterday morning. But now--oh, it would break my heart!" "Fear not, madame. We advise you for the best. Go to the king now, at once. Say to him that you have heard that he has been subjected to much annoyance upon your account, that you cannot bear to think that you should be a cause of dissension in his own family, and therefore you will release him from his promise, and will withdraw yourself from the court forever." "Go now? At once?" "Yes, without loss of an instant." She cast a light mantle about her shoulders. "I follow your advice," she said. "I believe that you are wiser than I. But, oh, if he should take me at my word!" "He will not take you at your word." "It is a terrible risk." "But such an end as this cannot be gained without risks. Go, my child, and may heaven's blessing go with you!" CHAPTER XIII. THE KING HAS IDEAS. The king had remained alone in his cabinet, wrapped in somewhat gloomy thoughts, and pondering over the means by which he might carry out his purpose and yet smooth away the opposition which seemed to be so strenuous and so universal. Suddenly there came a gentle tap at the door, and there was the woman who was in his thoughts, standing in the twilight before him. He sprang to his feet and held out his hands with a smile which would have reassured her had she doubted his constancy. "Francoise! You here! Then I have at last a welcome visitor, and it is the first one to-day." "Sire, I fear that you have been troubled." "I have indeed, Francoise." "But I have a remedy for it." "And what is that?" "I shall leave the court, sire, and you shall think no more of what has passed between us. I have brought discord where I meant to bring peace. Let me retire to St. Cyr, or to the Abbey of Fontevrault, and you will no longer be called upon to make such sacrifices for my sake." The king turned deathly pale, and clutched at her shawl with a trembling hand, as though he feared that she was about to put her resolution into effect that very instant. For years his mind had accustomed itself to lean upon hers. He had turned to her whenever he needed support, and even when, as in the last week, he had broken away from her for a time, it was still all-important to him to know that she was there, the faithful friend, ever forgiving, ever soothing, waiting for him with her ready counsel and sympathy. But that she should leave him now, leave him altogether, such a thought had never occurred to him, and it struck him with a chill of surprised alarm. "You cannot mean it, Francoise," he cried, in a trembling voice. "No, no, it is impossible that you are in earnest." "It would break my heart to leave you, sire, but it breaks it also to think that for my sake you are estranged from your own family and ministers." "Tut! Am I not the king? Shall I not take my own course without heed to them? No, no, Francoise, you must not leave me! You must stay with me and be my wife." He could hardly speak for agitation, and he still grasped at her dress to detain her. She had been precious to him before, but was far more so now that there seemed to be a possibility of his losing her. She felt the strength of her position, and used it to the utmost. "Some time must elapse before our wedding, sire. Yet during all that interval you will be exposed to these annoyances. How can I be happy when I feel that I have brought upon you so long a period of discomfort?" "And why should it be so long, Francoise?" "A day would be too long, sire, for you to be unhappy through my fault. It is a misery to me to think of it. Believe me, it would be better that I should leave you." "Never! You shall not! Why should we even wait a day, Francoise? I am ready. You are ready. Why should we not be married now?" "At once! Oh, sire!" "We shall. It is my wish. It is my order. That is my answer to those who would drive me. They shall know nothing of it until it is done, and then let us see which of them will dare to treat my wife with anything but respect. Let it be done secretly, Francoise. I will send in a trusty messenger this very night for the Archbishop of Paris, and I swear that, if all France stand in the way, he shall make us man and wife before he departs." "Is it your will, sire?" "It is; and ah, I can see by your eyes that it is yours also! We shall not lose a moment, Francoise. What a blessed thought of mine, which will silence their tongues forever! When it is ready they may know, but not before. To your room, then, dearest of friends and truest of women! When we meet again, it will be to form a bond which all this court and all this kingdom shall not be able to loose." The king was all on fire with the excitement of this new resolution. He had lost his air of doubt and discontent, and he paced swiftly about the room with a smiling face and shining eyes. Then he touched a small gold bell, which summoned Bontems, his private body-servant. "What o'clock is it, Bontems?" "It is nearly six, sire." "Hum!" The king considered for some moments. "Do you know where Captain de Catinat is, Bontems?" "He was in the grounds, sire, but I heard that he would ride back to Paris to-night." "Does he ride alone?" "He has one friend with him." "Who is this friend? An officer of the guards?" "No, sire; it is a stranger from over the seas, from America, as I understand, who has stayed with him of late, and to whom Monsieur de Catinat has been showing the wonders of your Majesty's palace." "A stranger! So much the better. Go, Bontems, and bring them both to me." "I trust that they have not started, sire. I will see." He hurried off, and was back in ten minutes in the cabinet once more. "Well?" "I have been fortunate, sire. Their horses had been led out and their feet were in the stirrups when I reached them." "Where are they, then?" "They await your Majesty's orders in the ante-room." "Show them in, Bontems, and give admission to none, not even to the minister, until they have left me." To De Catinat an audience with the monarch was a common incident of his duties, but it was with profound astonishment that he learned from Bontems that his friend and companion was included in the order. He was eagerly endeavouring to whisper into the young American's ear some precepts and warnings as to what to do and what to avoid, when Bontems reappeared and ushered them into the presence. It was with a feeling of curiosity, not unmixed with awe, that Amos Green, to whom Governor Dongan, of New York, had been the highest embodiment of human power, entered the private chamber of the greatest monarch in Christendom. The magnificence of the ante-chamber in which he had waited, the velvets, the paintings, the gildings, with the throng of gaily dressed officials and of magnificent guardsmen, had all impressed his imagination, and had prepared him for some wondrous figure robed and crowned, a fit centre for such a scene. As his eyes fell upon a quietly dressed, bright-eyed man, half a head shorter than himself, with a trim dapper figure, and an erect carriage, he could not help glancing round the room to see if this were indeed the monarch, or if it were some other of those endless officials who interposed themselves between him and the other world. The reverent salute of his companion, however, showed him that this must indeed be the king, so he bowed and then drew himself erect with the simple dignity of a man who has been trained in Nature's school. "Good-evening, Captain de Catinat," said the king, with a pleasant smile. "Your friend, as I understand, is a stranger to this country. I trust, sir, that you have found something here to interest and to amuse you?" "Yes, your Majesty. I have seen your great city, and it is a wonderful one. And my friend has shown me this palace, with its woods and its grounds. When I go back to my own country I will have much to say of what I have seen in your beautiful land." "You speak French, and yet you are not a Canadian." "No, sire; I am from the English provinces." The king looked with interest at the powerful figure, the bold features, and the free bearing of the young foreigner, and his mind flashed back to the dangers which the Comte de Frontenac had foretold from these same colonies. If this were indeed a type of his race, they must in truth be a people whom it would be better to have as friends than as enemies. His mind, however, ran at present on other things than statecraft, and he hastened to give De Catinat his orders for the night. "You will ride into Paris on my service. Your friend can go with you. Two are safer than one when they bear a message of state. I wish you, however, to wait until nightfall before you start." "Yes, sire." "Let none know your errand, and see that none follow you. You know the house of Archbishop Harlay, prelate of Paris?" "Yes, sire." "You will bid him drive out hither and be at the north-west side postern by midnight. Let nothing hold him back. Storm or fine, he must he here to-night. It is of the first importance." "He shall have your order, sire." "Very good. Adieu, captain. Adieu, monsieur. I trust that your stay in France may be a pleasant one." He waved his hand, smiling with the fascinating grace which had won so many hearts, and so dismissed the two friends to their new mission. CHAPTER XIV. THE LAST CARD. Madame de Montespan still kept to her rooms, uneasy in mind at the king's disappearance, but unwilling to show her anxiety to the court by appearing among them or by making any inquiry as to what had occurred. While she thus remained in ignorance of the sudden and complete collapse of her fortunes, she had one active and energetic agent who had lost no incident of what had occurred, and who watched her interests with as much zeal as if they were his own. And indeed they were his own; for her brother, Monsieur de Vivonne, had gained everything for which he yearned, money, lands, and preferment, through his sister's notoriety, and he well knew that the fall of her fortunes must be very rapidly followed by that of his own. By nature bold, unscrupulous, and resourceful, he was not a man to lose the game without playing it out to the very end with all the energy and cunning of which he was capable. Keenly alert to all that passed, he had, from the time that he first heard the rumour of the king's intention, haunted the antechamber and drawn his own conclusions from what he had seen. Nothing had escaped him--the disconsolate faces of monsieur and of the dauphin, the visit of Pere la Chaise and Bossuet to the lady's room, her return, the triumph which shone in her eyes as she came away from the interview. He had seen Bontems hurry off and summon the guardsman and his friend. He had heard them order their horses to be brought out in a couple of hours' time, and finally, from a spy whom he employed among the servants, he learned that an unwonted bustle was going forward in Madame de Maintenon's room, that Mademoiselle Nanon was half wild with excitement, and that two court milliners had been hastily summoned to madame's apartment. It was only, however, when he heard from the same servant that a chamber was to be prepared for the reception that night of the Archbishop of Paris that he understood how urgent was the danger. Madame de Montespan had spent the evening stretched upon a sofa, in the worst possible humour with everyone around her. She had read, but had tossed aside the book. She had written, but had torn up the paper. A thousand fears and suspicions chased each other through her head. What had become of the king, then? He had seemed cold yesterday, and his eyes had been for ever sliding round to the clock. And to-day he had not come at all. Was it his gout, perhaps? Or was it possible that she was again losing her hold upon him? Surely it could not be that! She turned upon her couch and faced the mirror which flanked the door. The candles had just been lit in her chamber, two score of them, each with silver backs which reflected their light until the room was as bright as day. There in the mirror was the brilliant chamber, the deep red ottoman, and the single figure in its gauzy dress of white and silver. She leaned upon her elbow, admiring the deep tint of her own eyes with their long dark lashes, the white curve of her throat, and the perfect oval of her face. She examined it all carefully, keenly, as though it were her rival that lay before her, but nowhere could she see a scratch of Time's malicious nails. She still had her beauty, then. And if it had once won the king, why should it not suffice to hold him? Of course it would do so. She reproached herself for her fears. Doubtless he was indisposed, or perhaps he would come still. Ha! there was the sound of an opening door and of a quick step in her ante-room. Was it he, or at least his messenger with a note from him? But no, it was her brother, with the haggard eyes and drawn face of a man who is weighed down with his own evil tidings. He turned as he entered, fastened the door, and then striding across the room, locked the other one which led to her boudoir. "We are safe from interruption," he panted. "I have hastened here, for every second may be invaluable. Have you heard anything from the king?" "Nothing." She had sprung to her feet, and was gazing at him with a face which was as pale as his own. "The hour has come for action, Francoise. It is the hour at which the Mortemarts have always shown at their best. Do not yield to the blow, then, but gather yourself to meet it." "What is it?" She tried to speak in her natural tone, but only a whisper came to her dry lips. "The king is about to marry Madame de Maintenon." "The _gouvernante_! The widow Scarron! It is impossible!" "It is certain." "To marry? Did you say to marry?" "Yes, he will marry her." The woman flung out her hands in a gesture of contempt, and laughed loud and bitterly. "You are easily frightened, brother," said she. "Ah, you do not know your little sister. Perchance if you were not my brother you might rate my powers more highly. Give me a day, only one little day, and you will see Louis, the proud Louis, down at the hem of my dress to ask my pardon for this slight. I tell you that he cannot break the bonds that hold him. One day is all I ask to bring him back." "But you cannot have it." "What?" "The marriage is to-night." "You are mad, Charles." "I am certain of it." In a few broken sentences he shot out all that he had seen and heard. She listened with a grim face, and hands which closed ever tighter and tighter as he proceeded. But he had said the truth about the Mortemarts. They came of a contentious blood, and were ever at their best at a moment of action. Hate rather than dismay filled her heart as she listened, and the whole energy of her nature gathered and quickened to meet the crisis. "I shall go and see him," she cried, sweeping towards the door. "No, no, Francoise. Believe me, you will ruin everything if you do. Strict orders have been given to the guard to admit no one to the king." "But I shall insist upon passing them." "Believe me, sister, it is worse than useless. I have spoken with the officer of the guard, and the command is a stringent one." "Ah, I shall manage." "No, you shall not." He put his back against the door. "I know that it is useless, and I will not have my sister make herself the laughing-stock of the court, trying to force her way into the room of a man who repulses her." His sister's cheeks flushed at the words, and she paused irresolute. "Had I only a day, Charles, I am sure that I could bring him back to me. There has been some other influence here, that meddlesome Jesuit or the pompous Bossuet, perhaps. Only one day to counteract their wiles! Can I not see them waving hell-fire before his foolish eyes, as one swings a torch before a bull to turn it? Oh, if I could but baulk them to-night! That woman! that cursed woman! The foul viper which I nursed in my bosom! Oh, I had rather see Louis in his grave than married to her! Charles, Charles, it must be stopped; I say it must be stopped! I will give anything, everything, to prevent it!" "What will you give, my sister?" She looked at him aghast. "What! you do not wish me to buy you?" she said. "No; but I wish to buy others." "Ha! You see a chance, then?" "One, and one only. But time presses. I want money." "How much?" "I cannot have too much. All that you can spare." With hands which trembled with eagerness she unlocked a secret cupboard in the wall in which she concealed her valuables. A blaze of jewellery met her brother's eyes as he peered over her shoulder. Great rubies, costly emeralds, deep ruddy beryls, glimmering diamonds, were scattered there in one brilliant shimmering many-coloured heap, the harvest which she had reaped from the king's generosity during more than fifteen years. At one side were three drawers, the one over the other. She drew out the lowest one. It was full to the brim of glittering _louis d'ors_. "Take what you will!" she said. "And now your plan! Quick!" He stuffed the money in handfuls into the side pockets of his coat. Coins slipped between his fingers and tinkled and wheeled over the floor, but neither cast a glance at them. "Your plan?" she repeated. "We must prevent the Archbishop from arriving here. Then the marriage would be postponed until to-morrow night, and you would have time to act." "But how prevent it?" "There are a dozen good rapiers about the court which are to be bought for less than I carry in one pocket. There is De la Touche, young Turberville, old Major Despard, Raymond de Carnac, and the four Latours. I will gather them together, and wait on the road." "And waylay the archbishop?" "No; the messengers." "Oh, excellent! You are a prince of brothers! If no message reaches Paris, we are saved. Go; go; do not lose a moment, my dear Charles." "It is very well, Francoise; but what are we to do with them when we get them? We may lose our heads over the matter, it seems to me. After all, they are the king's messengers, and we can scarce pass our swords through them." "No?" "There would be no forgiveness for that." "But consider that before the matter is looked into I shall have regained my influence with the king." "All very fine, my little sister, but how long is your influence to last? A pleasant life for us if at every change of favour we have to fly the country! No, no, Francoise; the most that we can do is to detain the messengers." "Where can you detain them?" "I have an idea. There is the castle of the Marquis de Montespan at Portillac." "Of my husband!" "Precisely." "Of my most bitter enemy! Oh, Charles, you are not serious." "On the contrary, I was never more so. The marquis was away in Paris yesterday, and has not yet returned. Where is the ring with his arms?" She hunted among her jewels and picked out a gold ring with a broad engraved face. "This will be our key. When good Marceau, the steward, sees it, every dungeon in the castle will be at our disposal. It is that or nothing. There is no other place where we can hold them safe." "But when my husband returns?" "Ah, he may be a little puzzled as to his captives. And the complaisant Marceau may have an evil quarter of an hour. But that may not be for a week, and by that time, my little sister, I have confidence enough in you to think that you really may have finished the campaign. Not another word, for every moment is of value. Adieu, Francoise! We shall not be conquered without a struggle. I will send a message to you to-night to let you know how fortune uses us." He took her fondly in his arms, kissed her, and then hurried from the room. For hours after his departure she paced up and down with noiseless steps upon the deep soft carpet, her hand still clenched, her eyes flaming, her whole soul wrapped and consumed with jealousy and hatred of her rival. Ten struck, and eleven, and midnight, but still she waited, fierce and eager, straining her ears for every foot-fall which might be the herald of news. At last it came. She heard the quick step in the passage, the tap at the ante-room door, and the whispering of her black page. Quivering with impatience, she rushed in and took the note herself from the dusty cavalier who had brought it. It was but six words scrawled roughly upon a wisp of dirty paper, but it brought the colour back to her cheeks and the smile to her lips. It was her brother's writing, and it ran: "The archbishop will not come to-night." CHAPTER XV. THE MIDNIGHT MISSION. De Catinat in the meanwhile was perfectly aware of the importance of the mission which had been assigned to him. The secrecy which had been enjoined by the king, his evident excitement, and the nature of his orders, all confirmed the rumours which were already beginning to buzz round the court. He knew enough of the intrigues and antagonisms with which the court was full to understand that every precaution was necessary in carrying out his instructions. He waited, therefore, until night had fallen before ordering his soldier-servant to bring round the two horses to one of the less public gates of the grounds. As he and his friend walked together to the spot, he gave the young American a rapid sketch of the situation at the court, and of the chance that this nocturnal ride might be an event which would affect the future history of France. "I like your king," said Amos Green, "and I am glad to ride in his service. He is a slip of a man to be the head of a great nation, but he has the eye of a chief. If one met him alone in a Maine forest, one would know him as a man who was different to his fellows. Well, I am glad that he is going to marry again, though it's a great house for any woman to have to look after." De Catinat smiled at his comrade's idea of a queen's duties. "Are you armed?" he asked. "You have no sword or pistols?" "No; if I may not carry my gun, I had rather not be troubled by tools that I have never learned to use. I have my knife. But why do you ask?" "Because there may be danger." "And how?" "Many have an interest in stopping this marriage. All the first men of the kingdom are bitterly against it. If they could stop _us_, they would stop _it_, for to-night at least." "But I thought it was a secret?" "There is no such thing at a court. There is the dauphin, or the king's brother, either of them, or any of their friends, would be right glad that we should be in the Seine before we reach the archbishop's house this night. But who is this?" A burly figure had loomed up through the gloom on the path upon which they were going. As it approached, a coloured lamp dangling from one of the trees shone upon the blue and silver of an officer of the guards. It was Major de Brissac, of De Catinat's own regiment. "Hullo! Whither away?" he asked. "To Paris, major." "I go there myself within an hour. Will you not wait, that we may go together?" "I am sorry, but I ride on a matter of urgency. I must not lose a minute." "Very good. Good-night, and a pleasant ride." "Is he a trusty man, our friend the major?" asked Amos Green, glancing back. "True as steel." "Then I would have a word with him." The American hurried back along the way they had come, while De Catinat stood chafing at this unnecessary delay. It was a full five minutes before his companion joined him, and the fiery blood of the French soldier was hot with impatience and anger. "I think that perhaps you had best ride into Paris at your leisure, my friend," said he. "If I go upon the king's service I cannot be delayed whenever the whim takes you." "I am sorry," answered the other quietly. "I had something to say to your major, and I thought that maybe I might not see him again." "Well, here are the horses," said the guardsman as he pushed open the postern-gate. "Have you fed an watered them, Jacques?" "Yes, my captain," answered the man who stood at their head. "Boot and saddle, then, friend Green, and we shall not draw rein again until we see the lights of Paris in front of us." The soldier-groom peered through the darkness after them with a sardonic smile upon his face. "You won't draw rein, won't you?" he muttered as he turned away. "Well, we shall see about that, my captain; we shall see about that." For a mile or more the comrades galloped along, neck to neck and knee to knee. A wind had sprung up from the westward, and the heavens were covered with heavy gray clouds, which drifted swiftly across, a crescent moon peeping fitfully from time to time between the rifts. Even during these moments of brightness the road, shadowed as it was by heavy trees, was very dark, but when the light was shut off it was hard, but for the loom upon either side, to tell where it lay. De Catinat at least found it so, and he peered anxiously over his horse's ears, and stooped his face to the mane in his efforts to see his way. "What do you make of the road?" he asked at last. "It looks as if a good many carriage wheels had passed over it to-day." "What! _Mon Dieu!_ Do you mean to say that you can see carriage wheels there?" "Certainly. Why not?" "Why, man, I cannot see the road at all." Amos Green laughed heartily. "When you have travelled in the woods by night as often as I have," said he, "when to show a light may mean to lose your hair, one comes to learn to use one's eyes." "Then you had best ride on, and I shall keep just behind you. So! _Hola!_ What is the matter now?" There had been the sudden sharp snap of something breaking, and the American had reeled for an instant in the saddle. "It's one of my stirrup leathers. It has fallen." "Can you find it?" "Yes; but I can ride as well without it. Let us push on." "Very good. I can just see you now." They had galloped for about five minutes in this fashion, De Catinat's horse's head within a few feet of the other's tail, when there was a second snap, and the guardsman rolled out of the saddle on to the ground. He kept his grip of the reins, however, and was up in an instant at his horse's head, sputtering out oaths as only an angry Frenchman can. "A thousand thunders of heaven!" he cried. "What was it that happened then?" "Your leather has gone too." "Two stirrup leathers in five minutes? It is not possible." "It is not possible that it should be chance," said the American gravely, swinging himself off his horse. "Why, what is this? My other leather is cut, and hangs only by a thread." "And so does mine. I can feel it when I pass my hand along. Have you a tinder-box? Let us strike a light." "No, no; the man who is in the dark is in safety. I let the other folk strike lights. We can see all that is needful to us." "My rein is cut also." "And so is mine." "And the girth of my saddle." "It is a wonder that we came so far with whole bones. Now, who has played us this little trick?" "Who could it be but that rogue Jacques! He has had the horses in his charge. By my faith, he shall know what the strappado means when I see Versailles again." "But why should he do it?" "Ah, he has been set on to it. He has been a tool in the hands of those who wished to hinder our journey." "Very like. But they must have had some reason behind. They knew well that to cut our straps would not prevent us from reaching Paris, since we could ride bareback, or, for that matter, could run it if need be." "They hoped to break our necks." "One neck they might break, but scarce those of two, since the fate of the one would warn the other." "Well, then, what do you think that they meant?" cried De Catinat impatiently. "For heaven's sake, let us come to some conclusion, for every minute is of importance." But the other was not to be hurried out of his cool, methodical fashion of speech and of thought. "They could not have thought to stop us," said he. "What did they mean, then? They could only have meant to delay us. And why should they wish to delay us? What could it matter to them if we gave our message an hour or two sooner or an hour or two later? It could not matter." "For heaven's sake--" broke in De Catinat impetuously. But Amos Green went on hammering the matter slowly out. "Why should they wish to delay us, then? There's only one reason that I can see. In order to give other folk time to get in front of us and stop us. That is it, captain. I'd lay you a beaver-skin to a rabbit-pelt that I'm on the track. There's been a party of a dozen horsemen along this ground since the dew began to fall. If they were delayed, they would have time to form their plans before we came." "By my faith, you may be right," said De Catinat thoughtfully. "What would you propose?" "That we ride back, and go by some less direct way." "It is impossible. We should have to ride back to Meudon cross-roads, and then it would add ten miles to our journey." "It is better to get there an hour later than not to get there at all." "Pshaw! we are surely not to be turned from our path by a mere guess. There is the St. Germain cross-road about a mile below. When we reach it we can strike to the right along the south side of the river, and so change our course." "But we may not reach it." "If anyone bars our way we shall know how to treat with them." "You would fight, then?" "Yes." "What! with a dozen of them?" "A hundred, if we are on the king's errand." Amos Green shrugged his shoulders. "You are surely not afraid?" "Yes, I am, mighty afraid. Fighting's good enough when there's no help for it. But I call it a fool's plan to ride straight into a trap when you might go round it." "You may do what you like," said De Catinat angrily. "My father was a gentleman, the owner of a thousand arpents of land, and his son is not going to flinch in the king's service." "My father," answered Amos Green, "was a merchant, the owner of a thousand skunk-skins, and his son knows a fool when he sees one." "You are insolent, sir," cried the guardsman. "We can settle this matter at some more fitting opportunity. At present I continue my mission, and you are very welcome to turn back to Versailles if you are so inclined." He raised his hat with punctilious politeness, sprang on to his horse, and rode on down the road. Amos Green hesitated a little, and then mounting, he soon overtook his companion. The latter, however, was still in no very sweet temper, and rode with a rigid neck, without a glance or a word for his comrade. Suddenly his eyes caught something in the gloom which brought a smile back to his face. Away in front of them, between two dark tree clumps, lay a vast number of shimmering, glittering yellow points, as thick as flowers in a garden. They were the lights of Paris. "See!" he cried, pointing. "There is the city, and close here must be the St. Germain road. We shall take it, so as to avoid any danger." "Very good! But you should not ride too fast, when your girth may break at any moment." "Nay, come on; we are close to our journey's end. The St. Germain road opens just round this corner, and then we shall see our way, for the lights will guide us." He cut his horse with his whip, and they galloped together round the curve. Next instant they were both down in one wild heap of tossing heads and struggling hoofs, De Catinat partly covered by his horse, and his comrade hurled twenty paces, where he lay silent and motionless in the centre of the road. CHAPTER XVI. "WHEN THE DEVIL DRIVES." Monsieur de Vivonne had laid his ambuscade with discretion. With a closed carriage and a band of chosen ruffians he had left the palace a good half-hour before the king's messengers, and by the aid of his sister's gold he had managed that their journey should not be a very rapid one. On reaching the branch road he had ordered the coachman to drive some little distance along it, and had tethered all the horses to a fence under his charge. He had then stationed one of the band as a sentinel some distance up the main highway to flash a light when the two courtiers were approaching. A stout cord had been fastened eighteen inches from the ground to the trunk of a wayside sapling, and on receiving the signal the other end was tied to a gate-post upon the further side. The two cavaliers could not possibly see it, coming as it did at the very curve of the road, and as a consequence their horses fell heavily to the ground, and brought them down with them. In an instant the dozen ruffians who had lurked in the shadow of the trees sprang out upon them, sword in hand; but there was no movement from either of their victims. De Catinat lay breathing heavily, one leg under his horse's neck, and the blood trickling in a thin stream down his pale face, and falling, drop by drop, on to his silver shoulder-straps. Amos Green was unwounded, but his injured girth had given way in the fall, and he had been hurled from his horse on to the hard road with a violence which had driven every particle of breath from his body. Monsieur de Vivonne lit a lantern, and flashed it upon the faces of the two unconscious men. "This is a bad business, Major Despard," said he to the man next him. "I believe that they are both gone." "Tut! tut! By my soul, men did not die like that when I was young!" answered the other, leaning forward his fierce grizzled face into the light of the lantern. "I've been cast from my horse as often as there are tags to my doublet, but, save for the snap of a bone or two, I never had any harm from it. Pass your rapier under the third rib of the horses, De la Touche; they will never be fit to set hoof to ground again." Two sobbing gasps and the thud of their straining necks falling back to earth told that the two steeds had come to the end of their troubles. "Where is Latour?" asked Monsieur de Vivonne. "Achille Latour has studied medicine at Montpellier. Where is he?" "Here I am, your excellency. It is not for me to boast, but I am as handy a man with a lancet as with a rapier, and it was an evil day for some sick folk when I first took to buff and bandolier. Which would you have me look to?" "This one in the road." The trooper bent over Amos Green. "He is not long for this world," said he. "I can tell it by the catch of his breath." "And what is his injury?" "A subluxation of the epigastrium. Ah, the words of learning will still come to my tongue, but it is hard to put into common terms. Methinks that it were well for me to pass my dagger through his throat, for his end is very near." "Not for your life!" cried the leader. "If he die without wound, they cannot lay it to our charge. Turn now to the other." The man bent over De Catinat, and placed his hand upon his heart. As he did so the soldier heaved a long sigh, opened his eyes, and gazed about him with the face of one who knows neither where he is nor how he came there. De Vivonne, who had drawn his hat down over his eyes, and muffled the lower part of his face in his mantle, took out his flask, and poured a little of the contents down the injured man's throat. In an instant a dash of colour had come back into the guardsman's bloodless cheeks, and the light of memory into his eyes. He struggled up on to his feet, and strove furiously to push away those who held him. But his head still swam, and he could scarce hold himself erect. "I must to Paris!" he gasped; "I must to Paris! It is the king's mission. You stop me at your peril!" "He has no hurt save a scratch," said the ex-doctor. "Then hold him fast. And first carry the dying man to the carriage." The lantern threw but a small ring of yellow light, so that when it had been carried over to De Catinat, Amos Green was left lying in the shadow. Now they brought the light back to where the young man lay. But there was no sign of him. He was gone. For a moment the little group of ruffians stood staring, the light of their lantern streaming up upon their plumed hats, their fierce eyes, and savage faces. Then a burst of oaths broke from them, and De Vivonne caught the false doctor by the throat, and hurling him down, would have choked him upon the spot, had the others not dragged them apart. "You lying dog!" he cried. "Is this your skill? The man has fled, and we are ruined!" "He has done it in his death-struggle," gasped the other hoarsely, sitting up and rubbing his throat. "I tell you that he was _in extremis_. He cannot be far off." "That is true. He cannot be far off," cried De Vivonne. "He has neither horse nor arms. You, Despard and Raymond de Carnac, guard the other, that he play us no trick. Do you, Latour, and you, Turberville, ride down the road, and wait by the south gate. If he enter Paris at all, he must come in that way. If you get him, tie him before you on your horse, and bring him to the rendezvous. In any case, it matters little, for he is a stranger, this fellow, and only here by chance. Now lead the other to the carriage, and we shall get away before an alarm is given." The two horsemen rode off in pursuit of the fugitive, and De Catinat, still struggling desperately to escape, was dragged down the St. Germain road and thrust into the carriage, which had waited at some distance while these incidents were being enacted. Three of the horsemen rode ahead, the coachman was curtly ordered to follow them, and De Vivonne, having despatched one of the band with a note to his sister, followed after the coach with the remainder of his desperadoes. The unfortunate guardsman had now entirely recovered his senses, and found himself with a strap round his ankles, and another round his wrists, a captive inside a moving prison which lumbered heavily along the country road. He had been stunned by the shock of his fall, and his leg was badly bruised by the weight of his horse; but the cut on his forehead was a mere trifle, and the bleeding had already ceased. His mind, however, pained him more than his body. He sank his head into his pinioned hands, and stamped madly with his feet, rocking himself to and fro in his despair. What a fool, a treble fool, he had been! He, an old soldier, who had seen something of war, to walk with open eyes into such a trap! The king had chosen him of all men, as a trusty messenger, and yet he had failed him--and failed him so ignominiously, without shot fired or sword drawn. He was warned, too, warned by a young man who knew nothing of court intrigue, and who was guided only by the wits which Nature had given him. De Catinat dashed himself down upon the leather cushion in the agony of his thoughts. But then came a return of that common-sense which lies so very closely beneath the impetuosity of the Celt. The matter was done now, and he must see if it could not be mended. Amos Green had escaped. That was one grand point in his favour. And Amos Green had heard the king's message, and realised its importance. It was true that he knew nothing of Paris, but surely a man who could pick his way at night through the forests of Maine would not be baulked in finding so well-known a house as that of the Archbishop of Paris. But then there came a sudden thought which turned De Catinat's heart to lead. The city gates were locked at eight o'clock in the evening. It was now nearly nine. It would have been easy for him, whose uniform was a voucher for his message, to gain his way through. But how could Amos Green, a foreigner and a civilian, hope to pass? It was impossible, clearly impossible. And yet, somehow, in spite of the impossibility, he still clung to a vague hope that a man so full of energy and resource might find some way out of the difficulty. And then the thought of escape occurred to his mind. Might he not even now be in time, perhaps, to carry his own message? Who were these men who had seized him? They had said nothing to give him a hint as to whose tools they were. Monsieur and the dauphin occurred to his mind. Probably one or the other. He had only recognised one of them, old Major Despard, a man who frequented the low wine-shops of Versailles, and whose sword was ever at the disposal of the longest purse. And where were these people taking him to? It might be to his death. But if they wished to do away with him, why should they have brought him back to consciousness? and why this carriage and drive? Full of curiosity, he peered out of the windows. A horseman was riding close up on either side; but there was glass in front of the carriage, and through this he could gain some idea as to his whereabouts. The clouds had cleared now, and the moon was shining brightly, bathing the whole wide landscape in its shimmering light. To the right lay the open country, broad plains with clumps of woodland, and the towers of castles pricking out from above the groves. A heavy bell was ringing in some monastery, and its dull booming came and went with the breeze. On the left, but far away, lay the glimmer of Paris. They were leaving it rapidly behind. Whatever his destination, it was neither the capital nor Versailles. Then he began to count the chances of escape. His sword had been removed, and his pistols were still in the holsters beside his unfortunate horse. He was unarmed, then, even if he could free himself, and his captors were at least a dozen in number. There were three on ahead, riding abreast along the white, moonlit road. Then there was one on each side, and he should judge by the clatter of hoofs that there could not be fewer than half a dozen behind. That would make exactly twelve, including the coachman, too many, surely, for an unarmed man to hope to baffle. At the thought of the coachman he had glanced through the glass front at the broad back of the man, and he had suddenly, in the glimmer of the carriage lamp, observed something which struck him with horror. The man was evidently desperately wounded. It was strange indeed that he could still sit there and flick his whip with so terrible an injury. In the back of his great red coat, just under the left shoulder-blade, was a gash in the cloth, where some weapon had passed, and all round was a wide patch of dark scarlet which told its own tale. Nor was this all. As he raised his whip, the moonlight shone upon his hand, and De Catinat saw with a shudder that it also was splashed and clogged with blood. The guardsman craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the man's face; but his broad-brimmed hat was drawn low, and the high collar of his driving-coat was raised, so that his features were in the shadow. This silent man in front of him, with the horrible marks upon his person, sent a chill to De Catinat's valiant heart, and he muttered over one of Marot's Huguenot psalms; for who but the foul fiend himself would drive a coach with those crimsoned hands and with a sword driven through his body? And now they had come to a spot where the main road ran onwards, but a smaller side track wound away down the steep slope of a hill, and so in the direction of the Seine. The advance-guard had kept to the main road, and the two horsemen on either side were trotting in the same direction, when, to De Catinat's amazement, the carriage suddenly swerved to one side, and in an instant plunged down the steep incline, the two stout horses galloping at their topmost speed, the coachman standing up and lashing furiously at them, and the clumsy old vehicle bounding along in a way which threw him backwards and forwards from one seat to the other. Behind him he could hear a shout of consternation from the escort, and then the rush of galloping hoofs. Away they flew, the roadside poplars dancing past at either window, the horses thundering along with their stomachs to the earth, and that demon driver still waving those horrible red hands in the moonlight and screaming out to the maddened steeds. Sometimes the carriage jolted one way, sometimes another, swaying furiously, and running on two side wheels as though it must every instant go over. And yet, fast as they went, their pursuers went faster still. The rattle of their hoofs was at their very backs, and suddenly at one of the windows there came into view the red, distended nostrils of a horse. Slowly it drew forward, the muzzle, the eye, the ears, the mane, coming into sight as the rider still gained upon them, and then above them the fierce face of Despard and the gleam of a brass pistol barrel. "At the horse, Despard, at the horse!" cried an authoritative voice from behind. The pistol flashed, and the coach lurched over as one of the horses gave a convulsive spring. But the driver still shrieked and lashed with his whip, while the carriage bounded onwards. But now the road turned a sudden curve, and there, right in front of them, not a hundred paces away, was the Seine, running cold and still in the moonshine. The bank on either side of the highway ran straight down without any break to the water's edge. There was no sign of a bridge, and a black shadow in the centre of the stream showed where the ferry-boat was returning after conveying some belated travellers across. The driver never hesitated, but gathering up the reins, he urged the frightened creatures into the river. They hesitated, however, when they first felt the cold water about their hocks, and even as they did so one of them, with a low moan, fell over upon her side. Despard's bullet had found its mark. Like a flash the coachman hurled himself from the box and plunged into the stream; but the pursuing horsemen were all round him before this, and half-a-dozen hands had seized him ere he could reach deep water, and had dragged him to the bank. His broad hat had been struck off in the struggle, and De Catinat saw his face in the moonshine. Great heavens! It was Amos Green. CHAPTER XVII. THE DUNGEON OF PORTILLAC. The desperadoes were as much astonished as was De Catinat when they found that they had recaptured in this extraordinary manner the messenger whom they had given up for lost. A volley of oaths and exclamations broke from them, as, on tearing off the huge red coat of the coachman, they disclosed the sombre dress of the young American. "A thousand thunders!" cried one. "And this is the man whom that devil's brat Latour would make out to be dead!" "And how came he here?" "And where is Etienne Arnaud?" "He has stabbed Etienne. See the great cut in the coat!" "Ay; and see the colour of his hand! He has stabbed him, and taken his coat and hat." "What! while we were all within stone's cast!" "Ay; there is no other way out of it." "By my soul!" cried old Despard, "I had never much love for old Etienne, but I have emptied a cup of wine with him before now, and I shall see that he has justice. Let us cast these reins round the fellow's neck and hang him upon this tree." Several pairs of hands were already unbuckling the harness of the dead horse, when De Vivonne pushed his way into the little group, and with a few curt words checked their intended violence. "It is as much as your lives are worth to touch him," said he. "But he has slain Etienne Arnaud." "That score may be settled afterwards. To-night he is the king's messenger. Is the other all safe?" "Yes, he is here." "Tie this man, and put him in beside him. Unbuckle the traces of the dead horse. So! Now, De Carnac, put your own into the harness. You can mount the box and drive, for we have not very far to go." The changes were rapidly made; Amos Green was thrust in beside De Catinat, and the carriage was soon toiling up the steep incline which it had come down so precipitately. The American had said not a word since his capture, and had remained absolutely stolid, with his hands crossed over his chest whilst his fate was under discussion. Now that he was alone once more with his comrade, however, he frowned and muttered like a man who feels that fortune has used him badly. "Those infernal horses!" he grumbled. "Why, an American horse would have taken to the water like a duck. Many a time have I swum my old stallion Sagamore across the Hudson. Once over the river, we should have had a clear lead to Paris." "My dear friend," cried De Catinat, laying his manacled hands upon those of his comrade, "can you forgive me for speaking as I did upon the way from Versailles?" "Tut, man! I never gave it a thought." "You were right a thousand times, and I was, as you said, a fool--a blind, obstinate fool. How nobly you have stood by me! But how came you there? Never in my life have I been so astonished as when I saw your face." Amos Green chuckled to himself. "I thought that maybe it would be a surprise to you if you knew who was driving you," said he. "When I was thrown from my horse I lay quiet, partly because I wanted to get a grip of my breath, and partly because it seemed to me to be more healthy to lie than to stand with all those swords clinking in my ears. Then they all got round you, and I rolled into the ditch, crept along it, got on the cross-road in the shadow of the trees, and was beside the carriage before ever they knew that I was gone. I saw in a flash that there was only one way by which I could be of use to you. The coachman was leaning round with his head turned to see what was going on behind him. I out with my knife, sprang up on the front wheel, and stopped his tongue forever." "What! without a sound!" "I have not lived among the Indians for nothing." "And then?" "I pulled him down into the ditch, and I got into his coat and his hat. I did not scalp him." "Scalp him? Great heavens! Such things are only done among savages." "Ah! I thought that maybe it was not the custom of the country. I am glad now that I did not do it. I had hardly got the reins before they were all back and bundled you into the coach. I was not afraid of their seeing me, but I was scared lest I should not know which road to take, and so set them on the trail. But they made it easy to me by sending some of their riders in front, so I did well until I saw that by-track and made a run for it. We'd have got away, too, if that rogue hadn't shot the horse, and if the beasts had faced the water." The guardsman again pressed his comrade's hands. "You have been as true to me as hilt to blade," said he. "It was a bold thought and a bold deed." "And what now?" asked the American. "I do not know who these men are, and I do not know whither they are taking us." "To their villages, likely, to burn us." De Catinat laughed in spite of his anxiety. "You will have it that we are back in America again," said he. "They don't do things in that way in France." "They seem free enough with hanging in France. I tell you, I felt like a smoked-out 'coon when that trace was round my neck." "I fancy that they are taking us to some place where they can shut us up until this business blows over." "Well, they'll need to be smart about it." "Why?" "Else maybe they won't find us when they want us." "What do you mean?" For answer, the American, with a twist and a wriggle, drew his two hands apart, and held them in front of his comrade's face. "Bless you, it is the first thing they teach the papooses in an Indian wigwam. I've got out of a Huron's thongs of raw hide before now, and it ain't very likely that a stiff stirrup leather will hold me. Put your hands out." With a few dexterous twists he loosened De Catinat's bonds, until he also was able to slip his hands free. "Now for your feet, if you'll put them up. They'll find that we are easier to catch than to hold." But at that moment the carriage began to slow down, and the clank of the hoofs of the riders in front of them died suddenly away. Peeping through the windows, the prisoners saw a huge dark building stretching in front of them, so high and so broad that the night shrouded it in upon every side. A great archway hung above them, and the lamps shone on the rude wooden gate, studded with ponderous clamps and nails. In the upper part of the door was a small square iron grating, and through this they could catch a glimpse of the gleam of a lantern and of a bearded face which looked out at them. De Vivonne, standing in his stirrups, craned his neck up towards the grating, so that the two men most interested could hear little of the conversation which followed. They saw only that the horseman held a gold ring up in the air, and that the face above, which had begun by shaking and frowning, was now nodding and smiling. An instant later the head disappeared, the door swung open upon screaming hinges, and the carriage drove on into the courtyard beyond, leaving the escort, with the exception of De Vivonne, outside. As the horses pulled up, a knot of rough fellows clustered round, and the two prisoners were dragged roughly out. In the light of the torches which flared around them they could see that they were hemmed in by high turreted walls upon every side. A bulky man with a bearded face, the same whom they had seen at the grating, was standing in the centre of the group of armed men issuing his orders. "To the upper dungeon, Simon!" he cried. "And see that they have two bundles of straw and a loaf of bread until we learn our master's will." "I know not who your master may be," said De Catinat, "but I would ask you by what warrant he dares to stop two messengers of the king while travelling in his service?" "By St. Denis, if my master play the king a trick, it will be but tie and tie," the stout man answered, with a grin. "But no more talk! Away with them, Simon, and you answer to me for their safe-keeping." It was in vain that De Catinat raved and threatened, invoking the most terrible menaces upon all who were concerned in detaining him. Two stout knaves thrusting him from behind and one dragging in front forced him through a narrow gate and along a stone-flagged passage, a small man in black buckram with a bunch of keys in one hand and a swinging lantern in the other leading the way. Their ankles had been so tied that they could but take steps of a foot in length. Shuffling along, they made their way down three successive corridors and through three doors, each of which was locked and barred behind them. Then they ascended a winding stone stair, hollowed out in the centre by the feet of generations of prisoners and of jailers, and finally they were thrust into a small square dungeon, and two trusses of straw were thrown in after them. An instant later a heavy key turned in the lock, and they were left to their own meditations. Very grim and dark those meditations were in the case of De Catinat. A stroke of good luck had made him at court, and now this other of ill fortune had destroyed him. It would be in vain that he should plead his own powerlessness. He knew his royal master well. He was a man who was munificent when his orders were obeyed, and inexorable when they miscarried. No excuse availed with him. An unlucky man was as abhorrent to him as a negligent one. In this great crisis the king had trusted him with an all-important message, and that message had not been delivered. What could save him now from disgrace and from ruin? He cared nothing for the dim dungeon in which he found himself, nor for the uncertain fate which hung over his head, but his heart turned to lead when he thought of his blasted career, and of the triumph of those whose jealousy had been aroused by his rapid promotion. There were his people in Paris, too--his sweet Adele, his old uncle, who had been as good as a father to him. What protector would they have in their troubles now that he had lost the power that might have shielded them? How long would it be before they were exposed once more to the brutalities of Dalbert and his dragoons? He clenched his teeth at the thought, and threw himself down with a groan upon the litter of straw dimly visible in the faint light which streamed through the single window. But his energetic comrade had yielded to no feeling of despondency. The instant that the clang of the prison door had assured him that he was safe from interruption he had slipped off the bonds which held him and had felt all round the walls and flooring to see what manner of place this might be. His search had ended in the discovery of a small fireplace at one corner, and of two great clumsy billets of wood, which seemed to have been left there to serve as pillows for the prisoners. Having satisfied himself that the chimney was so small that it was utterly impossible to pass even his head up it, he drew the two blocks of wood over to the window, and was able, by placing one above the other and standing on tiptoe on the highest, to reach the bars which guarded it. Drawing himself up, and fixing one toe in an inequality of the wall, he managed to look out on to the courtyard which they had just quitted. The carriage and De Vivonne were passing out through the gate as he looked, and he heard a moment later the slam of the heavy door and the clatter of hoofs from the troop of horsemen outside. The seneschal and his retainers had disappeared; the torches, too, were gone, and, save for the measured tread of a pair of sentinels in the yard twenty feet beneath him, all was silent throughout the great castle. And a very great castle it was. Even as he hung there with straining hands his eyes were running in admiration and amazement over the huge wall in front of him, with its fringe of turrets and pinnacles and battlements all lying so still and cold in the moonlight. Strange thoughts will slip into a man's head at the most unlikely moments. He remembered suddenly a bright summer day over the water when first he had come down from Albany, and how his father had met him on the wharf by the Hudson, and had taken him through the water-gate to see Peter Stuyvesant's house, as a sign of how great this city was which had passed from the Dutch to the English. Why, Peter Stuyvesant's house and Peter Stuyvesant's Bowery villa put together would not make one wing of this huge pile, which was itself a mere dog-kennel beside the mighty palace at Versailles. He would that his father were here now; and then, on second thoughts, he would not, for it came back to him that he was a prisoner in a far land, and that his sight-seeing was being done through the bars of a dungeon window. The window was large enough to pass his body through if it were not for those bars. He shook them and hung his weight upon them, but they were as thick as his thumb and firmly welded. Then, getting some strong hold for his other foot, he supported himself by one hand while he picked with his knife at the setting of the iron. It was cement, as smooth as glass and as hard as marble. His knife turned when he tried to loosen it. But there was still the stone. It was sandstone, not so very hard. If he could cut grooves in it, he might be able to draw out bars, cement, and all. He sprang down to the floor again, and was thinking how he should best set to work, when a groan drew his attention to his companion. "You seem sick, friend," said he. "Sick in mind," moaned the other. "Oh, the cursed fool that I have been! It maddens me!" "Something on your mind?" said Amos Green, sitting down upon his billets of wood. "What was it, then?" The guardsman made a movement of impatience. "What was it? How can you ask me, when you know as well as I do the wretched failure of my mission. It was the king's wish that the archbishop should marry them. The king's wish is the law. It must be the archbishop or none. He should have been at the palace by now. Ah, my God! I can see the king's cabinet, I can see him waiting, I can see madame waiting, I can hear them speak of the unhappy De Catinat--" He buried his face in his hands once more. "I see all that," said the American stolidly, "and I see something more." "What then?" "I see the archbishop tying them up together." "The archbishop! You are raving." "Maybe. But I see him." "He could not be at the palace." "On the contrary, he reached the palace about half an hour ago." De Catinat sprang to his feet. "At the palace!" he screamed. "Then who gave him the message?" "I did," said Amos Green. CHAPTER XVIII. A NIGHT OF SURPRISES. If the American had expected to surprise or delight his companion by this curt announcement he was woefully disappointed, for De Catinat approached him with a face which was full of sympathy and trouble, and laid his hand caressingly upon his shoulder. "My dear friend," said he, "I have been selfish and thoughtless. I have made too much of my own little troubles and too little of what you have gone through for me. That fall from your horse has shaken you more than you think. Lie down upon this straw, and see if a little sleep may not--" "I tell you that the bishop is there!" cried Amos Green impatiently. "Quite so. There is water in this jug, and if I dip my scarf into it and tie it round your brow--" "Man alive! Don't you hear me! The bishop is there." "He is, he is," said De Catinat soothingly. "He is most certainly there. I trust that you have no pain?" The American waved in the air with his knotted fists. "You think that I am crazed," he cried, "and, by the eternal, you are enough to make me so! When I say that I sent the bishop, I mean that I saw to the job. You remember when I stepped back to your friend the major?" It was the soldier's turn to grow excited now. "Well?" he cried, gripping the other's arm. "Well, when we send a scout into the woods, if the matter is worth it, we send a second one at another hour, and so one or other comes back with his hair on. That's the Iroquois fashion, and a good fashion too." "My God! I believe that you have saved me!" "You needn't grip on to my arm like a fish-eagle on a trout! I went back to the major, then, and I asked him when he was in Paris to pass by the archbishop's door." "Well? Well?" "I showed him this lump of chalk. 'If we've been there,' said I, 'you'll see a great cross on the left side of the door-post. If there's no cross, then pull the latch and ask the bishop if he'll come up to the palace as quick as his horses can bring him.' The major started an hour after us; he would be in Paris by half-past ten; the bishop would be in his carriage by eleven, and he would reach Versailles half an hour ago, that is to say, about half-past twelve. By the Lord, I think I've driven him off his head!" It was no wonder that the young woodsman was alarmed at the effect of his own announcement. His slow and steady nature was incapable of the quick, violent variations of the fiery Frenchman. De Catinat, who had thrown off his bonds before he had lain down, spun round the cell now, waving his arms and his legs, with his shadow capering up the wall behind him, all distorted in the moonlight. Finally he threw himself into his comrade's arms with a torrent of thanks and ejaculations and praises and promises, patting him with his hands and hugging him to his breast. "Oh, if I could but do something for you!" he exclaimed. "If I could do something for you!" "You can, then. Lie down on that straw and go to sleep." "And to think that I sneered at you! I! Oh, you have had your revenge!" "For the Lord's sake, lie down and go to sleep!" By persuasions and a little pushing he got his delighted companion on to his couch again, and heaped the straw over him to serve as a blanket. De Catinat was wearied out by the excitements of the day, and this last great reaction seemed to have absorbed all his remaining strength. His lids drooped heavily over his eyes, his head sank deeper into the soft straw, and his last remembrance was that the tireless American was seated cross-legged in the moonlight, working furiously with his long knife upon one of the billets of wood. So weary was the young guardsman that it was long past noon, and the sun was shining out of a cloudless blue sky, before he awoke. For a moment, enveloped as he was in straw, and with the rude arch of the dungeon meeting in four rough-hewn groinings above his head, he stared about him in bewilderment. Then in an instant the doings of the day before, his mission, the ambuscade, his imprisonment, all flashed back to him, and he sprang to his feet. His comrade, who had been dozing in the corner, jumped up also at the first movement, with his hand on his knife, and a sinister glance directed towards the door. "Oh, it's you, is it?" said he, "I thought it was the man." "Has some one been in, then?" "Yes; they brought those two loaves and a jug of water, just about dawn, when I was settling down for a rest." "And did he say anything?" "No; it was the little black one." "Simon, they called him." "The same. He laid the things down and was gone. I thought that maybe if he came again we might get him to stop." "How, then?" "Maybe if we got these stirrup leathers round his ankles he would not get them off quite as easy as we have done." "And what then?" "Well, he would tell us where we are, and what is to be done with us." "Pshaw! what does it matter since our mission is done?" "It may not matter to you--there's no accounting for tastes--but it matters a good deal to me. I'm not used to sitting in a hole, like a bear in a trap, waiting for what other folks choose to do with me. It's new to me. I found Paris a pretty close sort of place, but it's a prairie compared to this. It don't suit a man of my habits, and I am going to come out of it." "There's no help but patience, my friend." "I don't know that. I'd get more help out of a bar and a few pegs." He opened his coat, and took out a short piece of rusted iron, and three small thick pieces of wood, sharpened at one end. "Where did you get those, then?" "These are my night's work. The bar is the top one of the grate. I had a job to loosen it, but there it is. The pegs I whittled out of that log." "And what are they for?" "Well, you see, peg number one goes in here, where I have picked a hole between the stones. Then I've made this other log into a mallet, and with two cracks there it is firm fixed, so that you can put your weight on it. Now these two go in the same way into the holes above here. So! Now, you see, you can stand up there and look out of that window without asking too much of your toe joint. Try it." De Catinat sprang up and looked eagerly out between the bars. "I do not know the place," said he, shaking his head. "It may be any one of thirty castles which lie upon the south side of Paris, and within six or seven leagues of it. Which can it be? And who has any interest in treating us so? I would that I could see a coat of arms, which might help us. Ah! there is one yonder in the centre of the mullion of the window. But I can scarce read it at the distance. I warrant that your eyes are better than mine, Amos, and that you can read what is on yonder escutcheon." "On what?" "On the stone slab in the centre window." "Yes, I see it plain enough. It looks to me like three turkey-buzzards sitting on a barrel of molasses." "Three allurions in chief over a tower proper, maybe. Those are the arms of the Provence De Hautevilles. But it cannot be that. They have no chateau within a hundred leagues. No, I cannot tell where we are." He was dropping back to the floor, and put his weight upon the bar. To his amazement, it came away in his hand. "Look, Amos, look!" he cried. "Ah, you've found it out! Well, I did that during the night." "And how? With your knife?" "No; I could make no way with my knife; but when I got the bar out of the grate, I managed faster. I'll put this one back now, or some of those folks down below may notice that we have got it loose." "Are they all loose?" "Only the one at present, but we'll get the other two out during the night. You can take that bar out and work with it, while I use my own picker at the other. You see, the stone is soft, and by grinding it you soon make a groove along which you can slip the bar. It will be mighty queer if we can't clear a road for ourselves before morning." "Well, but even if we could get out into the courtyard, where could we turn to then?" "One thing at a time, friend. You might as well stick at the Kennebec because you could not see how you would cross the Penobscot. Anyway, there is more air in the yard than in here, and when the window is clear we shall soon plan out the rest." The two comrades did not dare to do any work during the day, for fear they should be surprised by the jailer, or observed from without. No one came near them, but they ate their loaves and drank their water with the appetite of men who had often known what it was to be without even such simple food as that. The instant that night fell they were both up upon the pegs, grinding away at the hard stone and tugging at the bars. It was a rainy night, and there was a sharp thunder-storm, but they could see very well, while the shadow of the arched window prevented their being seen. Before midnight they had loosened one bar, and the other was just beginning to give, when some slight noise made them turn their heads, and there was their jailer standing, open-mouthed in the middle of the cell, staring up at them. It was De Catinat who observed him first, and he sprang down at him in an instant with his bar; but at his movement the man rushed for the door, and drew it after him just as the American's tool whizzed past his ear and down the passage. As the door slammed, the two comrades looked at each other. The guardsman shrugged his shoulders and the other whistled. "It is scarce worth while to go on," said De Catinat. "We may as well be doing that as anything else. If my picker had been an inch lower I'd have had him. Well, maybe he'll get a stroke, or break his neck down those stairs. I've nothing to work with now, but a few rubs with your bar will finish the job. Ah, dear! You are right, and we are fairly treed!" A great bell had begun to ring in the chateau, and there was a loud buzz of voices and a clatter of feet upon the stones. Hoarse orders were shouted, and there was the sound of turning keys. All this coming suddenly in the midst of the stillness of the night showed only too certainly that the alarm had been given. Amos Green threw himself down in the straw, with his hands in his pockets, and De Catinat leaned sulkily against the wall, waiting for whatever might come to him. Five minutes passed, however, and yet another five minutes, without anyone appearing. The hubbub in the courtyard continued, but there was no sound in the corridor which led to their cell. "Well, I'll have that bar out, after all," said the American at last, rising and stepping over to the window. "Anyhow, we'll see what all this caterwauling is about." He climbed up on his pegs as he spoke, and peeped out. "Come up!" he cried excitedly to his comrade. "They've got some other game going on here, and they are all a deal too busy to bother their heads about us." De Catinat clambered up beside him, and the two stood staring down into the courtyard. A brazier had been lit at each corner, and the place was thronged with men, many of whom carried torches. The yellow glare played fitfully over the grim gray walls, flickering up sometimes until the highest turrets shone golden against the black sky, and then, as the wind caught them, dying away until they scarce threw a glow upon the cheek of their bearer. The main gate was open, and a carriage, which had apparently just driven in, was standing at a small door immediately in front of their window. The wheels and sides were brown with mud, and the two horses were reeking and heavy-headed, as though their journey had been both swift and long. A man wearing a plumed hat and enveloped in a riding-coat had stepped from the carriage, and then, turning round, had dragged a second person out after him. There was a scuffle, a cry, a push, and the two figures had vanished through the door. As it closed, the carriage drove away, the torches and braziers were extinguished, the main gate was closed once more, and all was as quiet as before this sudden interruption. "Well!" gasped De Catinat. "Is this another king's messenger they've got?" "There will be lodgings for two more here in a short time," said Amos Green. "If they only leave us alone, this cell won't hold us long." "I wonder where that jailer has gone?" "He may go where he likes, as long as he keeps away from here. Give me your bar again. This thing is giving. It won't take us long to have it out." He set to work furiously, trying to deepen the groove in the stone, through which he hoped to drag the staple. Suddenly he ceased, and strained his ears. "By thunder!" said he, "there's some one working on the other side." They both stood listening. There were the thud of hammers, the rasping of a saw, and the clatter of wood from the other side of the wall. "What can they be doing?" "I can't think." "Can you see them?" "They are too near the wall." "I think I can manage," said De Catinat. "I am slighter than you." He pushed his head and neck and half of one shoulder through the gap between the bars, and there he remained until his friend thought that perhaps he had stuck, and pulled at his legs to extricate him. He writhed back, however, without any difficulty. "They are building something," he whispered. "Building!" "Yes; there are four of them, with a lantern." "What can they be building, then?" "It's a shed, I think. I can see four sockets in the ground, and they are fixing four uprights into them." "Well, we can't get away as long as there are four men just under our window." "Impossible." "But we may as well finish our work, for all that." The gentle scrapings of his iron were drowned amid the noise which swelled ever louder from without. The bar loosened at the end, and he drew it slowly towards him. At that instant, however, just as he was disengaging it, a round head appeared between him and the moonlight, a head with a great shock of tangled hair and a woollen cap upon the top of it. So astonished was Amos Green at the sudden apparition that he let go his grip upon the bar, which, falling outwards, toppled over the edge of the window-sill. "You great fool!" shrieked a voice from below, "are your fingers ever to be thumbs, then, that you should fumble your tools so? A thousand thunders of heaven! You have broken my shoulder." "What is it, then?" cried the other. "My faith, Pierre, if your fingers went as fast as your tongue, you would be the first joiner in France." "What is it, you ape! You have dropped your tool upon me." "I! I have dropped nothing." "Idiot! Would you have me believe that iron falls from the sky? I say that you have struck me, you foolish, clumsy-fingered lout." "I have not struck you yet," cried the other, "but, by the Virgin, if I have more of this I will come down the ladder to you!" "Silence, you good-for-naughts!" said a third voice sternly. "If the work be not done by daybreak, there will be a heavy reckoning for somebody." And again the steady hammering and sawing went forward. The head still passed and repassed, its owner walking apparently upon some platform which they had constructed beneath their window, but never giving a glance or a thought to the black square opening beside him. It was early morning, and the first cold light was beginning to steal over the courtyard, before the work was at last finished and the workmen had left. Then at last the prisoners dared to climb up and to see what it was which had been constructed during the night. It gave them a catch of the breath as they looked at it. It was a scaffold. There it lay, the ill-omened platform of dark greasy boards newly fastened together, but evidently used often before for the same purpose. It was buttressed up against their wall, and extended a clear twenty feet out, with a broad wooden stair leading down from the further side. In the centre stood a headsman's block, all haggled at the top, and smeared with rust-coloured stains. "I think it is time that we left," said Amos Green. "Our work is all in vain, Amos," said De Catinat sadly. "Whatever our fate may be--and this looks ill enough--we can but submit to it like brave men." "Tut, man; the window is clear! Let us make a rush for it." "It is useless. I can see a line of armed men along the further side of the yard." "A line! At this hour!" "Yes; and here come more. See, at the centre gate! Now what in the name of heaven is this?" As he spoke the door which faced them opened and a singular procession filed out. First came two dozen footmen, walking in pairs, all carrying halberds, and clad in the same maroon-coloured liveries. After them a huge bearded man, with his tunic off, and the sleeves of his coarse shirt rolled up over his elbows, strode along with a great axe over his left shoulder. Behind him, a priest with an open missal pattered forth prayers, and in his shadow was a woman, clad in black, her neck bared, and a black shawl cast over her head and drooping in front of her bowed face. Within grip of her walked a tall, thin, fierce-faced man, with harsh red features, and a great jutting nose. He wore a flat velvet cap with a single eagle feather fastened into it by a diamond clasp, which gleamed in the morning light. But bright as was his gem, his dark eyes were brighter still, and sparkled from under his bushy brows with a mad brilliancy which bore with it something of menace and of terror. His limbs jerked as he walked, his features twisted, and he carried himself like a man who strives hard to hold himself in when his whole soul is aflame with exultation. Behind him again twelve more maroon-clad retainers brought up the rear of this singular procession. The woman had faltered at the foot of the scaffold, but the man behind her had thrust her forward with such force that she stumbled over the lower step, and would have fallen had she not clutched at the arm of the priest. At the top of the ladder her eyes met the dreadful block, and she burst into a scream, and shrunk backwards. But again the man thrust her on, and two of the followers caught her by either wrist and dragged her forwards. "Oh, Maurice! Maurice!" she screamed. "I am not fit to die! Oh, forgive me, Maurice, as you hope for forgiveness yourself! Maurice! Maurice!" She strove to get towards him, to clutch at his wrist, at his sleeve, but he stood with his hand on his sword, gazing at her with a face which was all wreathed and contorted with merriment. At the sight of that dreadful mocking face the prayers froze upon her lips. As well pray for mercy to the dropping stone or to the rushing stream. She turned away, and threw back the mantle which had shrouded her features. "Ah, sire!" she cried. "Sire! If you could see me now!" And at the cry and at the sight of that fair pale face, De Catinat, looking down from the window, was stricken as though by a dagger; for there, standing beside the headsman's block, was she who had been the most powerful, as well as the wittiest and the fairest, of the women of France--none other than Francoise de Montespan, so lately the favourite of the king. CHAPTER XIX. IN THE KING'S CABINET. On the night upon which such strange chances had befallen his messengers, the king sat alone in his cabinet. Over his head a perfumed lamp, held up by four little flying Cupids of crystal, who dangled by golden chains from the painted ceiling, cast a brilliant light upon the chamber, which was flashed back twenty-fold by the mirrors upon the wall. The ebony and silver furniture, the dainty carpet of La Savonniere, the silks of Tours, the tapestries of the Gobelins, the gold-work and the delicate chinaware of Sevres--the best of all that France could produce was centred between these four walls. Nothing had ever passed through that door which was not a masterpiece of its kind. And amid all this brilliance the master of it sat, his chin resting upon his hands, his elbows upon the table, with eyes which stared vacantly at the wall, a moody and a solemn man. But though his dark eyes were fixed upon the wall, they saw nothing of it. They looked rather down the long vista of his own life, away to those early years when what we dream and what we do shade so mistily into one another. Was it a dream or was it a fact, those two men who used to stoop over his baby crib, the one with the dark coat and the star upon his breast, whom he had been taught to call father, and the other one with the long red gown and the little twinkling eyes? Even now, after more than forty years, that wicked, astute, powerful face flashed up, and he saw once more old Richelieu, the great unanointed king of France. And then the other cardinal, the long lean one who had taken his pocket-money, and had grudged him his food, and had dressed him in old clothes. How well he could recall the day when Mazarin had rouged himself for the last time, and how the court had danced with joy at the news that he was no more! And his mother, too, how beautiful she was, and how masterful! Could he not remember how bravely she had borne herself during that war in which the power of the great nobles had been broken, and how she had at last lain down to die, imploring the priests not to stain her cap-strings with their holy oils! And then he thought of what he had done himself, how he had shorn down his great subjects until, instead of being like a tree among saplings, he had been alone, far above all others, with his shadow covering the whole land. Then there were his wars and his laws and his treaties. Under his care France had overflowed her frontiers both on the north and on the east, and yet had been so welded together internally that she had but one voice, with which she spoke through him. And then there was that line of beautiful faces which wavered up in front of him. There was Olympe de Mancini, whose Italian eyes had first taught him that there is a power which can rule over a king; her sister, too, Marie de Mancini; his wife, with her dark little sun-browned face; Henrietta of England, whose death had first shown him the horrors which lie in life; La Valliere, Montespan, Fontanges. Some were dead; some were in convents. Some who had been wicked and beautiful were now only wicked. And what had been the outcome of all this troubled, striving life of his? He was already at the outer verge of his middle years; he had lost his taste for the pleasures of his youth; gout and vertigo were ever at his foot and at his head to remind him that between them lay a kingdom which he could not hope to govern. And after all these years he had not won a single true friend, not one, in his family, in his court, in his country, save only this woman whom he was to wed that night. And she, how patient she was, how good, how lofty! With her he might hope to wipe off by the true glory of his remaining years all the sin and the folly of the past. Would that the archbishop might come, that he might feel that she was indeed his, that he held her with hooks of steel which would bind them as long as life should last! There came a tap at the door. He sprang up eagerly, thinking that the ecclesiastic might have arrived. It was, however, only his personal attendant, to say that Louvois would crave an interview. Close at his heels came the minister himself, high-nosed and heavy-chinned. Two leather bags were dangling from his hand. "Sire," said he, when Bontems had retired, "I trust that I do not intrude upon you." "No, no, Louvois. My thoughts were in truth beginning to be very indifferent company, and I am glad to be rid of them." "Your Majesty's thoughts can never, I am sure, be anything but pleasant," said the courtier. "But I have brought you here something which I trust may make them even more so." "Ah! What is that?" "When so many of our young nobles went into Germany and Hungary, you were pleased in your wisdom to say that you would like well to see what reports they sent home to their friends; also what news was sent out from the court to them." "Yes." "I have them here--all that the courier has brought in, and all that are gathered to go out, each in its own bag. The wax has been softened in spirit, the fastenings have been steamed, and they are now open." The king took out a handful of the letters and glanced at the addresses. "I should indeed like to read the hearts of these people," said he. "Thus only can I tell the true thoughts of those who bow and simper before my face. I suppose," with a sudden flash of suspicion from his eyes, "that you have not yourself looked into these?" "Oh, sire, I had rather die!" "You swear it?" "As I hope for salvation!" "Hum! There is one among these which I see is from your own son." Louvois changed colour, and stammered as he looked at the envelope. "Your Majesty will find that he is as loyal out of your presence as in it, else he is no son of mine," said he. "Then we shall begin with his. Ha! it is but ten lines long. 'Dearest Achille, how I long for you to come back! The court is as dull as a cloister now that you are gone. My ridiculous father still struts about like a turkey-cock, as if all his medals and crosses could cover the fact that he is but a head lackey, with no more real power than I have. He wheedles a good deal out of the king, but what he does with it I cannot imagine, for little comes my way. I still owe those ten thousand livres to the man in the Rue Orfevre. Unless I have some luck at lansquenet, I shall have to come out soon and join you.' Hem! I did you an injustice, Louvois. I see that you have _not_ looked over these letters." The minister had sat with a face which was the colour of beetroot, and eyes which projected from his head, while this epistle was being read. It was with relief that he came to the end of it, for at least there was nothing which compromised him seriously with the king; but every nerve in his great body tingled with rage as he thought of the way in which his young scape-grace had alluded to him. "The viper!" he cried. "Oh, the foul snake in the grass! I will make him curse the day that he was born." "Tut, tut, Louvois!" said the king. "You are a man who has seen much of life, and you should be a philosopher. Hot-headed youth says ever more than it means. Think no more of the matter. But what have we here? A letter from my dearest girl to her husband, the Prince de Conti. I would pick her writing out of a thousand. Ah, dear soul, she little thought that my eyes would see her artless prattle! Why should I read it, since I already know every thought of her innocent heart?" He unfolded the sheet of pink scented paper with a fond smile upon his face, but it faded away as his eyes glanced down the page, and he sprang to his feet with a snarl of anger, his hand over his heart and his eyes still glued to the paper. "Minx!" he cried, in a choking voice. "Impertinent, heartless minx! Louvois, you know what I have done for the princess. You know she has been the apple of my eye. What have I ever grudged her? What have I ever denied her?" "You have been goodness itself, sire," said Louvois, whose own wounds smarted less now that he saw his master writhing. "Hear what she says of me: 'Old Father Grumpy is much as usual, save that he gives a little at the knees. You remember how we used to laugh at his airs and graces! Well, he has given up all that, and though he still struts about on great high heels, like a Landes peasant on his stilts, he has no brightness at all in his clothes. Of course, all the court follow his example, so you can imagine what a nightmare place this is. Then this woman still keeps in favour, and her frocks are as dismal as Grumpy's coats; so when you come back we shall go into the country together, and you shall dress in red velvet, and I shall wear blue silk, and we shall have a little coloured court of our own in spite of my majestic papa.'" Louis sank his face in his hands. "You hear how she speaks of me, Louvois." "It is infamous, sire; infamous!" "She calls me names--_me_, Louvois!" "Atrocious, sire." "And my knees! one would think that I was an old man!" "Scandalous. But, sire, I would beg to say that it is a case in which your Majesty's philosophy may well soften your anger. Youth is ever hot-headed, and says more than it means. Think no more of the matter." "You speak like a fool, Louvois. The child that I have loved turns upon me, and you ask me to think no more of it. Ah, it is one more lesson that a king can trust least of all those who have his own blood in their veins. What writing is this? It is the good Cardinal de Bouillon. One may not have faith in one's own kin, but this sainted man loves me, not only because I have placed him where he is, but because it is his nature to look up to and love those whom God has placed above him. I will read you his letter, Louvois, to show you that there is still such a thing as loyalty and gratitude in France. 'My dear Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon.' Ah, it is to him he writes. 'I promised when you left that I would let you know from time to time how things were going at court, as you consulted me about bringing your daughter up from Anjou, in the hope that she might catch the king's fancy.' What! What! Louvois! What villainy is this? 'The sultan goes from bad to worse. The Fontanges was at least the prettiest woman in France, though between ourselves there was just a shade too much of the red in her hair--an excellent colour in a cardinal's gown, my dear duke, but nothing brighter than chestnut is permissible in a lady. The Montespan, too, was a fine woman in her day, but fancy his picking up now with a widow who is older than himself, a woman, too, who does not even try to make herself attractive, but kneels at her _prie-dieu_ or works at her tapestry from morning to night. They say that December and May make a bad match, but my own opinion is that two Novembers make an even worse one.' Louvois! Louvois! I can read no more! Have you a _lettre de cachet_?" "There is one here, sire." "For the Bastille?" "No; for Vincennes." "That will do very well. Fill it up, Louvois! Put this villain's name in it! Let him be arrested to-night, and taken there in his own caleche. The shameless, ungrateful, foul-mouthed villain! Why did you bring me these letters, Louvois? Oh, why did you yield to my foolish whim? My God, is there no truth, or honour, or loyalty in the world?" He stamped his feet, and shook his clenched hands in the air in the frenzy of his anger and disappointment. "Shall I, then, put back the others?" asked Louvois eagerly. He had been on thorns since the king had begun to read them, not knowing what disclosures might come next. "Put them back, but keep the bag." "Both bags?" "Ah! I had forgot the other one. Perhaps if I have hypocrites around me, I have at least some honest subjects at a distance. Let us take one haphazard. Who is this from? Ah! it is from the Duc de la Rochefoucauld. He has ever seemed to be a modest and dutiful young man. What has he to say? The Danube--Belgrade--the grand vizier--Ah!" He gave a cry as if he had been stabbed. "What, then, sire?" The minister had taken a step forward, for he was frightened by the expression upon the king's face. "Take them away, Louvois! Take them away!" he cried, pushing the pile of papers away from him. "I would that I had never seen them! I will look at them no more! He gibes even at my courage, I who was in the trenches when he was in his cradle! 'This war would not suit the king,' he says. 'For there are battles, and none of the nice little safe sieges which are so dear to him.' By God, he shall pay to me with his head for that jest! Ay, Louvois, it will be a dear gibe to him. But take them away. I have seen as much as I can bear." The minister was thrusting them back into the bag when suddenly his eye caught the bold, clear writing of Madame de Maintenon upon one of the letters. Some demon whispered to him that here was a weapon which had been placed in his hands, with which he might strike one whose very name filled him with jealousy and hatred. Had she been guilty of some indiscretion in this note, then he might even now, at this last hour, turn the king's heart against her. He was an astute man, and in an instant he had seen his chance and grasped it. "Ha!" said he, "it was hardly necessary to open this one." "Which, Louvois? Whose is it?" The minister pushed forward the letter, and Louis started as his eyes fell upon it. "Madame's writing!" he gasped. "Yes; it is to her nephew in Germany." Louis took it in his hand. Then, with a sudden motion, he threw it down among the others, and then yet again his hand stole towards it. His face was gray and haggard, and beads of moisture had broken out upon his brow. If this too were to prove to be as the others! He was shaken to the soul at the very thought. Twice he tried to pluck it out, and twice his trembling fingers fumbled with the paper. Then he tossed it over to Louvois. "Read it to me," said he. The minister opened the letter out and flattened it upon the table, with a malicious light dancing in his eyes, which might have cost him his position had the king but read it aright. "'My dear nephew,'" he read, "'what you ask me in your last is absolutely impossible. I have never abused the king's favour so far as to ask for any profit for myself, and I should be equally sorry to solicit any advance for my relatives. No one would rejoice more than I to see you rise to be major in your regiment, but your valour and your loyalty must be the cause, and you must not hope to do it through any word of mine. To serve such a man as the king is its own reward, and I am sure that whether you remain a cornet or rise to some higher rank, you will be equally zealous in his cause. He is surrounded, unhappily, by many base parasites. Some of these are mere fools, like Lauzun; others are knaves, like the late Fouquet; and some seem to be both fools and knaves, like Louvois, the minister of war.'" Here the reader choked with rage, and sat gurgling and drumming his fingers upon the table. "Go on, Louvois, go on," said Louis, smiling up at the ceiling. "'These are the clouds which surround the sun, my dear nephew; but the sun is, believe me, shining brightly behind them. For years I have known that noble nature as few others can know it, and I can tell you that his virtues are his own, but that if ever his glory is for an instant dimmed over, it is because his kindness of heart has allowed him to be swayed by those who are about him. We hope soon to see you back at Versailles, staggering under the weight of your laurels. Meanwhile accept my love and every wish for your speedy promotion, although it cannot be obtained in the way which you suggest.'" "Ah," cried the king, his love shining in his eyes, "how could I for an instant doubt her! And yet I had been so shaken by the others! Francoise is as true as steel. Was it not a beautiful letter, Louvois?" "Madame is a very clever woman," said the minister evasively. "And such a reader of hearts! Has she not seen my character aright?" "At least she has not read mine, sire." There was a tap at the door, and Bontems peeped in. "The archbishop has arrived, sire." "Very well, Bontems. Ask madame to be so good as to step this way. And order the witnesses to assemble in the ante-room." As the valet hastened away, Louis turned to his minister: "I wish you to be one of the witnesses, Louvois." "To what, sire?" "To my marriage." The minister started. "What, sire! Already?" "Now, Louvois; within five minutes." "Very good, sire." The unhappy courtier strove hard to assume a more festive manner; but the night had been full of vexation to him, and to be condemned to assist in making this woman the king's wife was the most bitter drop of all. "Put these letters away, Louvois. The last one has made up for all the rest. But these rascals shall smart for it, all the same. By-the-way, there is that young nephew to whom madame wrote. Gerard d'Aubigny is his name, is it not?" "Yes, sire." "Make him out a colonel's commission, and give him the next vacancy, Louvois." "A colonel, sire! Why, he is not yet twenty." "Ay, Louvois. Pray, am I the chief of the army, or are you? Take care, Louvois! I have warned you once before. I tell you, man, that if I choose to promote one of my jack-boots to be the head of a brigade, you shall not hesitate to make out the papers. Now go into the ante-room, and wait with the other witnesses until you are wanted." There had meanwhile been busy goings-on in the small room where the red lamp burned in front of the Virgin. Francoise de Maintenon stood in the centre, a little flush of excitement on her cheeks, and an unwonted light in her placid gray eyes. She was clad in a dress of shining white brocade, trimmed and slashed with silver serge, and fringed at the throat and arms with costly point lace. Three women, grouped around her, rose and stooped and swayed, putting a touch here and a touch there, gathering in, looping up, and altering until all was to their taste. "There!" said the head dressmaker, giving a final pat to a rosette of gray silk; "I think that will do, your Majes--that is to say, madame." The lady smiled at the adroit slip of the courtier dressmaker. "My tastes lean little towards dress," said she, "yet I would fain look as he would wish me to look." "Ah, it is easy to dress madame. Madame has a figure. Madame has a carriage. What costume would not look well with such a neck and waist and arm to set it off? But, ah, madame, what are we to do when we have to make the figure as well as the dress? There was the Princess Charlotte Elizabeth. It was but yesterday that we cut her gown. She was short, madame, but thick. Oh, it is incredible how thick she was! She uses more cloth than madame, though she is two hand-breadths shorter. Ah, I am sure that the good God never meant people to be as thick as that. But then, of course, she is Bavarian and not French." But madame was paying little heed to the gossip of the dressmaker. Her eyes were fixed upon the statue in the corner, and her lips were moving in prayer--prayer that she might be worthy of this great destiny which had come so suddenly upon her, a poor governess; that she might walk straight among the pitfalls which surrounded her upon every side; that this night's work might bring a blessing upon France and upon the man whom she loved. There came a discreet tap at the door to break in upon her prayer. "It is Bontems, madame," said Mademoiselle Nanon. "He says that the king is ready." "Then we shall not keep him waiting. Come, mademoiselle, and may God shed His blessing upon what we are about to do!" The little party assembled in the king's ante-room, and started from there to the private chapel. In front walked the portly bishop, clad in a green vestment, puffed out with the importance of the function, his missal in his hand, and his fingers between the pages at the service _de matrimoniis_. Beside him strode his almoner, and two little servitors of the court in crimson cassocks bearing lighted torches. The king and Madame de Maintenon walked side by side, she quiet and composed, with gentle bearing and downcast eyes, he with a flush on his dark cheeks, and a nervous, furtive look in his eyes, like a man who knows that he is in the midst of one of the great crises of his life. Behind them, in solemn silence, followed a little group of chosen witnesses, the lean, silent Pere la Chaise, Louvois, scowling heavily at the bride, the Marquis de Charmarante, Bontems, and Mademoiselle Nanon. The torches shed a strong yellow light upon this small band as they advanced slowly through the corridors and _salons_ which led to the chapel, and they threw a garish glare upon the painted walls and ceilings, flashing back from gold-work and from mirror, but leaving long trailing shadows in the corners. The king glanced nervously at these black recesses, and at the portraits of his ancestors and relations which lined the walls. As he passed that of his late queen, Maria Theresa, he started and gasped with horror. "My God!" he whispered; "she frowned and spat at me!" Madame laid her cool hand upon his wrist. "It is nothing, sire," she murmured, in her soothing voice. "It was but the light flickering over the picture." Her words had their usual effect upon him. The startled look died away from his eyes, and taking her hand in his he walked resolutely forwards. A minute later they were before the altar, and the words were being read which should bind them forever together. As they turned away again, her new ring blazing upon her finger, there was a buzz of congratulation around her. The king only said nothing, but he looked at her, and she had no wish that he should say more. She was still calm and pale, but the blood throbbed in her temples. "You are Queen of France now," it seemed to be humming--"queen, queen, queen!" But a sudden shadow had fallen across her, and a low voice was in her ear. "Remember your promise to the Church," it whispered. She started, and turned to see the pale, eager face of the Jesuit beside her. "Your hand has turned cold, Francoise," said Louis. "Let us go, dearest. We have been too long in this dismal church." CHAPTER XX. THE TWO FRANCOISES. Madame de Montespan had retired to rest, easy in her mind, after receiving the message from her brother. She knew Louis as few others knew him, and she was well aware of that obstinacy in trifles which was one of his characteristics. If he had said that he would be married by the archbishop, then the archbishop it must be; to-night, at least, there should be no marriage. To-morrow was a new day, and if it did not shake the king's plans, then indeed she must have lost her wit as well as her beauty. She dressed herself with care in the morning, putting on her powder, her little touch of rouge, her one patch near the dimple of her cheek, her loose robe of violet velvet, and her casconet of pearls with all the solicitude of a warrior, who is bracing on his arms for a life and death contest. No news had come to her of the great event of the previous night, although the court already rang with it, for her haughtiness and her bitter tongue had left her without a friend or intimate. She rose, therefore, in the best of spirits, with her mind set on the one question as to how best she could gain an audience with the king. She was still in her boudoir putting the last touches to her toilet when her page announced to her that the king was waiting in her _salon_. Madame de Montespan could hardly believe in such good fortune. She had racked her brain all morning as to how she should win her way to him, and here he was waiting for her. With a last glance at the mirror, she hastened to meet him. He was standing with his back turned, looking up at one of Snyders's paintings, when she entered; but as she closed the door, he turned and took two steps towards her. She had run forward with a pretty little cry of joy, her white arms outstretched, and love shining on her face; but he put out his hand, gently and yet with decision, with a gesture which checked her approach. Her hands dropped to her side, her lip trembled, and she stood looking at him with her grief and her fears all speaking loudly from her eyes. There was a look upon his features which she had never seen before, and already something was whispering at the back of her soul that to-day at least his spirit was stronger than her own. "You are angry with me again," she cried. He had come with every intention of beginning the interview by telling her bluntly of his marriage; but now, as he looked upon her beauty and her love, he felt that it would have been less brutal to strike her down at his feet. Let some one else tell her, then. She would know soon enough. Besides, there would be less chance then of a scene, which was a thing abhorrent to his soul. His task was, in any case, quite difficult enough. All this ran swiftly through his mind, and she as swiftly read it off in the brown eyes which gazed at her. "You have something you came to say, and now you have not the heart to say it. God bless the kindly heart which checks the cruel tongue." "No, no, madame," said Louis; "I would not be cruel. I cannot forget that my life has been brightened and my court made brilliant during all these years by your wit and your beauty. But times change, madame, and I owe a duty to the world which overrides my own personal inclinations. For every reason I think that it is best that we should arrange in the way which we discussed the other day, and that you should withdraw yourself from the court." "Withdraw, sire! For how long?" "It must be a permanent withdrawal, madame." She stood with clenched hands and a pale face staring at him. "I need not say that I shall make your retirement a happy one as far as in me lies. Your allowance shall be fixed by yourself; a palace shall be erected for you in whatever part of France you may prefer, provided that it is twenty miles from Paris. An estate also--" "Oh, sire, how can you think that such things as these would compensate me for the loss of your love?" Her heart had turned to lead within her breast. Had he spoken hotly and angrily she might have hoped to turn him as she had done before; but this gentle and yet firm bearing was new to him, and she felt that all her arts were vain against it. His coolness enraged her, and yet she strove to choke down her passion and to preserve the humble attitude which was least natural to her haughty and vehement spirit; but soon the effort became too much for her. "Madame," said he, "I have thought well over this matter, and it must be as I say. There is no other way at all. Since we must part, the parting had best be short and sharp. Believe me, it is no pleasant matter for me either. I have ordered your brother to have his carriage at the postern at nine o'clock, for I thought that perhaps you would wish to retire after nightfall." "To hide my shame from a laughing court! It was thoughtful of you, sire. And yet, perhaps, this too was a duty, since we hear so much of duties nowadays, for who was it but you--" "I know, madame, I know. I confess it. I have wronged you deeply. Believe me that every atonement which is in my power shall be made. Nay, do not look so angrily at me, I beg. Let our last sight of each other be one which may leave a pleasant memory behind it." "A pleasant memory!" All the gentleness and humility had fallen from her now, and her voice had the hard ring of contempt and of anger. "A pleasant memory! It may well be pleasant to you, who are released from the woman whom you ruined, who can turn now to another without any pale face to be seen within the _salons_ of your court to remind you of your perfidy. But to me, pining in some lonely country house, spurned by my husband, despised by my family, the scorn and jest of France, far from all which gave a charm to life, far from the man for whose love I have sacrificed everything--this will be a very pleasant memory to me, you may be sure!" The king's eyes had caught the angry gleam which shot from hers, and yet he strove hard to set a curb upon his temper. When such a matter had to be discussed between the proudest man and the haughtiest woman in all France, one or the other must yield a point. He felt that it was for him to do so, and yet it did not come kindly to his imperious nature. "There is nothing to be gained, madame," said he, "by using words which are neither seemly for your tongue nor for my ears. You will do me the justice to confess that where I might command I am now entreating, and that instead of ordering you as my subject, I am persuading you as my friend." "Oh, you show too much consideration, sire! Our relations of twenty years or so can scarce suffice to explain such forbearance from you. I should indeed be grateful that you have not set your archers of the guard upon me, or marched me from the palace between a file of your musketeers. Sire, how can I thank you for this forbearance?" She curtsied low, with her face set in a mocking smile. "Your words are bitter, madame." "My heart is bitter, sire." "Nay, Francoise, be reasonable, I implore you. We have both left our youth behind." "The allusion to my years comes gratefully from your lips." "Ah, you distort my words. Then I shall say no more. You may not see me again, madame. Is there no question which you would wish to ask me before I go?" "Good God!" she cried; "is this a man? Has it a heart? Are these the lips which have told me so often that he loved me? Are these the eyes which have looked so fondly into mine? Can you then thrust away a woman whose life has been yours as you put away the St. Germain palace when a more showy one was ready for you? And this is the end of all those vows, those sweet whispers, those persuasions, those promises--This!" "Nay, madame, this is painful to both of us." "Pain! Where is the pain in your face? I see anger in it because I have dared to speak truth; I see joy in it because you feel that your vile task is done. But where is the pain? Ah, when I am gone all will be so easy to you--will it not? You can go back then to your governess--" "Madame!" "Yes, yes, you cannot frighten me! What do I care for all that you can do! But I know all. Do not think that I am blind. And so you would even have married her! You, the descendant of St. Louis, and she the Scarron widow, the poor drudge whom in charity I took into my household! Ah, how your courtiers will smile! how the little poets will scribble! how the wits will whisper! You do not hear of these things, of course, but they are a little painful for your friends." "My patience can bear no more," cried the king furiously. "I leave you, madame, and forever." But her fury had swept all fear and discretion from her mind. She stepped between the door and him, her face flushed, her eyes blazing, her face thrust a little forward, one small white satin slipper tapping upon the carpet. "You are in haste, sire! She is waiting for you, doubtless." "Let me pass, madame." "But it was a disappointment last night, was it not, my poor sire? Ah, and for the governess, what a blow! Great heaven, what a blow! No archbishop! No marriage! All the pretty plan gone wrong! Was it not cruel?" Louis gazed at the beautiful furious face in bewilderment, and it flashed across his mind that perhaps her grief had turned her brain. What else could be the meaning of this wild talk of the archbishop and the disappointment? It would be unworthy of him to speak harshly to one who was so afflicted. He must soothe her, and, above all, he must get away from her. "You have had the keeping of a good many of my family jewels," said he. "I beg that you will still retain them as a small sign of my regard." He had hoped to please her and to calm her, but in an instant she was over at her treasure-cupboard hurling double handfuls of precious stones down at his feet. They clinked and rattled, the little pellets of red and yellow and green, rolling, glinting over the floor and rapping up against the oak panels at the base of the walls. "They will do for the governess if the archbishop comes at last," she cried. He was more convinced than ever that she had lost her wits. A thought struck him by which he might appeal to all that was softer and more gentle in her nature. He stepped swiftly to the door, pushed it half open, and gave a whispered order. A youth with long golden hair waving down over his black velvet doublet entered the room. It was her youngest son, the Count of Toulouse. "I thought that you would wish to bid him farewell," said Louis. She stood staring as though unable to realise the significance of his words. Then it was borne suddenly in upon her that her children as well as her lover were to be taken from her, that this other woman should see them and speak with them and win their love while she was far away. All that was evil and bitter in the woman flashed suddenly up in her, until for the instant she was what the king had thought her. If her son was not for her, then he should be for none. A jewelled knife lay among her treasures, ready to her hand. She caught it up and rushed at the cowering lad. Louis screamed and ran forward to stop her; but another had been swifter than he. A woman had darted through the open door, and had caught the upraised wrist. There was a moment's struggle, two queenly figures swayed and strained, and the knife dropped between their feet. The frightened Louis caught it up, and seizing his little son by the wrist, he rushed from the apartment. Francoise de Montespan staggered back against the ottoman to find herself confronted by the steady eyes and set face of that other Francoise, the woman whose presence fell like a shadow at every turn of her life. "I have saved you, madame, from doing that which you would have been the first to bewail." "Saved me! It is you who have driven me to this!" The fallen favourite leaned against the high back of the ottoman, her hands resting behind her upon the curve of the velvet. Her lids were half closed on her flashing eyes, and her lips just parted to show a gleam of her white teeth. Here was the true Francoise de Montespan, a feline creature crouching for a spring, very far from that humble and soft-spoken Francoise who had won the king back by her gentle words. Madame de Maintenon's hand had been cut in the struggle, and the blood was dripping down from the end of her fingers, but neither woman had time to spare a thought upon that. Her firm gray eyes were fixed upon her former rival as one fixes them upon some weak and treacherous creature who may be dominated by a stronger will. "Yes, it is you who have driven me to this--you, whom I picked up when you were hard pressed for a crust of bread or a cup of sour wine. What had you? You had nothing--nothing except a name which was a laughing-stock. And what did I give you? I gave you everything. You know that I gave you everything. Money, position, the entrance to the court. You had them all from me. And now you mock me!" "Madame, I do not mock you. I pity you from the bottom of my heart." "Pity? Ha! ha! A Mortemart is pitied by the widow Scarron! Your pity may go where your gratitude is, and where your character is. We shall be troubled with it no longer then." "Your words do not pain me." "I can believe that you are not sensitive." "Not when my conscience is at ease." "Ah! it has not troubled you, then?" "Not upon this point, madame." "My God! How terrible must those other points have been!" "I have never had an evil thought towards you." "None towards me? Oh, woman, woman!" "What have I done, then? The king came to my room to see the children taught. He stayed. He talked. He asked my opinion on this and that. Could I be silent? or could I say other than what I thought?" "You turned him against me!" "I should be proud indeed if I thought that I had turned him to virtue." "The word comes well from your lips." "I would that I heard it upon yours." "And so, by your own confession, you stole the king's love from me, most virtuous of widows!" "I had all gratitude and kindly thought for you. You have, as you have so often reminded me, been my benefactress. It was not necessary for you to say it, for I had never for an instant forgotten it. Yet if the king has asked me what I thought, I will not deny to you that I have said that sin is sin, and that he would be a worthier man if he shook off the guilty bonds which held him." "Or exchanged them for others." "For those of duty." "Pah! Your hypocrisy sickens me! If you pretend to be a nun, why are you not where the nuns are? You would have the best of two worlds-- would you not?--have all that the court can give, and yet ape the manners of the cloister. But you need not do it with me! I know you as your inmost heart knows you. I was honest, and what I did, I did before the world. You, behind your priests and your directors and your _prie-dieus_ and your missals--do you think that you deceive me, as you deceive others?" Her antagonist's gray eyes sparkled for the first time, and she took a quick step forward, with one white hand half lifted in rebuke. "You may speak as you will of me," said she. "To me it is no more than the foolish paroquet that chatters in your ante-room. But do not touch upon things which are sacred. Ah, if you would but raise your own thoughts to such things--if you would but turn them inwards, and see, before it is too late, how vile and foul is this life which you have led! What might you not have done? His soul was in your hands like clay for the potter. If you had raised him up, if you had led him on the higher path, if you had brought out all that was noble and good within him, how your name would have been loved and blessed, from the chateau to the cottage! But no; you dragged him down; you wasted his youth; you drew him from his wife; you marred his manhood. A crime in one so high begets a thousand others in those who look to him for an example; and all, all are upon your soul. Take heed, madame, for God's sake take heed ere it be too late! For all your beauty, there can be for you, as for me, a few short years of life. Then, when that brown hair is white, when that white cheek is sunken, when that bright eye is dimmed--ah, then God pity the sin-stained soul of Francoise de Montespan!" Her rival had sunk her head for the moment before the solemn words and the beautiful eyes. For an instant she stood silent, cowed for the first time in all her life; but then the mocking, defiant spirit came back to her, and she glanced up with a curling lip. "I am already provided with a spiritual director, thank you," said she. "Oh, madame, you must not think to throw dust in my eyes! I know you, and know you well!" "On the contrary, you seem to know less than I had expected. If you know me so well, pray what am I?" All her rival's bitterness and hatred rang in the tones of her answer. "You are," said she, "the governess of my children, and the secret mistress of the king." "You are mistaken," answered Madame de Maintenon serenely. "I am the governess of your children, and I am the king's wife." CHAPTER XXI. THE MAN IN THE CALECHE. Often had De Montespan feigned a faint in the days when she wished to disarm the anger of the king. So she had drawn his arms round her, and won the pity which is the twin sister of love. But now she knew what it was to have the senses struck out of her by a word. She could not doubt the truth of what she heard. There was that in her rival's face, in her steady eye, in her quiet voice, which carried absolute conviction with it. She stood stunned for an instant, panting, her outstretched hands feeling at the air, her defiant eyes dulling and glazing. Then, with a short sharp cry, the wail of one who has fought hard and yet knows that she can fight no more, her proud head drooped, and she fell forward senseless at the feet of her rival. Madame de Maintenon stooped and raised her up in her strong white arms. There was true grief and pity in her eyes as she looked down at the snow-pale face which lay against her bosom, all the bitterness and pride gone out of it, and nothing left save the tear which sparkled under the dark lashes, and the petulant droop of the lip, like that of a child which had wept itself to sleep. She laid her on the ottoman and placed a silken cushion under her head. Then she gathered together and put back into the open cupboard all the jewels which were scattered about the carpet. Having locked it, and placed the key on the table where its owner's eye would readily fall upon it, she struck a gong, which summoned the little black page. "Your mistress is indisposed," said she. "Go and bring her maids to her." And so, having done all that lay with her to do, she turned away from the great silent room, where, amid the velvet and the gilding, her beautiful rival lay like a crushed flower, helpless and hopeless. Helpless enough, for what could she do? and hopeless too, for how could fortune aid her? The instant that her senses had come back to her she had sent away her waiting women, and lay with clasped hands and a drawn face planning out her own weary future. She must go; that was certain. Not merely because it was the king's order, but because only misery and mockery remained for her now in the palace where she had reigned supreme. It was true that she had held her position against the queen before, but all her hatred could not blind her to the fact that her rival was a very different woman to poor meek little Maria Theresa. No; her spirit was broken at last. She must accept defeat, and she must go. She rose from the couch, feeling that she had aged ten years in an hour. There was much to be done, and little time in which to do it. She had cast down her jewels when the king had spoken as though they would atone for the loss of his love; but now that the love was gone there was no reason why the jewels should be lost too. If she had ceased to be the most powerful, she might still be the richest woman in France. There was her pension, of course. That would be a munificent one, for Louis was always generous. And then there was all the spoil which she had collected during these long years--the jewels the pearls, the gold, the vases, the pictures, the crucifixes, the watches, the trinkets--together they represented many millions of livres. With her own hands she packed away the more precious and portable of them, while she arranged with her brother for the safe-keeping of the others. All day she was at work in a mood of feverish energy, doing anything and everything which might distract her thoughts from her own defeat and her rival's victory. By evening all was ready, and she had arranged that her property should be sent after her to Petit Bourg, to which castle she intended to retire. It wanted half an hour of the time fixed for her departure, when a young cavalier, whose face was strange to her, was ushered into the room. He came with a message from her brother. "Monsieur de Vivonne regrets, madame, that the rumour of your departure has got abroad among the court." "What do I care for that, monsieur?" she retorted, with all her old spirit. "He says, madame, that the courtiers may assemble at the west gate to see you go; that Madame de Neuilly will be there, and the Duchesse de Chambord, and Mademoiselle de Rohan, and--" The lady shrank with horror at the thought of such an ordeal. To drive away from the palace, where she had been more than queen, under the scornful eyes and bitter gibes of so many personal enemies! After all the humiliations of the day, that would be the crowning cup of sorrow. Her nerve was broken. She could not face it. "Tell my brother, monsieur, that I should be much obliged if he would make fresh arrangements, by which my departure might be private." "He bade me say that he had done so, madame." "Ah! at what hour then?" "Now. As soon as possible." "I am ready. At the west gate then?" "No; at the east. The carriage waits." "And where is my brother?" "We are to pick him up at the park gate." "And why that?" "Because he is watched; and were he seen beside the carriage, all would be known." "Very good. Then, monsieur, if you will take my cloak and this casket we may start at once." They made their way by a circuitous route through the less-used corridors, she hurrying on like a guilty creature, a hood drawn over her face, and her heart in a flutter at every stray footfall. But fortune stood her friend. She met no one, and soon found herself at the eastern postern gate. A couple of phlegmatic Swiss guardsmen leaned upon their muskets upon either side, and the lamp above shone upon the carriage which awaited her. The door was open, and a tall cavalier swathed in a black cloak handed her into it. He then took the seat opposite to her, slammed the door, and the caleche rattled away down the main drive. It had not surprised her that this man should join her inside the coach, for it was usual to have a guard there, and he was doubtless taking the place which her brother would afterwards occupy. That was all natural enough. But when ten minutes passed by, and he had neither moved nor spoken, she peered at him through the gloom with some curiosity. In the glance which she had of him, as he handed her in, she had seen that he was dressed like a gentleman, and there was that in his bow and wave as he did it which told her experienced senses that he was a man of courtly manners. But courtiers, as she had known them, were gallant and garrulous, and this man was so very quiet and still. Again she strained her eyes through the gloom. His hat was pulled down and his cloak was still drawn across his mouth, but from out of the shadow she seemed to get a glimpse of two eyes which peered at her even as she did at him. At last the silence impressed her with a vague uneasiness. It was time to bring it to an end. "Surely, monsieur, we have passed the park gate where we were to pick up my brother." Her companion neither answered nor moved. She thought that perhaps the rumble of the heavy caleche had drowned her voice. "I say, monsieur," she repeated, leaning forwards, "that we have passed the place where we were to meet Monsieur de Vivonne." He took no notice. "Monsieur," she cried, "I again remark that we have passed the gates." There was no answer. A thrill ran through her nerves. Who or what could he be, this silent man? Then suddenly it struck her that he might be dumb. "Perhaps monsieur is afflicted," she said. "Perhaps monsieur cannot speak. If that be the cause of your silence, will you raise your hand, and I shall understand." He sat rigid and silent. Then a sudden mad fear came upon her, shut up in the dark with this dreadful voiceless thing. She screamed in her terror, and strove to pull down the window and open the door. But a grip of steel closed suddenly round her wrist and forced her back into her seat. And yet the man's body had not moved, and there was no sound save the lurching and rasping of the carriage and the clatter of the flying horses. They were already out on the country roads far beyond Versailles. It was darker than before, heavy clouds had banked over the heavens, and the rumbling of thunder was heard low down on the horizon. The lady lay back panting upon the leather cushions of the carriage. She was a brave woman, and yet this sudden strange horror coming upon her at the moment when she was weakest had shaken her to the soul. She crouched in the corner, staring across with eyes which were dilated with terror at the figure on the other side. If he would but say something! Any revelation, any menace, was better than this silence. It was so dark now that she could hardly see his vague outline, and every instant, as the storm gathered, it became still darker. The wind was blowing in little short angry puffs, and still there was that far-off rattle and rumble. Again the strain of the silence was unbearable. She must break it at any cost. "Sir," said she, "there is some mistake here. I do not know by what right you prevent me from pulling down the window and giving my directions to the coachman." He said nothing. "I repeat, sir, that there is some mistake. This is the carriage of my brother, Monsieur de Vivonne, and he is not a man who will allow his sister to be treated uncourteously." A few heavy drops of rain splashed against one window. The clouds were lower and denser. She had quite lost sight of that motionless figure, but it was all the more terrible to her now that it was unseen. She screamed with sheer terror, but her scream availed no more than her words. "Sir," she cried, clutching forward with her hands and grasping his sleeve, "you frighten me. You terrify me. I have never harmed you. Why should you wish to hurt an unfortunate woman? Oh, speak to me; for God's sake, speak!" Still the patter of rain upon the window, and no other sound save her own sharp breathing. "Perhaps you do not know who I am!" she continued, endeavouring to assume her usual tone of command, and talking now to an absolute and impenetrable darkness. "You may learn when it is too late that you have chosen the wrong person for this pleasantry. I am the Marquise de Montespan, and I am not one who forgets a slight. If you know anything of the court, you must know that my word has some weight with the king. You may carry me away in this carriage, but I am not a person who can disappear without speedy inquiry, and speedy vengeance if I have been wronged. If you would--Oh, Jesus! Have mercy!" A livid flash of lightning had burst from the heart of the cloud, and, for an instant, the whole country-side and the interior of the caleche were as light as day. The man's face was within a hand's breadth of her own, his mouth wide open, his eyes mere shining slits, convulsed with silent merriment. Every detail flashed out clear in that vivid light-- his red quivering tongue, the lighter pink beneath it, the broad white teeth, the short brown beard cut into a peak and bristling forward. But it was not the sudden flash, it was not the laughing, cruel face, which shot an ice-cold shudder through Francoise de Montespan. It was that, of all men upon earth, this was he whom she most dreaded, and whom she had least thought to see. "Maurice!" she screamed. "Maurice! it is you!" "Yes, little wifie, it is I. We are restored to each other's arms, you see, after this interval." "Oh, Maurice, how you have frightened me! How could you be so cruel? Why would you not speak to me?" "Because it was so sweet to sit in silence and to think that I really had you to myself after all these years, with none to come between. Ah, little wifie, I have often longed for this hour." "I have wronged you, Maurice; I have wronged you! Forgive me!" "We do not forgive in our family, my darling Francoise. Is it not like old days to find ourselves driving together? And in this carriage, too. It is the very one which bore us back from the cathedral where you made your vows so prettily. I sat as I sit now, and you sat there, and I took your hand like this, and I pressed it, and--" "Oh, villain, you have twisted my wrist! You have broken my arm!" "Oh, surely not, my little wifie! And then you remember that, as you told me how truly you would love me, I leaned forward to your lips, and--" "Oh, help! Brute, you have cut my mouth! You have struck me with your ring." "Struck you! Now who would have thought that spring day when we planned out our future, that this also was in the future waiting for me and you? And this! and this!" He struck savagely at her face in the darkness. She threw herself down, her head pressed against the cushions. With the strength and fury of a maniac he showered his blows above her, thudding upon the leather or crashing upon the woodwork, heedless of his own splintered hands. "So I have silenced you," said he at last. "I have stopped your words with my kisses before now. But the world goes on, Francoise, and times change, and women grow false, and men grow stern." "You may kill me if you will," she moaned. "I will," he said simply. Still the carriage flew along, jolting and staggering in the deeply-rutted country roads. The storm had passed, but the growl of the thunder and the far-off glint of a lightning-flash were to be heard and seen on the other side of the heavens. The moon shone out with its clear cold light, silvering the broad, hedgeless, poplar-fringed plains, and shining through the window of the carriage upon the crouching figure and her terrible companion. He leaned back now, his arms folded upon his chest, his eyes gloating upon the abject misery of the woman who had wronged him. "Where are you taking me?" she asked at last. "To Portillac, my little wifie." "And why there? What would you do to me?" "I would silence that little lying tongue forever. It shall deceive no more men." "You would murder me?" "If you call it that." "You have a stone for a heart." "My other was given to a woman." "Oh, my sins are indeed punished." "Rest assured that they will be." "Can I do nothing to atone?" "I will see that you atone." "You have a sword by your side, Maurice. Why do you not kill me, then, if you are so bitter against me? Why do you not pass it through my heart?" "Rest assured that I would have done so had I not an excellent reason." "Why, then?" "I will tell you. At Portillac I have the right of the high justice, the middle, and the low. I am seigneur there, and can try, condemn, and execute. It is my lawful privilege. This pitiful king will not even know how to avenge you, for the right is mine, and he cannot gainsay it without making an enemy of every seigneur in France." He opened his mouth again and laughed at his own device, while she, shivering in every limb, turned away from his cruel face and glowing eyes, and buried her face in her hands. Once more she prayed God to forgive her for her poor sinful life. So they whirled through the night behind the clattering horses, the husband and the wife, saying nothing, but with hatred and fear raging in their hearts, until a brazier fire shone down upon them from the angle of a keep, and the shadow of the huge pile loomed vaguely up in front of them in the darkness. It was the Castle of Portillac. CHAPTER XXII. THE SCAFFOLD OF PORTILLAC. And thus it was that Amory de Catinat and Amos Green saw from their dungeon window the midnight carriage which discharged its prisoner before their eyes. Hence, too, came that ominous planking and that strange procession in the early morning. And thus it also happened that they found themselves looking down upon Francoise de Montespan as she was led to her death, and that they heard that last piteous cry for aid at the instant when the heavy hand of the ruffian with the axe fell upon her shoulder, and she was forced down upon her knees beside the block. She shrank screaming from the dreadful, red-stained, greasy billet of wood, but the butcher heaved up his weapon, and the seigneur had taken a step forward with hand outstretched to seize the long auburn hair and to drag the dainty head down with it when suddenly he was struck motionless with astonishment, and stood with his foot advanced and his hand still out, his mouth half open, and his eyes fixed in front of him. And, indeed, what he had seen was enough to fill any man with amazement. Out of the small square window which faced him a man had suddenly shot head-foremost, pitching on to his outstretched hands and then bounding to his feet. Within a foot of his heels came the head of a second one, who fell more heavily than the first, and yet recovered himself as quickly. The one wore the blue coat with silver facings of the king's guard; the second had the dark coat and clean-shaven face of a man of peace; but each carried a short rusty iron bar in his hand. Not a word did either of them say, but the soldier took two quick steps forward and struck at the headsman while he was still poising himself for a blow at the victim. There was a thud, with a crackle like a breaking egg, and the bar flew into pieces. The heads-man gave a dreadful cry, and dropped his axe, clapped his two hands to his head, and running zigzag across the scaffold, fell over, a dead man, into the courtyard beneath. Quick as a flash De Catinat had caught up the axe, and faced De Montespan with the heavy weapon slung over his shoulder and a challenge in his eyes. "Now!" said he. The seigneur had for the instant been too astounded to speak. Now he understood at least that these strangers had come between him and his prey. "Seize these men!" he shrieked, turning to his followers. "One moment!" cried De Catinat, with a voice and manner which commanded attention. "You see by my coat what I am. I am the body-servant of the king. Who touches me touches him. Have a care for yourselves. It is a dangerous game!" "On, you cowards!" roared De Montespan. But the men-at-arms hesitated, for the fear of the king was as a great shadow which hung over all France. De Catinat saw their indecision, and he followed up his advantage. "This woman," he cried, "is the king's own favourite, and if any harm come to a lock of her hair, I tell you that there is not a living soul within this portcullis who will not die a death of torture. Fools, will you gasp out your lives upon the rack, or writhe in boiling oil, at the bidding of this madman?" "Who are these men, Marceau?" cried the seigneur furiously. "They are prisoners, your excellency." "Prisoners! Whose prisoners?" "Yours, your excellency." "Who ordered you to detain them?" "You did. The escort brought your signet-ring." "I never saw the men. There is devilry in this. But they shall not beard me in my own castle, nor stand between me and my own wife. No, _par dieu!_ they shall not and live! You men, Marceau, Etienne, Gilbert, Jean, Pierre, all you who have eaten my bread, on to them, I say!" He glanced round with furious eyes, but they fell only upon hung heads and averted faces. With a hideous curse he flashed out his sword and rushed at his wife, who knelt half insensible beside the block. De Catinat sprang between them to protect her; but Marceau, the bearded seneschal, had already seized his master round the waist. With the strength of a maniac, his teeth clenched and the foam churning from the corners of his lips, De Montespan writhed round in the man's grasp, and shortening his sword, he thrust it through the brown beard and deep into the throat behind it. Marceau fell back with a choking cry, the blood bubbling from his mouth and his wound; but before his murderer could disengage his weapon, De Catinat and the American, aided by a dozen of the retainers, had dragged him down on to the scaffold, and Amos Green had pinioned him so securely that he could but move his eyes and his lips, with which he lay glaring and spitting at them. So savage were his own followers against him--for Marceau was well loved amongst them-- that, with axe and block so ready, justice might very swiftly have had her way, had not a long clear bugle-call, rising and falling in a thousand little twirls and flourishes, clanged out suddenly in the still morning air. De Catinat pricked up his ears at the sound of it like a hound at the huntsman's call. "Did you hear, Amos?" "It was a trumpet." "It was the guards' bugle-call. You, there, hasten to the gate! Throw up the portcullis and drop the drawbridge! Stir yourselves, or even now you may suffer for your master's sins! It has been a narrow escape, Amos!" "You may say so, friend. I saw him put out his hand to her hair, even as you sprang from the window. Another instant and he would have had her scalped. But she is a fair woman, the fairest that ever my eyes rested upon, and it is not fit that she should kneel here upon these boards." He dragged her husband's long black cloak from him, and made a pillow for the senseless woman with a tenderness and delicacy which came strangely from a man of his build and bearing. He was still stooping over her when there came the clang of the falling bridge, and an instant later the clatter of the hoofs of a troop of cavalry, who swept with wave of plumes, toss of manes, and jingle of steel into the courtyard. At the head was a tall horseman in the full dress of the guards, with a curling feather in his hat, high buff gloves, and his sword gleaming in the sunlight. He cantered forward towards the scaffold, his keen dark eyes taking in every detail of the group which awaited him there. De Catinat's face brightened at the sight of him, and he was down in an instant beside his stirrup. "De Brissac!" "De Catinat! Now where in the name of wonder did you come from?" "I have been a prisoner. Tell me, De Brissac, did you leave the message in Paris?" "Certainly I did." "And the archbishop came?" "He did." "And the marriage?" "Took place as arranged. That is why this poor woman whom I see yonder has had to leave the palace." "I thought as much." "I trust that no harm has come to her?" "My friend and I were just in time to save her. Her husband lies there. He is a fiend, De Brissac." "Very likely; but an angel might have grown bitter had he had the same treatment." "We have him pinioned here. He has slain a man, and I have slain another." "On my word, you have been busy." "How did you know that we were here?" "Nay, that is an unexpected pleasure." "You did not come for us, then?" "No; we came for the lady." "And how did this fellow get hold of her?" "Her brother was to have taken her in his carriage. Her husband learned it, and by a lying message he coaxed her into his own, which was at another door. When De Vivonne found that she did not come, and that her rooms were empty, he made inquiries, and soon learned how she had gone. De Montespan's arms had been seen on the panel, and so the king sent me here with my troop as fast as we could gallop." "Ah, and you would have come too late had a strange chance not brought us here. I know not who it was who waylaid us, for this man seemed to know nothing of the matter. However, all that will be clearer afterwards. What is to be done now?" "I have my own orders. Madame is to be sent to Petit Bourg, and any who are concerned in offering her violence are to be kept until the king's pleasure is known. The castle, too, must be held for the king. But you, De Catinat, you have nothing to do now?" "Nothing, save that I would like well to ride into Paris to see that all is right with my uncle and his daughter." "Ah, that sweet little cousin of thine! By my soul, I do not wonder that the folk know you well in the Rue St. Martin. Well, I have carried a message for you once, and you shall do as much for me now." "With all my heart. And whither?" "To Versailles. The king will be on fire to know how we have fared. You have the best right to tell him, since without you and your friend yonder it would have been but a sorry tale." "I will be there in two hours." "Have you horses?" "Ours were slain." "You will find some in the stables here. Pick the best, since you have lost your own in the king's service." The advice was too good to be overlooked. De Catinat, beckoning to Amos Green, hurried away with him to the stables, while De Brissac, with a few short sharp orders, disarmed the retainers, stationed his guardsmen all over the castle, and arranged for the removal of the lady, and for the custody of her husband. An hour later the two friends were riding swiftly down the country road, inhaling the sweet air, which seemed the fresher for their late experience of the dank, foul vapours of their dungeon. Far behind them a little dark pinnacle jutting over a grove of trees marked the chateau which they had left, while on the extreme horizon to the west there came a quick shimmer and sparkle where the level rays of the early sun gleamed upon the magnificent palace which was their goal. CHAPTER XXIII. THE FALL OF THE CATINATS. Two days after Madame de Maintenon's marriage to the king there was held within the humble walls of her little room a meeting which was destined to cause untold misery to many hundreds of thousands of people, and yet, in the wisdom of Providence, to be an instrument in carrying French arts and French ingenuity and French sprightliness among those heavier Teutonic peoples who have been the stronger and the better ever since for the leaven which they then received. For in history great evils have sometimes arisen from a virtue, and most beneficent results have often followed hard upon a crime. The time had come when the Church was to claim her promise from madame, and her pale cheek and sad eyes showed how vain it had been for her to try and drown the pleadings of her tender heart by the arguments of the bigots around her. She knew the Huguenots of France. Who could know them better, seeing that she was herself from their stock, and had been brought up in their faith? She knew their patience, their nobility, their independence, their tenacity. What chance was there that they would conform to the king's wish? A few great nobles might, but the others would laugh at the galleys, the jail, or even the gallows when the faith of their fathers was at stake. If their creed were no longer tolerated, then, and if they remained true to it, they must either fly from the country or spend a living death tugging at an oar or working in a chain-gang upon the roads. It was a dreadful alternative to present to a people who were so numerous that they made a small nation in themselves. And most dreadful of all, that she who was of their own blood should cast her voice against them. And yet her promise had been given, and now the time had come when it must be redeemed. The eloquent Bishop Bossuet was there, with Louvois, the minister of war, and the famous Jesuit, Father la Chaise, each piling argument upon argument to overcome the reluctance of the king. Beside them stood another priest, so thin and so pale that he might have risen from his bed of death, but with a fierce light burning in his large dark eyes, and with a terrible resolution in his drawn brows and in the set of his grim, lanky jaw. Madame bent over her tapestry and weaved her coloured silks in silence, while the king leaned upon his hand and listened with the face of a man who knows that he is driven, and yet can hardly turn against the goads. On the low table lay a paper, with pen and ink beside it. It was the order for the revocation, and it only needed the king's signature to make it the law of the land. "And so, father, you are of opinion that if I stamp out heresy in this fashion I shall assure my own salvation in the next world?" he asked. "You will have merited a reward." "And you think so too, Monsieur Bishop?" "Assuredly, sire." "And you. Abbe du Chayla?" The emaciated priest spoke for the first time, a tinge of colour creeping into his corpse-like cheeks, and a more lurid light in his deep-set eyes. "I know not about assuring your salvation, sire. I think it would take very much more to do that. But there cannot be a doubt as to your damnation if you do not do it." The king started angrily, and frowned at the speaker. "Your words are somewhat more curt than I am accustomed to," he remarked. "In such a matter it were cruel indeed to leave you in doubt. I say again that your soul's fate hangs upon the balance. Heresy is a mortal sin. Thousands of heretics would turn to the Church if you did but give the word. Therefore these thousands of mortal sins are all upon your soul. What hope for it then, if you do not amend?" "My father and my grandfather tolerated them." "Then, without some special extension of the grace of God, your father and your grandfather are burning in hell." "Insolent!" The king sprang from his seat. "Sire, I will say what I hold to be the truth were you fifty times a king. What care I for any man when I know that I speak for the King of kings? See; are these the limbs of one who would shrink from testifying to truth?" With a sudden movement he threw back the long sleeves of his gown and shot out his white fleshless arms. The bones were all knotted and bent and screwed into the most fantastic shapes. Even Louvois, the hardened man of the court, and his two brother priests, shuddered at the sight of those dreadful limbs. He raised them above his head and turned his burning eyes upwards. "Heaven has chosen me to testify for the faith before now," said he. "I heard that blood was wanted to nourish the young Church of Siam, and so to Siam I journeyed. They tore me open; they crucified me; they wrenched and split my bones. I was left as a dead man, yet God has breathed the breath of life back into me that I may help in this great work of the regeneration of France." "Your sufferings, father," said Louis, resuming his seat, "give you every claim, both upon the Church and upon me, who am its special champion and protector. What would you counsel, then, father, in the case of those Huguenots who refuse to change?" "They would change," cried Du Chayla, with a drawn smile upon his ghastly face. "They must bend or they must break. What matter if they be ground to powder, if we can but build up a complete Church in the land?" His deep-set eyes glowed with ferocity, and be shook one bony hand in savage wrath above his head. "The cruelty with which you have been used, then, has not taught you to be more tender to others." "Tender! To heretics! No, sire, my own pains have taught me that the world and the flesh are as nothing, and that the truest charity to another is to capture his soul at all risks to his vile body. I should have these Huguenot souls, sire, though I turned France into a shambles to gain them." Louis was evidently deeply impressed by the fearless words and the wild earnestness of the speaker. He leaned his head upon his hand for a little time, and remained sunk in the deepest thought. "Besides, sire," said Pere la Chaise softly, "there would be little need for these stronger measures of which the good abbe speaks. As I have already remarked to you, you are so beloved in your kingdom that the mere assurance that you had expressed your will upon the subject would be enough to turn them all to the true faith." "I wish that I could think so, father; I wish that I could think so. But what is this?" It was his valet who had half opened the door. "Captain de Catinat is here, who desires to see you at once, sire." "Ask the captain to enter. Ah!" A happy thought seemed to have struck him. "We shall see what love for me will do in such a matter, for if it is anywhere to be found it must be among my own body-servants." The guardsman had arrived that instant from his long ride, and leaving Amos Green with the horses, he had come on at once, all dusty and travel-stained, to carry his message to the king. He entered now, and stood with the quiet ease of a man who is used to such scenes, his hand raised in a salute. "What news, captain?" "Major de Brissac bade me tell you, sire, that he held the Castle of Portillac, that the lady is safe, and that her husband is a prisoner." Louis and his wife exchanged a quick glance of relief. "That is well," said he. "By the way, captain, you have served me in many ways of late, and always with success. I hear, Louvois, that De la Salle is dead of the small-pox." "He died yesterday, sire." "Then I desire that you make out the vacant commission of major to Monsieur de Catinat. Let me be the first to congratulate you, major, upon your promotion, though you will need to exchange the blue coat for the pearl and gray of the mousquetaires. We cannot spare you from the household, you see." De Catinat kissed the hand which the monarch held out to him. "May I be worthy of your kindness, sire!" "You would do what you could to serve me, would you not?" "My life is yours, sire." "Very good. Then I shall put your fidelity to the proof." "I am ready for any proof." "It is not a very severe one. You see this paper upon the table. It is an order that all the Huguenots in my dominions shall give up their errors, under pain of banishment or captivity. Now I have hopes that there are many of my faithful subjects who are at fault in this matter, but who will abjure it when they learn that it is my clearly expressed wish that they should do so. It would be a great joy to me to find that it was so, for it would be a pain to me to use force against any man who bears the name of Frenchman. Do you follow me?" "Yes, sire." The young man had turned deadly pale, and he shifted his feet, and opened and clasped his hands. He had faced death a dozen times and under many different forms, but never had he felt such a sinking of the heart as came over him now. "You are yourself a Huguenot, I understand. I would gladly have you, then, as the first-fruit of this great measure. Let us hear from your own lips that you, for one, are ready to follow the lead of your king in this as in other things." The young guardsman still hesitated, though his doubts were rather as to how he should frame his reply than as to what its substance should be. He felt that in an instant Fortune had wiped out all the good turns which she had done him during his past life, and that now, far from being in her debt, he held a heavy score against her. The king arched his eyebrows and drummed his fingers impatiently as he glanced at the downcast face and dejected bearing. "Why all this thought?" he cried. "You are a man whom I have raised and whom I will raise. He who has a major's epaulettes at thirty may carry a marshal's baton at fifty. Your past is mine, and your future shall be no less so. What other hopes have you?" "I have none, sire, outside your service." "Why this silence, then? Why do you not give the assurance which I demand?" "I cannot do it, sire." "You cannot do it!" "It is impossible. I should have no more peace in my mind, or respect for myself, if I knew that for the sake of position or wealth I had given up the faith of my fathers." "Man, you are surely mad! There is all that a man could covet upon one side, and what is there upon the other?" "There is my honour." "And is it, then, a dishonour to embrace my religion?" "It would be a dishonour to me to embrace it for the sake of gain without believing in it." "Then believe it." "Alas, sire, a man cannot force himself to believe. Belief is a thing which must come to him, not he to it." "On my word, father," said Louis, glancing with a bitter smile at his Jesuit confessor, "I shall have to pick the cadets of the household from your seminary, since my officers have turned casuists and theologians. So, for the last time, you refuse to obey my request?" "Oh, sire--" De Catinat took a step forward with outstretched hands and tears in his eyes. But the king checked him with a gesture. "I desire no protestations," said he. "I judge a man by his acts. Do you abjure or not?" "I cannot, sire." "You see," said Louis, turning again to the Jesuit, "it will not be as easy as you think." "This man is obstinate, it is true, but many others will be more yielding." The king shook his head. "I would that I knew what to do," said he. "Madame, I know that you, at least, will ever give me the best advice. You have heard all that has been said. What do you recommend?" She kept her eyes still fixed upon her tapestry, but her voice was firm and clear as she answered:-- "You have yourself said that you are the eldest son of the Church. If the eldest son desert her, then who will do her bidding? And there is truth, too, in what the holy abbe has said. You may imperil your own soul by condoning this sin of heresy. It grows and flourishes, and if it be not rooted out now, it may choke the truth as weeds and briers choke the wheat." "There are districts in France now," said Bossuet, "where a church is not to be seen in a day's journey, and where all the folk, from the nobles to the peasants, are of the same accursed faith. So it is in the Cevennes, where the people are as fierce and rugged as their own mountains. Heaven guard the priests who have to bring them back from their errors." "Whom should I send on so perilous a task?" asked Louis. The Abbe du Chayla was down in a instant upon his knees with his gaunt hands outstretched. "Send me, sire! Me!" he cried. "I have never asked a favour of you, and never will again. But I am the man who could break this people. Send me with your message to the people of the Cevennes." "God help the people of the Cevennes!" muttered Louis, as he looked with mingled respect and loathing at the emaciated face and fiery eyes of the fanatic. "Very well, abbe," he added aloud; "you shall go to the Cevennes." Perhaps for an instant there came upon the stern priest some premonition of that dreadful morning when, as he crouched in a corner of 'his burning home, fifty daggers were to rasp against each other in his body. He sunk his face in his hands, and a shudder passed over his gaunt frame. Then he rose, and folding his arms, he resumed his impassive attitude. Louis took up the pen from the table, and drew the paper towards him. "I have the same counsel, then, from all of you," said he,--"from you, bishop; from you, father; from you, madame; from you, abbe; and from you, Louvois. Well, if ill come from it, may it not be visited upon me! But what is this?" De Catinat had taken a step forward with his hand outstretched. His ardent, impetuous nature had suddenly broken down all the barriers of caution, and he seemed for the instant to see that countless throng of men, women, and children of his own faith, all unable to say a word for themselves, and all looking to him as their champion and spokesman. He had thought little of such matters when all was well, but now, when danger threatened, the deeper side of his nature was moved, and he felt how light a thing is life and fortune when weighed against a great abiding cause and principle. "Do not sign it, sire," he cried. "You will live to wish that your hand had withered ere it grasped that pen. I know it, sire. I am sure of it. Consider all these helpless folk--the little children, the young girls, the old and the feeble. Their creed is themselves. As well ask the leaves to change the twigs on which they grow. They could not change. At most you could but hope to turn them from honest folk into hypocrites. And why should you do it? They honour you. They love you. They harm none. They are proud to serve in your armies, to fight for you, to work for you, to build up the greatness of your kingdom. I implore you, sire, to think again before you sign an order which will bring misery and desolation to so many." For a moment the king had hesitated as he listened to the short abrupt sentences in which the soldier pleaded for his fellows, but his face hardened again as he remembered how even his own personal entreaty had been unable to prevail with this young dandy of the court. "France's religion should be that of France's king," said he, "and if my own guardsmen thwart me in such a matter, I must find others who will be more faithful. That major's commission in the mousquetaires must go to Captain de Belmont, Louvois." "Very good, sire." "And De Catinat's commission may be transferred to Lieutenant Labadoyere." "Very good, sire." "And I am to serve you no longer?" "You are too dainty for my service." De Catinat's arms fell listlessly to his side, and his head sunk forward upon his breast. Then, as he realised the ruin of all the hopes of his life, and the cruel injustice with which he had been treated, he broke into a cry of despair, and rushed from the room with the hot tears of impotent anger running down his face. So, sobbing, gesticulating, with coat unbuttoned and hat awry, he burst into the stable where placid Amos Green was smoking his pipe and watching with critical eyes the grooming of the horses. "What in thunder is the matter now?" he asked, holding his pipe by the bowl, while the blue wreaths curled up from his lips. "This sword," cried the Frenchman--"I have no right to wear it! I shall break it!" "Well, and I'll break my knife too if it will hearten you up." "And these," cried De Catinat, tugging at his silver shoulder-straps, "they must go." "Ah, you draw ahead of me there, for I never had any. But come, friend, let me know the trouble, that I may see if it may not be mended." "To Paris! to Paris!" shouted the guardsman frantically. "If I am ruined, I may yet be in time to save them. The horses, quick!" It was clear to the American that some sudden calamity had befallen, so he aided his comrade and the grooms to saddle and bridle. Five minutes later they were flying on their way, and in little more than an hour their steeds, all reeking and foam-flecked, were pulled up outside the high house in the Rue St. Martin. De Catinat sprang from his saddle and rushed upstairs, while Amos followed in his own leisurely fashion. The old Huguenot and his beautiful daughter were seated at one side of the great fireplace, her hand in his, and they sprang up together, she to throw herself with a glad cry into the arms of her lover, and he to grasp the hand which his nephew held out to him. At the other side of the fireplace, with a very long pipe in his mouth and a cup of wine upon a settle beside him, sat a strange-looking man, with grizzled hair and beard, a fleshy red projecting nose, and two little gray eyes, which twinkled out from under huge brindled brows. His long thin face was laced and seamed with wrinkles, crossing and recrossing everywhere, but fanning out in hundreds from the corners of his eyes. It was set in an unchanging expression, and as it was of the same colour all over, as dark as the darkest walnut, it might have been some quaint figure-head cut out of a coarse-grained wood. He was clad in a blue serge jacket, a pair of red breeches smeared at the knees with tar, clean gray worsted stockings, large steel buckles over his coarse square-toed shoes, and beside him, balanced upon the top of a thick oaken cudgel, was a weather-stained silver-laced hat. His gray-shot hair was gathered up behind into a short stiff tail, and a seaman's hanger, with a brass handle, was girded to his waist by a tarnished leather belt. De Catinat had been too occupied to take notice of this singular individual, but Amos Green gave a shout of delight at the sight of him, and ran forward to greet him. The other's wooden face relaxed so far as to show two tobacco-stained fangs, and, without rising, he held out a great red hand, of the size and shape of a moderate spade. "Why, Captain Ephraim," cried Amos in English, "who ever would have thought of finding you here? De Catinat, this is my old friend Ephraim Savage, under whose charge I came here." "Anchor's apeak, lad, and the hatches down," said the stranger, in the peculiar drawling voice which the New Englanders had retained from their ancestors, the English Puritans. "And when do you sail?" "As soon as your foot is on her deck, if Providence serve us with wind and tide. And how has all gone with thee, Amos?" "Right well. I have much to tell you of." "I trust that you have held yourself apart from all their popish devilry." "Yes, yes, Ephraim." "And have had no truck with the scarlet woman." "No, no; but what is it now?" The grizzled hair was bristling with rage, and the little gray eyes were gleaming from under the heavy tufts. Amos, following their gaze, saw that De Catinat was seated with his arm round Adele, while her head rested upon his shoulder. "Ah, if I but knew their snip-snap, lippetty-chippetty lingo! Saw one ever such a sight! Amos, lad, what is the French for 'a shameless hussy'?" "Nay, nay, Ephraim. Surely one may see such a sight, and think no harm of it, on our side of the water. "Never, Amos. In no godly country." "Tut! I have seen folks courting in New York." "Ah, New York! I said in no godly country. I cannot answer for New York or Virginia. South of Cape Cod, or of New Haven at the furthest, there is no saying what folk will do. Very sure I am that in Boston or Salem or Plymouth she would see the bridewell and he the stocks for half as much. Ah!" He shook his head and bent his brows at the guilty couple. But they and their old relative were far too engrossed with their own affairs to give a thought to the Puritan seaman. De Catinat had told his tale in a few short, bitter sentences, the injustice that had been done to him, his dismissal from the king's service, and the ruin which had come upon the Huguenots of France. Adele, as is the angel instinct of woman, thought only of her lover and his misfortunes as she listened to his story, but the old merchant tottered to his feet when he heard of the revocation of the Edict, and stood with shaking limbs, staring about him in bewilderment. "What am I to do?" he cried. "What am I to do? I am too old to begin my life again." "Never fear, uncle," said De Catinat heartily. "There are other lands beyond France." "But not for me. No, no; I am too old. Lord, but Thy hand is heavy upon Thy servants. Now is the vial opened, and the carved work of the sanctuary thrown down. Ah, what shall I do, and whither shall I turn?" He wrung his hands in his perplexity. "What is amiss with him, then, Amos?" asked the seaman. "Though I know nothing of what he says, yet I can see that he flies a distress signal." "He and his must leave the country, Ephraim." "And why?" "Because they are Protestants, and the king will not abide their creed." Ephraim Savage was across the room in an instant, and had enclosed the old merchant's thin hand in his own great knotted fist. There was a brotherly sympathy in his strong grip and rugged weather-stained face which held up the other's courage as no words could have done. "What is the French for 'the scarlet woman,' Amos?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder. "Tell this man that we shall see him through. Tell him that we've got a country where he'll just fit in like a bung in a barrel. Tell him that religion is free to all there, and not a papist nearer than Baltimore or the Capuchins of the Penobscot. Tell him that if he wants to come, the _Golden Rod_ is waiting with her anchor apeak and her cargo aboard. Tell him what you like, so long as you make him come." "Then we must come at once," said De Catinat, as he listened to the cordial message which was conveyed to his uncle. "To-night the orders will be out, and to-morrow it may be too late." "But my business!" cried the merchant. "Take what valuables you can, and leave the rest. Better that than lose all, and liberty into the bargain." And so at last it was arranged. That very night, within five minutes of the closing of the gates, there passed out of Paris a small party of five, three upon horseback, and two in a closed carriage which bore several weighty boxes upon the top. They were the first leaves flying before the hurricane, the earliest of that great multitude who were within the next few months to stream along every road which led from France, finding their journey's end too often in galley, dungeon and torture chamber, and yet flooding over the frontiers in numbers sufficient to change the industries and modify the characters of all the neighbouring peoples. Like the Israelites of old, they had been driven from their homes at the bidding of an angry king, who, even while he exiled them, threw every difficulty in the way of their departure. Like them, too, there were none of them who could hope to reach their promised land without grievous wanderings, penniless, friendless, and destitute. What passages befell these pilgrims in their travels, what dangers they met, and overcame in the land of the Swiss, on the Rhine, among the Walloons, in England, in Ireland, in Berlin, and even in far-off Russia, has still to be written. This one little group, however, whom we know, we may follow in their venturesome journey, and see the chances which befell them upon that great continent which had lain fallow for so long, sown only with the weeds of humanity, but which was now at last about to quicken into such glorious life. PART II. IN THE NEW WORLD. CHAPTER XXIV. THE START OF THE "GOLDEN ROD." Thanks to the early tidings which the guardsman had brought with him, his little party was now ahead of the news. As they passed through the village of Louvier in the early morning they caught a glimpse of a naked corpse upon a dunghill, and were told by a grinning watchman that it was that of a Huguenot who had died impenitent, but that was a common enough occurrence already, and did not mean that there had been any change in the law. At Rouen all was quiet, and Captain Ephraim Savage before evening had brought both them and such property as they had saved aboard of his brigantine, the Golden Rod. It was but a little craft, some seventy tons burden, but at a time when so many were putting out to sea in open boats, preferring the wrath of Nature to that of the king, it was a refuge indeed. The same night the seaman drew up his anchor and began to slowly make his way down the winding river. And very slow work it was. There was half a moon shining and a breeze from the east, but the stream writhed and twisted and turned until sometimes they seemed to be sailing up rather than down. In the long reaches they set the yard square and ran, but often they had to lower their two boats and warp her painfully along, Tomlinson of Salem, the mate, and six grave, tobacco-chewing, New England seamen with their broad palmetto hats, tugging and straining at the oars. Amos Green, De Catinat, and even the old merchant had to take their spell ere morning, when the sailors were needed aboard for the handling of the canvas. At last, however, with the early dawn the river broadened out and each bank trended away, leaving a long funnel-shaped estuary between. Ephraim Savage snuffed the air and paced the deck briskly with a twinkle in his keen gray eyes. The wind had fallen away, but there was still enough to drive them slowly upon their course. "Where's the gal?" he asked. "She is in my cabin," said Amos Green. "I thought that maybe she could manage there until we got across." "Where will you sleep yourself, then?" "Tut, a litter of spruce boughs and a sheet of birch bark over me have been enough all these years. What would I ask better than this deck of soft white pine and my blanket?" "Very good. The old man and his nephew, him with the blue coat, can have the two empty bunks. But you must speak to that man, Amos. I'll have no philandering aboard my ship, lad--no whispering or cuddling or any such foolishness. Tell him that this ship is just a bit broke off from Boston, and he'll have to put up with Boston ways until he gets off her. They've been good enough for better men than him. You give me the French for 'no philandering,' and I'll bring him up with a round turn when he drifts." "It's a pity we left so quick or they might have been married before we started. She's a good girl, Ephraim, and he is a fine man, for all that their ways are not the same as ours. They don't seem to take life so hard as we, and maybe they get more pleasure out of it." "I never heard tell that we were put here to get pleasure out of it," said the old Puritan, shaking his head. "The valley of the shadow of death don't seem to me to be the kind o' name one would give to a play-ground. It is a trial and a chastening, that's what it is, the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity. We're bad from the beginning, like a stream that runs from a tamarack swamp, and we've enough to do to get ourselves to rights without any fool's talk about pleasure." "It seems to me to be all mixed up," said Amos. "like the fat and the lean in a bag of pemmican. Look at that sun just pushing its edge over the trees, and see the pink flush on the clouds and the river like a rosy ribbon behind us. It's mighty pretty to our eyes, and very pleasing to us, and it wouldn't be so to my mind if the Creator hadn't wanted it to be. Many a time when I have lain in the woods in the fall and smoked my pipe, and felt how good the tobacco was, and how bright the yellow maples were, and the purple ash, and the red tupelo blazing among the bushwood, I've felt that the real fool's talk was with the man who could doubt that all this was meant to make the world happier for us." "You've been thinking too much in them woods," said Ephraim Savage, gazing at him uneasily. "Don't let your sail be too great for your boat, lad, nor trust to your own wisdom. Your father was from the Bay, and you were raised from a stock that cast the dust of England from their feet rather than bow down to Baal. Keep a grip on the word and don't think beyond it. But what is the matter with the old man? He don't seem easy in his mind." The old merchant had been leaning over the bulwarks, looking back with a drawn face and weary eyes at the red curving track behind them which marked the path to Paris. Adele had come up now, with not a thought to spare upon the dangers and troubles which lay in front of her as she chafed the old man's thin cold hands, and whispered words of love and comfort into his ears. But they had come to the point where the gentle still-flowing river began for the first time to throb to the beat of the sea. The old man gazed forward with horror at the bowsprit as he saw it rise slowly upwards into the air, and clung frantically at the rail as it seemed to slip away from beneath him. "We are always in the hollow of God's hand," he whispered, "but oh, Adele, it is a dreadful thing to feel His fingers moving under us." "Come with me, uncle," said De Catinat, passing his arm under that of the old man. "It is long since you have rested. And you, Adele, I pray that you will go and sleep, my poor darling, for it has been a weary journey. Go now, to please me, and when you wake, both France and your troubles will lie behind you." When father and daughter had left the deck, De Catinat made his way aft again to where Amos Green and the captain were standing. "I am glad to get them below, Amos," said he, "for I fear that we may have trouble yet." "And how?" "You see the white road which runs by the southern bank of the river. Twice within the last half-hour I have seen horsemen spurring for dear life along it. Where the spires and smoke are yonder is Honfleur, and thither it was that these men went. I know not who could ride so madly at such an hour unless they were the messengers of the king. Oh, see, there is a third one!" On the white band which wound among the green meadows a black dot could be seen which moved along with great rapidity, vanished behind a clump of trees, and then reappeared again, making for the distant city. Captain Savage drew out his glass and gazed at the rider. "Ay, ay," said he, as he snapped it up again. "It is a soldier, sure enough. I can see the glint of the scabbard which he carries on his larboard side. I think we shall have more wind soon. With a breeze we can show our heels to anything in French waters, but a galley or an armed boat would overhaul us now." De Catinat, who, though he could speak little English, had learned in America to understand it pretty well, looked anxiously at Amos Green. "I fear that we shall bring trouble on this good captain," said he, "and that the loss of his cargo and ship may be his reward for having befriended us. Ask him whether he would not prefer to land us on the north bank. With our money we might make our way into the Lowlands." Ephraim Savage looked at his passenger with eyes which had lost something of their sternness. "Young man," said he, "I see that you can understand something of my talk." De Catinat nodded. "I tell you then that I am a bad man to beat. Any man that was ever shipmates with me would tell you as much. I just jam my helm and keep my course as long as God will let me. D'ye see?" De Catinat again nodded, though in truth the seaman's metaphors left him with but a very general sense of his meaning. "We're comin' abreast of that there town, and in ten minutes we shall know if there is any trouble waiting for us. But I'll tell you a story as we go that'll show you what kind o' man you've shipped with. It was ten years ago that I speak of, when I was in the _Speedwell_, sixty-ton brig, tradin' betwixt Boston and Jamestown, goin' south with lumber and skins and fixin's, d'ye see, and north again with tobacco and molasses. One night, blowin' half a gale from the south'ard, we ran on a reef two miles to the east of Cape May, and down we went with a hole in our bottom like as if she'd been spitted on the steeple o' one o' them Honfleur churches. Well, in the morning there I was washin' about, nigh out of sight of land, clingin' on to half the foreyard, without a sign either of my mates or of wreckage. I wasn't so cold, for it was early fall, and I could get three parts of my body on to the spar, but I was hungry and thirsty and bruised, so I just took in two holes of my waist-belt, and put up a hymn, and had a look round for what I could see. Well, I saw more than I cared for. Within five paces of me there was a great fish, as long pretty nigh as the spar that I was grippin'. It's a mighty pleasant thing to have your legs in the water and a beast like that all ready for a nibble at your toes." "_Mon Dieu!_" cried the French soldier. "And he have not eat you?" Ephraim Savage's little eyes twinkled at the reminiscence. "I ate him," said he. "What!" cried Amos. "It's a mortal fact. I'd a jack-knife in my pocket, Same as this one, and I kicked my legs to keep the brute off, and I whittled away at the spar until I'd got a good jagged bit off, sharp at each end, same as a nigger told me once down Delaware way. Then I waited for him, and stopped kicking, so he came at me like a hawk on a chick-a-dee. When he turned up his belly I jammed my left hand with the wood right into his great grinnin' mouth, and I let him have it with my knife between the gills. He tried to break away then, but I held on, d'ye see, though he took me so deep I thought I'd never come up again. I was nigh gone when we got to the surface, but he was floatin' with the white up, and twenty holes in his shirt front. Then I got back to my spar, for we'd gone a long fifty fathoms under water, and when I reached it I fainted dead away." "And then?" "Well, when I came to, it was calm, and there was the dead shark floatin' beside me. I paddled my spar over to him and I got loose a few yards of halliard that were hangin' from one end of it. I made a clove-hitch round his tail, d'ye see, and got the end of it slung over the spar and fastened, so as I couldn't lose him. Then I set to work and I ate him in a week right up to his back fin, and I drank the rain that fell on my coat, and when I was picked up by the _Gracie_ of Gloucester, I was that fat that I could scarce climb aboard. That's what Ephraim Savage means, my lad, when he says that he is a baddish man to beat." Whilst the Puritan seaman had been detailing his reminiscence, his eyes had kept wandering from the clouds to the flapping sails and back. Such wind as there was came in little short puffs, and the canvas either drew full or was absolutely slack. The fleecy shreds of cloud above, however, travelled swiftly across the blue sky. It was on these that the captain fixed his gaze, and he watched them like a man who is working out a problem in his mind. They were abreast of Honfleur now, and about half a mile out from it. Several sloops and brigs were lying there in a cluster, and a whole fleet of brown-sailed fishing-boats were tacking slowly in. Yet all was quiet on the curving quay and on the half-moon fort over which floated the white flag with the golden _fleur-de-lis_. The port lay on their quarter now and they were drawing away more quickly as the breeze freshened. De Catinat glancing back had almost made up his mind that their fears were quite groundless when they were brought back in an instant and more urgently than ever. Round the corner of the mole a great dark boat had dashed into view, ringed round with foam from her flying prow, and from the ten pairs of oars which swung from either side of her. A dainty white ensign drooped over her stern, and in her bows the sun's light was caught by a heavy brass carronade. She was packed with men, and the gleam which twinkled every now and again from amongst them told that they were armed to the teeth. The captain brought his glass to bear upon them and whistled. Then he glanced up at the clouds once more. "Thirty men," said he, "and they go three paces to our two. You, sir, take your blue coat off this deck or you'll bring trouble upon us. The Lord will look after His own if they'll only keep from foolishness. Get these hatches off, Tomlinson. So! Where's Jim Sturt and Hiram Jefferson? Let them stand by to clap them on again when I whistle. Starboard! Starboard! Keep her as full as she'll draw. Now, Amos, and you, Tomlinson, come here until I have a word with you." The three stood in consultation upon the poop, glancing back at their pursuers. There could be no doubt that the wind was freshening; it blew briskly in their faces as they looked back, but it was not steady yet, and the boat was rapidly overhauling them. Already they could see the faces of the marines who sat in the stern, and the gleam of the lighted linstock which the gunner held in his hand. "_Hola!_" cried an officer in excellent English. "Lay her to or we fire" "Who are you, and what do you want?" shouted Ephraim Savage, in a voice that might have been heard from the bank. "We come in the king's name, and we want a party of Huguenots from Paris who came on board of your vessel at Rouen." "Brace back the foreyard and lay her to," shouted the captain. "Drop a ladder over the side there and look smart! So! Now we are ready for them." The yard was swung round and the vessel lay quietly rising and falling on the waves. The boat dashed alongside, her brass cannon trained upon the brigantine, and her squad of marines with their fingers upon their triggers ready to open fire. They grinned and shrugged their shoulders when they saw that their sole opponents were three unarmed men upon the poop. The officer, a young active fellow with a bristling moustache, like the whiskers of a cat, was on deck in an instant with his drawn sword in his hand. "Come up, two of you!" he cried. "You stand here at the head of the ladder, sergeant. Throw up a rope and you can fix it to this stanchion. Keep awake down there and be all ready to fire! You come with me, Corporal Lemoine. Who is captain of this ship?" "I am, sir," said Ephraim Savage submissively. "You have three Huguenots aboard?" "Tut! tut! Huguenots, are they? I thought they were very anxious to get away, but as long as they paid their passage it was no business of mine. An old man, his daughter, and a young fellow about your age in some sort of livery." "In uniform, sir! The uniform of the king's guard. Those are the folk I have come for." "And you wish to take them back?" "Most certainly." "Poor folk! I am sorry for them." "And so am I, but orders are orders and must be done." "Quite so. Well, the old man is in his bunk asleep. The maid is in a cabin below. And the other is sleeping down the hold there where we had to put him, for there is no room elsewhere." "Sleeping, you say? We had best surprise him." "But think you that you dare do it alone! He has no arms, it is true, but he is a well-grown young fellow. Will you not have twenty men up from the boat?" Some such thought had passed through the officer's head, but the captain's remark put him upon his mettle. "Come with me, corporal," said he. "Down this ladder, you say?" "Yes, down the ladder and straight on. He lies between those two cloth bales." Ephraim Savage looked up with a smile playing about the corners of his grim mouth. The wind was whistling now in the rigging, and the stays of the mast were humming like two harp strings. Amos Green lounged beside the French sergeant who guarded the end of the rope ladder, while Tomlinson, the mate, stood with a bucket of water in his hand exchanging remarks in very bad French with the crew of the boat beneath him. The officer made his way slowly down the ladder which led into the hold, and the corporal followed him, and had his chest level with the deck when the other had reached the bottom. It may have been something in Ephraim Savage's face, or it may have been the gloom around him which startled the young Frenchman, but a sudden suspicion flashed into his mind. "Up again, corporal!" he shouted, "I think that you are best at the top." "And I think that you are best down below, my friend," said the Puritan, who gathered the officer's meaning from his gesture. Putting the sole of his boot against the man's chest he gave a shove which sent both him and the ladder crashing down on to the officer beneath him. As he did so he blew his whistle, and in a moment the hatch was back in its place and clamped down on each side with iron bars. The sergeant had swung round at the sound of the crash, but Amos Green, who had waited for the movement, threw his arms about him and hurled him overboard into the sea. At the same instant the connecting rope was severed, the foreyard creaked back into position again, and the bucketful of salt water soused down over the gunner and his gun, putting out his linstock and wetting his priming. A shower of balls from the marines piped through the air or rapped up against the planks, but the boat was tossing and jerking in the short choppy waves and to aim was impossible. In vain the men tugged and strained at their oars while the gunner worked like a maniac to relight his linstock and to replace his priming. The boat had lost its weigh, while the brigantine was flying along now with every sail bulging and swelling to bursting-point. Crack! went the carronade at last, and five little slits in the mainsail showed that her charge of grape had flown high. Her second shot left no trace behind it, and at the third she was at the limit of her range. Half an hour afterwards a little dark dot upon the horizon with a golden speck at one end of it was all that could be seen of the Honfleur guard-boat. Wider and wider grew the low-lying shores, broader and broader was the vast spread of blue waters ahead, the smoke of Havre lay like a little cloud upon the northern horizon, and Captain Ephraim Savage paced his deck with his face as grim as ever, but with a dancing light in his gray eyes. "I knew that the Lord would look after His own," said he complacently. "We've got her beak straight now, and there's not as much as a dab of mud betwixt this and the three hills of Boston. You've had too much of these French wines of late, Amos, lad. Come down and try a real Boston brewing with a double stroke of malt in the mash tub." CHAPTER XXV. A BOAT OF THE DEAD. For two days the _Golden Rod_ lay becalmed close to the Cape La Hague, with the Breton coast extending along the whole of the southern horizon. On the third morning, however, came a sharp breeze, and they drew rapidly away from land, until it was but a vague dim line which blended with the cloud banks. Out there on the wide free ocean, with the wind on their cheeks and the salt spray pringling upon their lips, these hunted folk might well throw off their sorrows and believe that they had left for ever behind them all tokens of those strenuous men whose earnest piety had done more harm than frivolity and wickedness could have accomplished. And yet even now they could not shake off their traces, for the sin of the cottage is bounded by the cottage door, but that of the palace spreads its evil over land and sea. "I am frightened about my father, Amory," said Adele, as they stood together by the shrouds and looked back at the dim cloud upon the horizon which marked the position of that France which they were never to see again. "But he is out of danger now." "Out of danger from cruel laws, but I fear that he will never see the promised land." "What do you mean, Adele? My uncle is hale and hearty." "Ah, Amory, his very heart-roots were fastened in the Rue St. Martin, and when they were torn his life was torn also. Paris and his business, they were the world to him." "But he will accustom himself to this new life." "If it only could be so! But I fear, I fear, that he is over old for such a change. He says not a word of complaint. But I read upon his face that he is stricken to the heart. For hours together he will gaze back at France, with the tears running silently down his cheeks. And his hair has turned from gray to white within the week." De Catinat also had noticed that the gaunt old Huguenot had grown gaunter, that the lines upon his stern face were deeper, and that his head fell forward upon his breast as he walked. He was about, however, to suggest that the voyage might restore the merchant's health, when Adele gave a cry of surprise and pointed out over the port quarter. So beautiful was she at the instant with her raven hair blown back by the wind, a glow of colour struck into her pale cheeks by the driving spray, her lips parted in her excitement, and one white hand shading her eyes, that he stood beside her with all his thoughts bent upon her grace and her sweetness. "Look!" she cried. "There is something floating upon the sea. I saw it upon the crest of a wave." He looked in the direction in which she pointed, but at first he saw nothing. The wind was still behind them, and a brisk sea was running of a deep rich green colour, with long creamy curling caps to the larger waves. The breeze would catch these foam-crests from time to time, and then there would be a sharp spatter upon the decks, with a salt smack upon the lips, and a pringling in the eyes. Suddenly as he gazed, however, something black was tilted up upon the sharp summit of one of the seas, and swooped out of view again upon the further side. It was so far from him that he could make nothing of it, but sharper eyes than his had caught a glance of it. Amos Green had seen the girl point and observed what it was which had attracted her attention. "Captain Ephraim," cried he, "there's a boat on the starboard quarter." The New England seaman whipped up his glass and steadied it upon the bulwark. "Ay, it's a boat," said he, "but an empty one. Maybe it's been washed off from some ship, or gone adrift from shore. Put her hard down, Mr. Tomlinson, for it just so happens that I am in need of a boat at present." Half a minute later the _Golden Rod_ had swung round and was running swiftly down towards the black spot which still bobbed and danced upon the waves. As they neared her they could see that something was projecting over her side. "It's a man's head!" cried Amos Green. But Ephraim Savage's grim face grew grimmer. "It's a man's foot," said he. "I think that you had best take the gal below to the cabin." Amid a solemn hush they ran alongside this lonely craft which hung out so sinister a signal. Within ten yards of her the foreyard was hauled aback and they gazed down upon her terrible crew. She was a little thirteen-foot cockle-shell, very broad for her length and so flat in the bottom that she had been meant evidently for river or lake work. Huddled together beneath the seats were three folk, a man in the dress of a respectable artisan, a woman of the same class, and a little child about a year old. The boat was half full of water and the woman and child were stretched with their faces downwards, the fair curls of the infant and the dark locks of the mother washing to and fro like water-weeds upon the surface. The man lay with a slate-coloured face, his chin cocking up towards the sky, his eyes turned upwards to the whites, and his mouth wide open showing a leathern crinkled tongue like a rotting leaf. In the bows, all huddled in a heap, and with a single paddle still grasped in his hand, there crouched a very small man clad in black, an open book lying across his face, and one stiff leg jutting upwards with the heel of the foot resting between the rowlocks. So this strange company swooped and tossed upon the long green Atlantic rollers. A boat had been lowered by the _Golden Rod_, and the unfortunates were soon conveyed upon deck. No particle of either food or drink was to be found, nor anything save the single paddle and the open Bible which lay across the small man's face. Man, woman, and child had all been dead a day at the least, and so with the short prayers used upon the seas they were buried from the vessel's side. The small man had at first seemed also to be lifeless, but Amos had detected some slight flutter of his heart, and the faintest haze was left upon the watch glass which was held before his mouth. Wrapped in a dry blanket he was laid beside the mast, and the mate forced a few drops of rum every few minutes between his lips until the little spark of life which still lingered in him might be fanned to a flame. Meanwhile Ephraim Savage had ordered up the two prisoners whom he had entrapped at Honfleur. Very foolish they looked as they stood blinking and winking in the daylight from which they had been so long cut off. "Very sorry, captain," said the seaman, "but either you had to come with us, d'ye see, or we had to stay with you. They're waiting for me over at Boston, and in truth I really couldn't tarry." The French soldier shrugged his shoulders and looked around him with a lengthening face. He and his corporal were limp with sea-sickness, and as miserable as a Frenchman is when first he finds that France has vanished from his view. "Which would you prefer, to go on with us to America, or go back to France?" "Back to France, if I can find my way. Oh, I must get to France again if only to have a word with that fool of a gunner." "Well, we emptied a bucket of water over his linstock and priming, d'ye see, so maybe he did all he could. But there's France, where that thickening is over yonder." "I see it! I see it! Ah, if my feet were only upon it once more." "There is a boat beside us, and you may take it." "My God, what happiness! Corporal Lemoine, the boat! Let us push off at once." "But you need a few things first. Good Lord, who ever heard of a man pushing off like that! Mr. Tomlinson, just sling a keg of water and a barrel of meat and of biscuit into this boat. Hiram Jefferson, bring two oars aft. It's a long pull with the wind in your teeth, but you'll be there by to-morrow night, and the weather is set fair." The two Frenchmen were soon provided with all that they were likely to require, and pushed off with a waving of hats and a shouting of _bon voyage_. The foreyard was swung round again and the _Golden Rod_ turned her bowsprit for the west. For hours a glimpse could be caught of the boat, dwindling away on the wave-tops, until at last it vanished into the haze, and with it vanished the very last link which connected them with the great world which they were leaving behind them. But whilst these things had been done, the senseless man beneath the mast had twitched his eyelids, had drawn a little gasping breath, and then finally had opened his eyes. His skin was like gray parchment drawn tightly over his bones, and the limbs which thrust out from his clothes were those of a sickly child. Yet, weak as he was, the large black eyes with which he looked about him were full of dignity and power. Old Catinat had come upon deck, and at the sight of the man and of his dress he had run forward, and had raised his head reverently and rested it in his own arms. "He is one of the faithful," he cried, "he is one of our pastors. Ah, now indeed a blessing will be upon our journey!" But the man smiled gently and shook his head. "I fear that I may not come this journey with you," said he, "for the Lord has called me upon a further journey of my own. I have had my summons and I am ready. I am indeed the pastor of the temple at Isigny, and when we heard the orders of the wicked king, I and two of the faithful with their little one put forth in the hope that we might come to England. But on the first day there came a wave which swept away one of our oars and all that was in the boat, our bread, our keg, and we were left with no hope save in Him. And then He began to call us to Him one at a time, first the child, and then the woman, and then the man, until I only am left, though I feel that my own time is not long. But since ye are also of the faithful, may I not serve you in any way before I go?" The merchant shook his head, and then suddenly a thought flashed upon him, and he ran with joy upon his face and whispered eagerly to Amos Green. Amos laughed, and strode across to the captain. "It's time," said Ephraim Savage grimly. Then the whisperers went to De Catinat. He sprang in the air and his eyes shone with delight. And then they went down to Adele in her cabin, and she started and blushed, and turned her sweet face away, and patted her hair with her hands as woman will when a sudden call is made upon her. And so, since haste was needful, and since even there upon the lonely sea there was one coming who might at any moment snap their purpose, they found themselves in a few minutes, this gallant man and this pure woman, kneeling hand in hand before the dying pastor, who raised his thin arm feebly in benediction as he muttered the words which should make them forever one. Adele had often pictured her wedding to herself, as what young girl has not? Often in her dreams she had knelt before the altar with Amory in the temple of the Rue St. Martin. Or sometimes her fancy had taken her to some of those smaller churches in the provinces, those little refuges where a handful of believers gathered together, and it was there that her thoughts had placed the crowning act of a woman's life. But when had she thought of such a marriage as this, with the white deck swaying beneath them, the ropes humming above, their only choristers the gulls which screamed around them, and their wedding hymn the world-old anthem which is struck from the waves by the wind? And when could she forget the scene? The yellow masts and the bellying sails, the gray drawn face and the cracked lips of the castaway, her father's gaunt earnest features as he knelt to support the dying minister, De Catinat in his blue coat, already faded and weather-stained. Captain Savage with his wooden face turned towards the clouds, and Amos Green with his hands in his pockets and a quiet twinkle in his blue eyes! Then behind all the lanky mate and the little group of New England seamen with their palmetto hats and their serious faces! And so it was done amid kindly words in a harsh foreign tongue, and the shaking of rude hands hardened by the rope and the oar. De Catinat and his wife leaned together by the shrouds when all was over and watched the black side as it rose and fell, and the green water which raced past them. "It is all so strange and so new," she said. "Our future seems as vague and dark as yonder cloud-banks which gather in front of us." "If it rest with me," he answered, "your future will be as merry and bright as the sunlight that glints on the crest of these waves. The country that drove us forth lies far behind us, but out there is another and a fairer country, and every breath of wind wafts us nearer to it. Freedom awaits us there, and we bear with us youth and love, and what could man or woman ask for more?" So they stood and talked while the shadows deepened into twilight and the first faint gleam of the stars broke out in the darkening heavens above them. But ere those stars had waned again one more toiler had found rest aboard the _Golden Rod_, and the scattered flock from Isigny had found their little pastor once more. CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST PORT. For three weeks the wind kept at east or north-east, always at a brisk breeze and freshening sometimes into half a gale. The _Golden Rod_ sped merrily upon her way with every sail drawing, alow and aloft, so that by the end of the third week Amos and Ephraim Savage were reckoning out the hours before they would look upon their native land once more. To the old seaman who was used to meeting and to parting it was a small matter, but Amos, who had never been away before, was on fire with impatience, and would sit smoking for hours with his legs astride the shank of the bowsprit, staring ahead at the skyline, in the hope that his friend's reckoning had been wrong, and that at any moment he might see the beloved coast line looming up in front of him. "It's no use, lad," said Captain Ephraim, laying his great red hand upon his shoulder. "They that go down to the sea in ships need a power of patience, and there's no good eatin' your heart out for what you can't get." "There's a feel of home about the air, though," Amos answered. "It seems to whistle through your teeth with a bite to it that I never felt over yonder. Ah, it will take three months of the Mohawk Valley before I feel myself to rights." "Well," said his friend, thrusting a plug of Trinidado tobacco into the corner of his cheek, "I've been on the sea since I had hair to my face, mostly in the coast trade, d'ye see, but over the water as well, as far as those navigation laws would let me. Except the two years that I came ashore for the King Philip business, when every man that could carry a gun was needed on the border, I've never been three casts of a biscuit from salt water, and I tell you that I never knew a better crossing than the one we have just made." "Ay, we have come along like a buck before a forest fire. But it is strange to me how you find your way so clearly out here with never track nor trail to guide you. It would puzzle me, Ephraim, to find America, to say nought of the Narrows of New York." "I am somewhat too far to the north, Amos. We have been on or about the fiftieth since we sighted Cape La Hague. To-morrow we should make land, by my reckonin'." "Ah, to-morrow! And what will it be? Mount Desert? Cape Cod? Long Island?" "Nay, lad, we are in the latitude of the St. Lawrence, and are more like to see the Arcadia coast. Then with this wind a day should carry us south, or two at the most. A few more such voyages and I shall buy myself a fair brick house in Green Lane of North Boston, where I can look down on the bay, or on the Charles or the Mystic, and see the ships comin' and goin'. So I would end my life in peace and quiet." All day Amos Green, in spite of his friend's assurance, strained his eyes in the fruitless search for land, and when at last the darkness fell he went below and laid out his fringed hunting tunic, his leather gaiters, and his raccoon-skin cap, which were very much more to his taste than the broadcloth coat in which the Dutch mercer of New York had clad him. De Catinat had also put on the dark coat of civil life, and he and Adele were busy preparing all things for the old man, who had fallen so weak that there was little which he could do for himself. A fiddle was screaming in the forecastle, and half the night through hoarse bursts of homely song mingled with the dash of the waves and the whistle of the wind, as the New England men in their own grave and stolid fashion made merry over their home-coming. The mate's watch that night was from twelve to four, and the moon was shining brightly for the first hour of it. In the early morning, however, it clouded over, and the _Golden Rod_ plunged into one of those dim clammy mists which lie on all that tract of ocean. So thick was it that from the poop one could just make out the loom of the foresail, but could see nothing of the fore-topmast-stay sail or the jib. The wind was north-east with a very keen edge to it, and the dainty brigantine lay over, scudding along with her lee rails within hand's touch of the water. It had suddenly turned very cold--so cold that the mate stamped up and down the poop, and his four seamen shivered together under the shelter of the bulwarks. And then in a moment one of them was up, thrusting with his forefinger into the air and screaming, while a huge white wall sprang out of the darkness at the very end of the bowsprit, and the ship struck with a force which snapped her two masts like dried reeds in a wind, and changed her in an instant to a crushed and shapeless heap of spars and wreckage. The mate had shot the length of the poop at the shock, and had narrowly escaped from the falling mast, while of his four men two had been hurled through the huge gap which yawned in the bows, while a third had dashed his head to pieces against the stock of the anchor. Tomlinson staggered forwards to find the whole front part of the vessel driven inwards, and a single seaman sitting dazed amid splintered spars, flapping sails, and writhing, lashing cordage. It was still as dark as pitch, and save the white crest of a leaping wave nothing was to be seen beyond the side of the vessel. The mate was peering round him in despair at the ruin which had come so suddenly upon them when he found Captain Ephraim at his elbow, half clad, but as wooden and as serene as ever. "An iceberg," said he, sniffing at the chill air. "Did you not smell it, friend Tomlinson?" "Truly I found it cold, Captain Savage, but I set it down to the mist." "There is a mist ever set around them, though the Lord in His wisdom knows best why, for it is a sore trial to poor sailor men. She makes water fast, Mr. Tomlinson. She is down by the bows already." The other watch had swarmed upon deck and one of them was measuring the well. "There is three feet of water," he cried, "and the pumps sucked dry yesterday at sundown." "Hiram Jefferson and John Moreton to the pumps!" cried the captain. "Mr. Tomlinson, clear away the long-boat and let us see if we may set her right, though I fear that she is past mending." "The long-boat has stove two planks," cried a seaman. "The jolly-boat, then?" "She is in three pieces." The mate tore his hair, but Ephraim Savage smiled like a man who is gently tickled by some coincidence. "Where is Amos Green?" "Here, Captain Ephraim. What can I do?" "And I?" asked De Catinat eagerly. Adele and her father had been wrapped in mantles and placed for shelter in the lee of the round house. "Tell him he can take his spell at the pumps," said the Captain to Amos. "And you, Amos, you are a handy man with a tool. Get into yonder long-boat with a lantern and see if you cannot patch her up." For half an hour Amos Green hammered and trimmed and caulked, while the sharp measured clanking of the pumps sounded above the dash of the seas. Slowly, very slowly, the bows of the brigantine were settling down, and her stern cocking up. "You've not much time, Amos, lad," said the captain quietly. "She'll float now, though she's not quite water-tight." "Very good. Lower away! Keep up the pump in there! Mr. Tomlinson, see that provisions and water are ready, as much as she will hold. Come with me, Hiram Jefferson." The seaman and the captain swung themselves down into the tossing boat, the latter with a lantern strapped to his waist. Together they made their way until they were under her mangled bows. The captain shook his head when he saw the extent of the damage. "Cut away the foresail and pass it over," said he. Tomlinson and Amos Green cut away the lashings with their knives and lowered the corner of the sail. Captain Ephraim and the seaman seized it, and dragged it across the mouth of the huge gaping leak. As he stooped to do it, however, the ship heaved up upon a swell, and the captain saw in the yellow light of his lantern sinuous black cracks which radiated away backwards from the central hole. "How much in the well?" he asked. "Five and a half feet." "Then the ship is lost. I could put my finger between her planks as far as I can see back. Keep the pumps going there! Have you the food and water, Mr. Tomlinson?" "Here, sir." "Lower them over the bows. This boat cannot live more than an hour or two. Can you see anything of the berg?" "The fog is lifting on the starboard quarter," cried one of the men. "Yes, there is the berg, quarter of a mile to leeward!" The mist had thinned away suddenly, and the moon glimmered through once more upon the great lonely sea and the stricken ship. There, like a huge sail, was the monster piece of ice upon which they had shattered themselves, rocking slowly to and fro with the wash of the waves. "You must make for her," said Captain Ephraim. "There is no other chance. Lower the gal over the bows! Well, then, her father first, if she likes it better. Tell them to sit still, Amos, and that the Lord will bear us up if we keep clear of foolishness. So! You're a brave lass for all your niminy-piminy lingo. Now the keg and the barrel, and all the wraps and cloaks you can find. Now the other man, the Frenchman. Ay, ay, passengers first, and you have got to come. Now, Amos! Now the seamen, and you last, friend Tomlinson." It was well that they had not very far to go, for the boat was weighed down almost to the edge, and it took the baling of two men to keep in check the water which leaked in between the shattered planks. When all were safely in their places. Captain Ephraim Savage swung himself aboard again, which was but too easy now that every minute brought the bows nearer to the water. He came back with a bundle of clothing which he threw into the boat. "Push off!" he cried. "Jump in, then." "Ephraim Savage goes down with his ship," said he quietly. "Friend Tomlinson, it is not my way to give my orders more than once. Push off, I say!" The mate thrust her out with a boat-hook. Amos and De Catinat gave a cry of dismay, but the stolid New Englanders settled down to their oars and pulled off for the iceberg. "Amos! Amos! Will you suffer it?" cried the guardsman in French. "My honour will not permit me to leave him thus. I should feel it a stain for ever." "Tomlinson, you would not leave him! Go on board and force him to come." "The man is not living who could force him to do what he had no mind for." "He may change his purpose." "He never changes his purpose." "But you cannot leave him, man! You must at least lie by and pick him up." "The boat leaks like a sieve," said the mate. "I will take her to the berg, leave you all there, if we can find footing, and go back for the captain. Put your heart into it, my lads, for the sooner we are there the sooner we shall get back." But they had not taken fifty strokes before Adele gave a sudden scream. "My God!" she cried, "the ship is going down!" She had settled lower and lower in the water, and suddenly with a sound of rending planks she thrust down her bows like a diving water-fowl, her stern flew up into the air, and with a long sucking noise she shot down swifter and swifter until the leaping waves closed over her high poop lantern. With one impulse the boat swept round again and made backwards as fast as willing arms could pull it. But all was quiet at the scene of the disaster. Not even a fragment of wreckage was left upon the surface to show where the _Golden Rod_ had found her last harbour. For a long quarter of an hour they pulled round and round in the moonlight, but not a glimpse could they see of the Puritan seaman, and at last, when in spite of the balers the water was washing round their ankles, they put her head about once more, and made their way in silence and with heavy hearts to their dreary island of refuge. Desolate as it was, it was their only hope now, for the leak was increasing and it was evident that the boat could not be kept afloat long. As they drew nearer they saw with dismay that the side which faced them was a solid wall of ice sixty feet high without a flaw or crevice in its whole extent. The berg was a large one, fifty paces at least each way, and there was a hope that the other side might be more favourable. Baling hard, they paddled round the corner, but only to find themselves faced by another gloomy ice-crag. Again they went round, and again they found that the berg increased rather than diminished in height. There remained only one other side, and they knew as they rowed round to it that their lives hung upon the result, for the boat was almost settling down beneath them. They shot out from the shadow into the full moonlight and looked upon a sight which none of them would forget until their dying day. The cliff which faced them was as precipitous as any of the others, and it glimmered and sparkled all over where the silver light fell upon the thousand facets of ice. Right in the centre, however, on a level with the water's edge, there was what appeared to be a huge hollowed-out cave which marked the spot where the Golden Rod had, in shattering herself, dislodged a huge boulder, and so amid her own ruin prepared a refuge for those who had trusted themselves to her. This cavern was of the richest emerald green, light and clear at the edges, but toning away into the deepest purples and blues at the back. But it was not the beauty of this grotto, nor was it the assurance of rescue which brought a cry of joy and of wonder from every lip, but it was that, seated upon an ice boulder and placidly smoking a long corn-cob pipe, there was perched in front of them no less a person than Captain Ephraim Savage of Boston. For a moment the castaways could almost have believed that it was his wraith, were wraiths ever seen in so homely an attitude, but the tones of his voice very soon showed that it was indeed he, and in no very Christian temper either. "Friend Tomlinson," said he, "when I tell you to row for an iceberg I mean you to row right away there, d'ye see, and not to go philandering about over the ocean. It's not your fault that I'm not froze, and so I would have been if I hadn't some dry tobacco and my tinder-box to keep myself warm." Without stopping to answer his commander's reproaches, the mate headed for the ledge, which had been cut into a slope by the bows of the brigantine, so that the boat was run up easily on to the ice. Captain Savage seized his dry clothes and vanished into the back of the cave, to return presently warmer in body, and more contented in mind. The long-boat had been turned upside down for a seat, the gratings and thwarts taken out and covered with wraps to make a couch for the lady, and the head knocked out of the keg of biscuits. "We were frightened for you, Ephraim," said Amos Green. "I had a heavy heart this night when I thought that I should never see you more." "Tut, Amos, you should have known me better." "But how came you here, captain?" asked Tomlinson. "I thought that maybe you had been taken down by the suck of the ship." "And so I was. It is the third ship in which I have gone down, but they have never kept me down yet. I went deeper to-night than when the _Speedwell_ sank, but not so deep as in the _Governor Winthrop_. When I came up I swam to the berg, found this nook, and crawled in. Glad I was to see you, for I feared that you had foundered." "We put back to pick you up and we passed you in the darkness. And what should we do now?" "Rig up that boat-sail and make quarters for the gal. Then get our supper and such rest as we can, for there is nothing to be done to-night, and there may be much in the morning." CHAPTER XXVII. A DWINDLING ISLAND. Amos Green was aroused in the morning by a hand upon his shoulder, and springing to his feet, found De Catinat standing beside him. The survivors of the crew were grouped about the upturned boat, slumbering heavily after their labours of the night. The red rim of the sun had just pushed itself above the water-line, and sky and sea were one blaze of scarlet and orange from the dazzling gold of the horizon to the lightest pink at the zenith. The first rays flashed directly into their cave, sparkling and glimmering upon the ice crystals and tingeing the whole grotto with a rich warm light. Never was a fairy's palace more lovely than this floating refuge which Nature had provided for them. But neither the American nor the Frenchman had time now to give a thought to the novelty and beauty of their situation. The latter's face was grave, and his friend read danger in his eyes. "What is it, then?" "The berg. It is coming to pieces." "Tut, man, it is as solid as an island." "I have been watching it. You see that crack which extends backwards from the end of our grotto. Two hours ago I could scarce put my hand into it. Now I can slip through it with ease. I tell you that she is splitting across." Amos Green walked to the end of the funnel-shaped recess and found, as his friend had said, that a green sinuous crack extended away backwards into the iceberg, caused either by the tossing of the waves, or by the terrific impact of their vessel. He roused Captain Ephraim and pointed out the danger to him. "Well, if she springs a leak we are gone," said he. "She's been thawing pretty fast as it is." They could see now that what had seemed in the moonlight to be smooth walls of ice were really furrowed and wrinkled like an old man's face by the streams of melted water which were continually running down them. The whole huge mass was brittle and honeycombed and rotten. Already they could hear all round them the ominous drip, drip, and the splash and tinkle of the little rivulets as they fell into the ocean. "Hullo!" cried Amos Green, "what's that?" "What then?" "Did you hear nothing?" "No." "I could have sworn that I heard a voice." "Impossible. We are all here." "It must have been my fancy then." Captain Ephraim walked to the seaward face of the cave and swept the ocean with his eyes. The wind had quite fallen away now, and the sea stretched away to the eastward, smooth and unbroken save for a single great black spar which floated near the spot where the _Golden Rod_ had foundered. "We should lie in the track of some ships," said the captain thoughtfully. "There's the codders and the herring-busses. We're over far south for them, I reckon. But we can't be more'n two hundred mile from Port Royal in Arcadia, and we're in the line of the St. Lawrence trade. If I had three white mountain pines, Amos, and a hundred yards of stout canvas I'd get up on the top of this thing, d'ye see, and I'd rig such a jury-mast as would send her humming into Boston Bay. Then I'd break her up and sell her for what she was worth, and turn a few pieces over the business. But she's a heavy old craft, and that's a fact, though even now she might do a knot or two an hour if she had a hurricane behind her. But what is it, Amos?" The young hunter was standing with his ear slanting, his head bent forwards, and his eyes glancing sideways like a man who listens intently. He was about to answer when De Catinat gave a cry and pointed to the back of the cave. "Look at the crack now." It had widened by a foot since they had noticed it last, until it was now no longer a crack. It was a pass. "Let us go through," said the captain. "It can but come out on the other side." "Then let us see the other side." He led the way and the other two followed him. It was very dark as they advanced, with high dripping ice walls on either side and one little zigzagging slit of blue sky above their heads. Tripping and groping their way, they stumbled along until suddenly the passage grew wider and opened out into a large square of flat ice. The berg was level in the centre and sloped upwards from that point to the high cliffs which bounded it on each side. In three directions this slope was very steep, but in one it slanted up quite gradually, and the constant thawing had grooved the surface with a thousand irregularities by which an active man could ascend. With one impulse they began all three to clamber up until a minute later they were standing not far from the edge of the summit, seventy feet above the sea, with a view which took in a good fifty miles of water. In all that fifty miles there was no sign of life, nothing but the endless glint of the sun upon the waves. Captain Ephraim whistled. "We are out of luck," said he. Amos Green looked about him with startled eyes. "I cannot understand it," said he. "I could have sworn--By the eternal, listen to that!" The clear call of a military bugle rang out in the morning air. With a cry of amazement they all three craned forward and peered over the edge. A large ship was lying under the very shadow of the iceberg. They looked straight down upon her snow-white decks, fringed with shining brass cannon, and dotted with seamen. A little clump of soldiers stood upon the poop going through the manual exercise, and it was from them that the call had come which had sounded so unexpectedly in the ears of the castaways. Standing back from the edge, they had not only looked over the top-masts of this welcome neighbour, but they had themselves been invisible from her decks. Now the discovery was mutual, as was shown by a chorus of shouts and cries from beneath them. But the three did not wait an instant. Sliding and scrambling down the wet, slippery incline, they rushed shouting through the crack and into the cave where their comrades had just been startled by the bugle-call while in the middle of their cheerless breakfast. A few hurried words and the leaky long-boat had been launched, their possessions had been bundled in, and they were afloat once more. Pulling round a promontory of the berg, they found themselves under the stern of a fine corvette, the sides of which were lined with friendly faces, while from the peak there drooped a huge white banner mottled over with the golden lilies of France. In a very few minutes their boat had been hauled up and they found themselves on board the _St. Christophe_ man-of-war, conveying Marquis de Denonville, the new Governor-General of Canada, to take over his duties. CHAPTER XXVIII. IN THE POOL OF QUEBEC. A singular colony it was of which the shipwrecked party found themselves now to be members. The _St. Christophe_ had left Rochelle three weeks before with four small consorts conveying five hundred soldiers to help the struggling colony on the St. Lawrence. The squadron had become separated, however, and the governor was pursuing his way alone in the hope of picking up the others in the river. Aboard he had a company of the regiment of Quercy, the staff of his own household, Saint Vallier, the new Bishop of Canada, with several of his attendants, three Recollet friars, and five Jesuits bound for the fatal Iroquois mission, half-a-dozen ladies on their way out to join their husbands, two Ursuline nuns, ten or twelve gallants whom love of adventure and the hope of bettering their fortunes had drawn across the seas, and lastly some twenty peasant maidens of Anjou who were secure of finding husbands waiting for them upon the beach, if only for the sake of the sheets, the pot, the tin plates and the kettle which the king would provide for each of his humble wards. To add a handful of New England Independents, a Puritan of Boston, and three Huguenots to such a gathering, was indeed to bring fire-brand and powder-barrel together. And yet all aboard were so busy with their own concerns that the castaways were left very much to themselves. Thirty of the soldiers were down with fever and scurvy, and both priests and nuns were fully taken up in nursing them. Denonville, the governor, a pious-minded dragoon, walked the deck all day reading the Psalms of David, and sat up half the night with maps and charts laid out before him, planning out the destruction of the Iroquois who were ravaging his dominions. The gallants and the ladies flirted, the maidens of Anjou made eyes at the soldiers of Quercy, and the bishop Saint Vallier read his offices and lectured his clergy. Ephraim Savage used to stand all day glaring at the good man as he paced the deck with his red-edged missal in his hand, and muttering about the "abomination of desolation," but his little ways were put down to his exposure upon the iceberg, and to the fixed idea in the French mind that men of the Anglo-Saxon stock are not to be held accountable for their actions. There was peace between England and France at present, though feeling ran high between Canada and New York, the French believing, and with some justice, that the English colonists were whooping on the demons who attacked them. Ephraim and his men were therefore received hospitably on board, though the ship was so crowded that they had to sleep wherever they could find cover and space for their bodies. The Catinats, too, had been treated in an even more kindly fashion, the weak old man and the beauty of his daughter arousing the interest of the governor himself. De Catinat had, during the voyage, exchanged his uniform for a plain sombre suit, so that, except for his military bearing, there was nothing to show that he was a fugitive from the army. Old Catinat was now so weak that he was past the answering of questions, his daughter was forever at his side, and the soldier was diplomatist enough, after a training at Versailles, to say much without saying anything, and so their secret was still preserved. De Catinat had known what it was to be a Huguenot in Canada before the law was altered. He had no wish to try it after. On the day after the rescue they sighted Cape Breton in the south, and soon running swiftly before an easterly wind, saw the loom of the east end of Anticosti. Then they sailed up the mighty river, though from mid-channel the banks upon either side were hardly to be seen. As the shores narrowed in, they saw the wild gorge of the Saguenay River upon the right, with the smoke from the little fishing and trading station of Tadousac streaming up above the pine trees. Naked Indians with their faces daubed with red clay, Algonquins and Abenakis, clustered round the ship in their birchen canoes with fruit and vegetables from the land, which brought fresh life to the scurvy-stricken soldiers. Thence the ship tacked on up the river past Mal Bay, the Ravine of the Eboulements and the Bay of St. Paul with its broad valley and wooded mountains all in a blaze with their beautiful autumn dress, their scarlets, their purples, and their golds, from the maple, the ash, the young oak, and the saplings of the birch. Amos Green, leaning on the bulwarks, stared with longing eyes at these vast expanses of virgin woodland, hardly traversed save by an occasional wandering savage or hardy _coureur-de-bois_. Then the bold outline of Cape Tourmente loomed up in front of them; they passed the rich placid meadows of Laval's seigneury of Beaupre, and, skirting the settlements of the Island of Orleans, they saw the broad pool stretch out in front of them, the falls of Montmorenci, the high palisades of Cape Levi, the cluster of vessels, and upon the right that wonderful rock with its diadem of towers and its township huddled round its base, the centre and stronghold of French power in America. Cannon thundered from the bastions above, and were echoed back by the warship, while ensigns dipped, hats waved, and a swarm of boats and canoes shot out to welcome the new governor, and to convey the soldiers and passengers to shore. The old merchant had pined away since he had left French soil, like a plant which has been plucked from its roots. The shock of the shipwreck and the night spent in their bleak refuge upon the iceberg had been too much for his years and strength. Since they had been picked up he had lain amid the scurvy-stricken soldiers with hardly a sign of life save for his thin breathing and the twitching of his scraggy throat. Now, however, at the sound of the cannon and the shouting he opened his eyes, and raised himself slowly and painfully upon his pillow. "What is it, father? What can we do for you?" cried Adele. "We are in America, and here is Amory and here am I, your children." But the old man shook his head. "The Lord has brought me to the promised land, but He has not willed that I should enter into it," said he. "May His will be done, and blessed be His name forever! But at least I should wish, like Moses, to gaze upon it, if I cannot set foot upon it. Think you, Amory, that you could lend me your arm and lead me on to the deck?" "If I have another to help me," said De Catinat, and ascending to the deck, he brought Amos Green back with him. "Now, father, if you will lay a hand upon the shoulder of each, you need scarce put your feet to the boards." A minute later the old merchant was on the deck, and the two young men had seated him upon a coil of rope with his back against the mast, where he should be away from the crush. The soldiers were already crowding down into the boats, and all were so busy over their own affairs that they paid no heed to the little group of refugees who gathered round the stricken man. He turned his head painfully from side to side, but his eyes brightened as they fell upon the broad blue stretch of water, the flash of the distant falls, the high castle, and the long line of purple mountains away to the north-west. "It is not like France," said he. "It is not green and peaceful and smiling, but it is grand and strong and stern like Him who made it. As I have weakened, Adele, my soul has been less clogged by my body, and I have seen clearly much that has been dim to me. And it has seemed to me, my children, that all this country of America, not Canada alone, but the land where you were born also, Amos Green, and all that stretches away towards yonder setting sun, will be the best gift of God to man. For this has He held it concealed through all the ages, that now His own high purpose may be wrought upon it. For here is a land which is innocent, which has no past guilt to atone for, no feud, nor ill custom, nor evil of any kind. And as the years roll on all the weary and homeless ones, all who are stricken and landless and wronged, will turn their faces to it, even as we have done. And hence will come a nation which will surely take all that is good and leave all that is bad, moulding and fashioning itself into the highest. Do I not see such a mighty people, a people who will care more to raise their lowest than to exalt their richest--who will understand that there is more bravery in peace than in war, who will see that all men are brothers, and whose hearts will not narrow themselves down to their own frontiers, but will warm in sympathy with every noble cause the whole world through? That is what I see, Adele, as I lie here beside a shore upon which I shall never set my feet, and I say to you that if you and Amory go to the building of such a nation then indeed your lives are not misspent. It will come, and when it comes, may God guard it, may God watch over it and direct it!" His head had sunk gradually lower upon his breast and his lids had fallen slowly over his eyes which had been looking away out past Point Levi at the rolling woods and the far-off mountains. Adele gave a quick cry of despair and threw her arms round the old man's neck. "He is dying, Amory, he is dying!" she cried. A stern Franciscan friar, who had been telling his beads within a few paces of them, heard the cry and was beside them in an instant. "He is indeed dying," he said, as he gazed down at the ashen face. "Has the old man had the sacraments of the Church?" "I do not think that he needs them," answered De Catinat evasively. "Which of us do not need them, young man!" said the friar sternly. "And how can a man hope for salvation without them? I shall myself administer them without delay." But the old Huguenot had opened his eyes, and with a last flicker of strength he pushed away the gray-hooded figure which bent over him. "I left all that I love rather than yield to you," he cried, "and think you that you can overcome me now?" The Franciscan started back at the words, and his hard suspicious eyes shot from De Catinat to the weeping girl. "So!" said he. "You are Huguenots, then!" "Hush! Do not wrangle before a man who is dying!" cried De Catinat in a voice as fierce as his own. "Before a man who is dead," said Amos Green solemnly. As he spoke the old man's face had relaxed, his thousand wrinkles had been smoothed suddenly out, as though an invisible hand had passed over them, and his head fell back against the mast. Adele remained motionless with her arms still clasped round his neck and her cheek pressed against his shoulder. She had fainted. De Catinat raised his wife and bore her down to the cabin of one of the ladies who had already shown them some kindness. Deaths were no new thing aboard the ship, for they had lost ten soldiers upon the outward passage, so that amid the joy and bustle of the disembarking there were few who had a thought to spare upon the dead pilgrim, and the less so when it was whispered abroad that he had been a Huguenot. A brief order was given that he should be buried in the river that very night, and then, save for a sailmaker who fastened the canvas round him, mankind had done its last for Theophile Catinat. With the survivors, however, it was different, and when the troops were all disembarked, they were mustered in a little group upon the deck, and an officer of the governor's suite decided upon what should be done with them. He was a portly, good-humoured, ruddy-cheeked man, but De Catinat saw with apprehension that the friar walked by his side as he advanced along the deck, and exchanged a few whispered remarks with him. There was a bitter smile upon the monk's dark face which boded little good for the heretics. "It shall be seen to, good father, it shall be seen to," said the officer impatiently, in answer to one of these whispered injunctions. "I am as zealous a servant of Holy Church as you are." "I trust that you are, Monsieur de Bonneville. With so devout a governor as Monsieur de Denonville, it might be an ill thing even in this world for the officers of his household to be lax." The soldier glanced angrily at his companion, for he saw the threat which lurked under the words. "I would have you remember, father," said he, "that if faith is a virtue, charity is no less so." Then, speaking in English: "Which is Captain Savage?" "Ephraim Savage of Boston." "And Master Amos Green?" "Amos Green of New York." "And Master Tomlinson?" "John Tomlinson of Salem." "And master mariners Hiram Jefferson, Joseph Cooper, Seek-grace Spalding, and Paul Cushing, all of Massachusetts Bay?" "We are all here." "It is the governor's order that all whom I have named shall be conveyed at once to the trading brig _Hope_, which is yonder ship with the white paint line. She sails within the hour for the English provinces." A buzz of joy broke from the castaway mariners at the prospect of being so speedily restored to their homes, and they hurried away to gather together the few possessions which they had saved from the wreck. The officer put his list in his pocket and stepped across to where De Catinat leaned moodily against the bulwarks. "Surely you remember me," he said. "I could not forget your face, even though you have exchanged a blue coat for a black one." De Catinat grasped the hand which was held out to him. "I remember you well, De Bonneville, and the journey that we made together to Fort Frontenac, but it was not for me to claim your friendship, now that things have gone amiss with me." "Tut, man; once my friend always my friend." "I feared, too, that my acquaintance would do you little good with yonder dark-cowled friar who is glowering behind you." "Well, well, you know how it is with us here. Frontenac could keep them in their place, but De la Barre was as clay in their hands, and this new one promises to follow in his steps. What with the Sulpitians at Montreal and the Jesuits here, we poor devils are between the upper and the nether stones. But I am grieved from my heart to give such a welcome as this to an old comrade, and still more to his wife." "What is to be done, then?" "You are to be confined to the ship until she sails, which will be in a week at the furthest." "And then?" "You are to be carried home in her and handed over to the Governor of Rochelle to be sent back to Paris. Those are Monsieur de Denonville's orders, and if they be not carried out to the letter, then we shall have the whole hornet's nest about our ears." De Catinat groaned as he listened. After all their strivings and trials and efforts, to return to Paris, the scorn of his enemies, and an object of pity to his friends, was too deep a humiliation. He flushed with shame at the very thought. To be led back like the home-sick peasant who has deserted from his regiment! Better one spring into the broad blue river beneath him, were it not for little pale-faced Adele who had none but him to look to. It was so tame! So ignominious! And yet in this floating prison, with a woman whose fate was linked with his own, what hope was there of escape? De Bonneville had left him, with a few blunt words of sympathy, but the friar still paced the deck with a furtive glance at him from time to time, and two soldiers who were stationed upon the poop passed and repassed within a few yards of him. They had orders evidently to mark his movements. Heart-sick he leaned over the side watching the Indians in their paint and feathers shooting backwards and forwards in their canoes, and staring across at the town where the gaunt gable ends of houses and charred walls marked the effect of the terrible fire which a few years before had completely destroyed the lower part. As he stood gazing, his attention was drawn away by the swish of oars, and a large boat full of men passed immediately underneath where he stood. It held the New Englanders, who were being conveyed to the ship which was to take them home. There were the four seamen huddled together, and there in the sheets were Captain Ephraim Savage and Amos Green, conversing together and pointing to the shipping. The grizzled face of the old Puritan and the bold features of the woodsman were turned more than once in his direction, but no word of farewell and no kindly wave of the hand came back to the lonely exile. They were so full of their own future and their own happiness, that they had not a thought to spare upon his misery. He could have borne anything from his enemies, but this sudden neglect from his friends came too heavily after his other troubles. He stooped his face to his arms and burst in an instant into a passion of sobs. Before he raised his eyes again the brig had hoisted her anchor, and was tacking under full canvas out of the Quebec basin. CHAPTER XXIX. THE VOICE AT THE PORT-HOLE. That night old Theophile Catinat was buried from the ship's side, his sole mourners the two who bore his own blood in their veins. The next day De Catinat spent upon deck, amid the bustle and confusion of the unlading, endeavouring to cheer Adele by light chatter which came from a heavy heart. He pointed out to her the places which he had known so well, the citadel where he had been quartered, the college of the Jesuits, the cathedral of Bishop Laval, the magazine of the old company, dismantled by the great fire, and the house of Aubert de la Chesnaye, the only private one which had remained standing in the lower part. From where they lay they could see not only the places of interest, but something also of that motley population which made the town so different to all others save only its younger sister, Montreal. Passing and repassing along the steep path with the picket fence which connected the two quarters, they saw the whole panorama of Canadian life moving before their eyes, the soldiers with their slouched hats, their plumes, and their bandoleers, habitants from the river _cotes_ in their rude peasant dresses, little changed from their forefathers of Brittany or Normandy, and young rufflers from France or from the seigneuries, who cocked their hats and swaggered in what they thought to be the true Versailles fashion. There, too, might be seen little knots of the men of the woods, _coureurs-de-bois_ or _voyageurs_, with leathern hunting tunics, fringed leggings, and fur cap with eagle feather, who came back once a year to the cities, leaving their Indian wives and children in some up-country wigwam. Redskins, too, were there, leather-faced Algonquin fishers and hunters, wild Micmacs from the east, and savage Abenakis from the south, while everywhere were the dark habits of the Franciscans, and the black cassocks and broad hats of the Recollets, and Jesuits, the moving spirits of the whole. Such were the folk who crowded the streets of the capital of this strange offshoot of France which had been planted along the line of the great river, a thousand leagues from the parent country. And it was a singular settlement, the most singular perhaps that has ever been made. For a long twelve hundred miles it extended, from Tadousac in the east, away to the trading stations upon the borders of the great lakes, limiting itself for the most part to narrow cultivated strips upon the margins of the river, banked in behind by wild forests and unexplored mountains, which forever tempted the peasant from his hoe and his plough to the freer life of the paddle and the musket. Thin scattered clearings, alternating with little palisaded clumps of log-hewn houses, marked the line where civilisation was forcing itself in upon the huge continent, and barely holding its own against the rigour of a northern climate and the ferocity of merciless enemies. The whole white population of this mighty district, including soldiers, priests, and woodmen, with all women and children, was very far short of twenty thousand souls, and yet so great was their energy, and such the advantage of the central government under which they lived, that they had left their trace upon the whole continent. When the prosperous English settlers were content to live upon their acres, and when no axe had rung upon the further side of the Alleghanies, the French had pushed their daring pioneers, some in the black robe of the missionary, and some in the fringed tunic of the hunter, to the uttermost ends of the continent. They had mapped out the lakes and had bartered with the fierce Sioux on the great plains where the wooden wigwam gave place to the hide tee-pee. Marquette had followed the Illinois down to the Mississippi, and had traced the course of the great river until, first of all white men, he looked upon the turbid flood of the rushing Missouri. La Salle had ventured even further, and had passed the Ohio, and had made his way to the Mexican Gulf, raising the French arms where the city of New Orleans was afterwards to stand. Others had pushed on to the Rocky Mountains, and to the huge wilderness of the north-west, preaching, bartering, cheating, baptising, swayed by many motives and holding only in common a courage which never faltered and a fertility of resource which took them in safety past every danger. Frenchmen were to the north of the British settlements, Frenchmen were to the west of them, and Frenchmen were to the south of them, and if all the continent is not now French, the fault assuredly did not rest with that iron race of early Canadians. All this De Catinat explained to Adele during the autumn day, trying to draw her thoughts away from the troubles of the past, and from the long dreary voyage which lay before her. She, fresh from the staid life of the Parisian street and from the tame scenery of the Seine, gazed with amazement at the river, the woods and the mountains, and clutched her husband's arm in horror when a canoeful of wild skin-clad Algonquins, their faces striped with white and red paint, came flying past with the foam dashing from their paddles. Again the river turned from blue to pink, again the old citadel was bathed in the evening glow, and again the two exiles descended to their cabins with cheering words for each other and heavy thoughts in their own hearts. De Catinat's bunk was next to a port-hole, and it was his custom to keep this open, as the caboose was close to him in which the cooking was done for the crew, and the air was hot and heavy. That night he found it impossible to sleep, and he lay tossing under his blanket, thinking over every possible means by which they might be able to get away from this cursed ship. But even if they got away, where could they go to then? All Canada was sealed to them. The woods to the south were full of ferocious Indians. The English settlements would, it was true, grant them freedom to use their own religion, but what would his wife and he do, without a friend, strangers among folk who spoke another tongue? Had Amos Green remained true to them, then, indeed, all would have been well. But he had deserted them. Of course there was no reason why he should not. He was no blood relation of theirs. He had already benefited them many times. His own people and the life that he loved were waiting for him at home. Why should he linger here for the sake of folk whom he had known but a few months? It was not to be expected, and yet De Catinat could not realise it, could not understand it. But what was that? Above the gentle lapping of the river he had suddenly heard a sharp clear "Hist!" Perhaps it was some passing boatman or Indian. Then it came again, that eager, urgent summons. He sat up and stared about him. It certainly must have come from the open port-hole. He looked out, but only to see the broad basin, with the loom of the shipping, and the distant twinkle from the lights on Point Levi. As his head dropped back upon the pillow something fell upon his chest with a little tap, and rolling off, rattled along the boards. He sprang up, caught a lantern from a hook, and flashed it upon the floor. There was the missile which had struck him--a little golden brooch. As he lifted it up and looked closer at it, a thrill passed through him. It had been his own, and he had given it to Amos Green upon the second day that he had met him, when they were starting together for Versailles. This was a signal then, and Amos Green had not deserted them after all. He dressed himself, all in a tremble with excitement, and went upon deck. It was pitch dark, and he could see no one, but the sound of regular footfalls somewhere in the fore part of the ship showed that the sentinels were still there. The guardsman walked over to the side and peered down into the darkness. He could see the loom of a boat. "Who is there?" he whispered. "Is that you, De Catinat? "Yes." "We have come for you." "God bless you, Amos." "Is your wife there?" "No, but I can rouse her." "Good! But first catch this cord. Now pull up the ladder!" De Catinat gripped the line which was thrown to him, and on drawing it up found that it was attached to a rope ladder furnished at the top with two steel hooks to catch on to the bulwarks. He placed them in position, and then made his way very softly to the cabin amidships in the ladies' quarters which had been allotted to his wife. She was the only woman aboard the ship now, so that he was able to tap at her door in safety, and to explain in a few words the need for haste and for secrecy. In ten minutes Adele had dressed, and with her valuables in a little bundle, had slipped out from her cabin. Together they made their way upon deck once more, and crept aft under the shadow of the bulwarks. They were almost there when De Catinat stopped suddenly and ground out an oath through his clenched teeth. Between them and the rope ladder there was standing in a dim patch of murky light the grim figure of a Franciscan friar. He was peering through the darkness, his heavy cowl shadowing his face, and he advanced slowly as if he had caught a glimpse of them. A lantern hung from the mizzen shrouds above him. He unfastened it and held it up to cast its light upon them. But De Catinat was not a man with whom it was safe to trifle. His life had been one of quick resolve and prompt action. Was this vindictive friar at the last moment to stand between him and freedom? It was a dangerous position to take. The guardsman pulled Adele into the shadow of the mast, and then, as the monk advanced, he sprang out upon him and seized him by the gown. As he did so the other's cowl was pushed back, and instead of the harsh features of the ecclesiastic, De Catinat saw with amazement in the glimmer of the lantern the shrewd gray eyes and strong tern face of Ephraim Savage. At the same instant another figure appeared over the side, and the warm-hearted Frenchman threw himself into the arms of Amos Green. "It's all right," said the young hunter, disengaging himself with some embarrassment from the other's embrace. "We've got him in the boat with a buckskin glove jammed into his gullet!" "Who then?" "The man whose cloak Captain Ephraim there has put round him. He came on us when you were away rousing your lady, but we got him to be quiet between us. Is the lady there?" "Here she is." "As quick as you can, then, for some one may come along." Adele was helped over the side, and seated in the stern of a birch-bark canoe. The three men unhooked the ladder, and swung themselves down by a rope, while two Indians, who held the paddles, pushed silently off from the ship's side, and shot swiftly up the stream. A minute later a dim loom behind them, and the glimmer of two yellow lights, was all that they could see of the _St. Christophe_. "Take a paddle, Amos, and I'll take one," said Captain Savage, stripping off his monk's gown. "I felt safer in this on the deck of yon ship, but it don't help in a boat. I believe we might have fastened the hatches and taken her, brass guns and all, had we been so minded." "And been hanged as pirates at the yard-arm next morning," said Amos. "I think we have done better to take the honey and leave the tree. I hope, madame, that all is well with you." "Nay, I can hardly understand what has happened, or where we are." "Nor can I, Amos." "Did you not expect us to come back for you, then?" "I did not know what to expect." "Well, now, but surely you could not think that we would leave you without a word." "I confess that I was cut to the heart by it." "I feared that you were when I looked at you with the tail of my eye, and saw you staring so blackly over the bulwarks at us. But if we had been seen talking or planning they would have been upon our trail at once. As it was they had not a thought of suspicion, save only this fellow whom we have in the bottom of the boat here." "And what did you do?" "We left the brig last night, got ashore on the Beaupre side, arranged for this canoe, and lay dark all day. Then to-night we got alongside and I roused you easily, for I knew where you slept. The friar nearly spoiled all when you were below, but we gagged him and passed him over the side. Ephraim popped on his gown so that he might go forward to help you without danger, for we were scared at the delay." "Ah! it is glorious to be free once more. What do I not owe you, Amos?" "Well, you looked after me when I was in your country, and I am going to look after you now." "And where are we going?" "Ah! there you have me. It is this way or none, for we can't get down to the sea. We must make our way over land as best we can, and we must leave a good stretch between Quebec citadel and us before the day breaks, for from what I hear they would rather have a Huguenot prisoner than an Iroquois sagamore. By the eternal, I cannot see why they should make such a fuss over how a man chooses to save his own soul, though here is old Ephraim just as fierce upon the other side, so all the folly is not one way." "What are you saying about me?" asked the seaman, pricking up his ears at the mention of his own name. "Only that you are a good stiff old Protestant." "Yes, thank God. My motto is freedom to conscience, d'ye see, except just for Quakers, and Papists, and--and I wouldn't stand Anne Hutchinsons and women testifying, and suchlike foolishness." Amos Green laughed. "The Almighty seems to pass it over, so why should you take it to heart?" said he. "Ah, you're young and callow yet. You'll live to know better. Why, I shall hear you saying a good word soon even for such unclean spawn as this," prodding the prostrate friar with the handle of his paddle. "I daresay he's a good man, accordin' to his lights." "And I daresay a shark is a good fish accordin' to its lights. No, lad, you won't mix up light and dark for me in that sort of fashion. You may talk until you unship your jaw, d'ye see, but you will never talk a foul wind into a fair one. Pass over the pouch and the tinder-box, and maybe our friend here will take a turn at my paddle." All night they toiled up the great river, straining every nerve to place themselves beyond the reach of pursuit. By keeping well into the southern bank, and so avoiding the force of the current, they sped swiftly along, for both Amos and De Catinat were practised hands with the paddle, and the two Indians worked as though they were wire and whipcord instead of flesh and blood. An utter silence reigned over all the broad stream, broken only by the lap-lap of the water against their curving bow, the whirring of the night hawk above them, and the sharp high barking of foxes away in the woods. When at last morning broke, and the black shaded imperceptibly into gray, they were far out of sight of the citadel and of all trace of man's handiwork. Virgin woods in their wonderful many-coloured autumn dress flowed right down to the river edge on either side, and in the centre was a little island with a rim of yellow sand and an out-flame of scarlet tupelo and sumach in one bright tangle of colour in the centre. "I've passed here before," said De Catinat. "I remember marking that great maple with the blaze on its trunk, when last I went with the governor to Montreal. That was in Frontenac's day, when the king was first and the bishop second." The Redskins, who had sat like terra-cotta figures, without a trace of expression upon their set hard faces, pricked up their ears at the sound of that name. "My brother has spoken of the great Onontio," said one of them, glancing round. "We have listened to the whistling of evil birds who tell us that he will never come back to his children across the seas." "He is with the great white father," answered De Catinat. "I have myself seen him in his council, and he will assuredly come across the great water if his people have need of him." The Indian shook his shaven head. "The rutting month is past, my brother," said he, speaking in broken French, "but ere the month of the bird-laying has come there will be no white man upon this river save only behind stone walls." "What, then? We have heard little! Have the Iroquois broken out so fiercely?" "My brother, they said they would eat up the Hurons, and where are the Hurons now? They turned their faces upon the Eries, and where are the Eries now? They went westward against the Illinois, and who can find an Illinois village? They raised the hatchet against the Andastes, and their name is blotted from the earth. And now they have danced a dance and sung a song which will bring little good to my white brothers." "Where are they, then?" The Indian waved his hand along the whole southern and western horizon. "Where are they not? The woods are rustling with them. They are like a fire among dry grass, so swift and so terrible!" "On my life," said De Catinat, "if these devils are indeed unchained, they will need old Frontenac back if they are not to be swept into the river." "Ay," said Amos, "I saw him once, when I was brought before him with the others for trading on what he called French ground. His mouth set like a skunk trap and he looked at us as if he would have liked our scalps for his leggings. But I could see that he was a chief and a brave man." "He was an enemy of the Church, and the right hand of the foul fiend in this country," said a voice from the bottom of the canoe. It was the friar who had succeeded in getting rid of the buckskin glove and belt with which the two Americans had gagged him. He was lying huddled up now glaring savagely at the party with his fiery dark eyes. "His jaw-tackle has come adrift," said the seaman. "Let me brace it up again." "Nay, why should we take him farther?" asked Amos. "He is but weight for us to carry, and I cannot see that we profit by his company. Let us put him out." "Ay, sink or swim," cried old Ephraim with enthusiasm. "Nay, upon the bank." "And have him maybe in front of us warning the black jackets." "On that island, then." "Very good. He can hail the first of his folk who pass." They shot over to the island and landed the friar, who said nothing, but cursed them with his eye. They left with him a small supply of biscuit and of flour to last him until he should be picked up. Then, having passed a bend in the river, they ran their canoe ashore in a little cove where the whortleberry and cranberry bushes grew right down to the water's edge, and the sward was bright with the white euphorbia, the blue gentian, and the purple balm. There they laid out their small stock of provisions, and ate a hearty breakfast while discussing what their plans should be for the future. CHAPTER XXX. THE INLAND WATERS. They were not badly provided for their journey. The captain of the Gloucester brig in which the Americans had started from Quebec knew Ephraim Savage well, as who did not upon the New England coast? He had accepted his bill therefore at three months' date, at as high a rate of interest as he could screw out of him, and he had let him have in return three excellent guns, a good supply of ammunition, and enough money to provide for all his wants. In this way he had hired the canoe and the Indians, and had fitted her with meat and biscuit to last them for ten days at the least. "It's like the breath of life to me to feel the heft of a gun and to smell the trees round me," said Amos. "Why, it cannot be more than a hundred leagues from here to Albany or Schenectady, right through the forest." "Ay, lad, but how is the gal to walk a hundred leagues through a forest? No, no, let us keep water under our keel, and lean on the Lord." "Then there is only one way for it. We must make the Richelieu River, and keep right along to Lake Champlain and Lake St. Sacrament. There we should be close by the headwaters of the Hudson." "It is a dangerous road," said De Catinat, who understood the conversation of his companions, even when he was unable to join in it. "We should need to skirt the country of the Mohawks." "It's the only way, I guess. It's that or nothing." "And I have a friend upon the Richelieu River who, I am sure, would help us on our way," said De Catinat with a smile. "Adele, you have heard me talk of Charles de la Noue, seigneur de Sainte Marie?" "He whom you used to call the Canadian duke, Amory?" "Precisely. His seigneury lies on the Richelieu, a little south of Fort St. Louis, and I am sure that he would speed us upon our way." "Good!" cried Amos. "If we have a friend there we shall do well. That clenches it then, and we shall hold fast by the river. Let's get to our paddles then, for that friar will make mischief for us if he can." And so for a long week the little party toiled up the great waterway, keeping ever to the southern bank, where there were fewer clearings. On both sides of the stream the woods were thick, but every here and there they would curve away, and a narrow strip of cultivated land would skirt the bank, with the yellow stubble to mark where the wheat had grown. Adele looked with interest at the wooden houses with their jutting stories and quaint gable-ends, at the solid, stone-built manor-houses of the seigneurs, and at the mills in every hamlet, which served the double purpose of grinding flour and of a loop-holed place of retreat in case of attack. Horrible experience had taught the Canadians what the English settlers had yet to learn, that in a land of savages it is a folly to place isolated farmhouses in the centre of their own fields. The clearings then radiated out from the villages, and every cottage was built with an eye to the military necessities of the whole, so that the defence might make a stand at all points, and might finally centre upon the stone manor-house and the mill. Now at every bluff and hill near the villages might be seen the gleam of the muskets of the watchers, for it was known that the scalping parties of the Five Nations were out, and none could tell where the blow would fall, save that it must come where they were least prepared to meet it. Indeed, at every step in this country, whether the traveller were on the St. Lawrence, or west upon the lakes, or down upon the banks of the Mississippi, or south in the country of the Cherokees and of the Creeks, he would still find the inhabitants in the same state of dreadful expectancy, and from the same cause. The Iroquois, as they were named by the French, or the Five Nations as they called themselves, hung like a cloud over the whole great continent. Their confederation was a natural one, for they were of the same stock and spoke the same language, and all attempts to separate them had been in vain. Mohawks, Cayugas, Onondagas, Oneidas, and Senecas were each proud of their own totems and their own chiefs, but in war they were Iroquois, and the enemy of one was the enemy of all. Their numbers were small, for they were never able to put two thousand warriors in the field, and their country was limited, for their villages were scattered over the tract which lies between Lake Champlain and Lake Ontario. But they were united, they were cunning, they were desperately brave, and they were fiercely aggressive and energetic. Holding a central position, they struck out upon each side in turn, never content with simply defeating an adversary, but absolutely annihilating and destroying him, while holding all the others in check by their diplomacy. War was their business, and cruelty their amusement. One by one they had turned their arms against the various nations, until, for a space of over a thousand square miles, none existed save by sufferance. They had swept away Hurons and Huron missions in one fearful massacre. They had destroyed the tribes of the north-west, until even the distant Sacs and Foxes trembled at their name. They had scoured the whole country to westward until their scalping parties had come into touch with their kinsmen the Sioux, who were lords of the great plains, even as they were of the great forests. The New England Indians in the east, and the Shawnees and Delawares farther south, paid tribute to them, and the terror of their arms had extended over the borders of Maryland and Virginia. Never, perhaps, in the world's history has so small a body of men dominated so large a district and for so long a time. For half a century these tribes had nursed a grudge wards the French since Champlain and some of his followers had taken part with their enemies against them. During all these years they had brooded in their forest villages, flashing out now and again in some border outrage, but waiting for the most part until their chance should come. And now it seemed to them that it had come. They had destroyed all the tribes who might have allied themselves with the white men. They had isolated them. They had supplied themselves with good guns and plenty of ammunition from the Dutch and English of New York. The long thin line of French settlements lay naked before them. They were gathered in the woods, like hounds in leash, waiting for the orders of their chiefs, which should precipitate them with torch and with tomahawk upon the belt of villages. Such was the situation as the little party of refugees paddled along the bank of the river, seeking the only path which could lead them to peace and to freedom. Yet it was, as they well knew, a dangerous road to follow. All down the Richelieu River were the outposts and blockhouses of the French, for when the feudal system was grafted upon Canada the various seigneurs or native _noblesse_ were assigned their estates in the positions which would be of most benefit to the settlement. Each seigneur with his tenants under him, trained as they were in the use of arms, formed a military force exactly as they had done in the middle ages, the farmer holding his fief upon condition that he mustered when called upon to do so. Hence the old officers of the regiment of Carignan, and the more hardy of the settlers, had been placed along the line of the Richelieu, which runs at right angles to the St. Lawrence towards the Mohawk country. The blockhouses themselves might hold their own, but to the little party who had to travel down from one to the other the situation was full of deadly peril. It was true that the Iroquois were not at war with the English, but they would discriminate little when on the warpath, and the Americans, even had they wished to do so, could not separate their fate from that of their two French companions. As they ascended the St. Lawrence they met many canoes coming down. Sometimes it was an officer or an official on his way to the capital from Three Rivers or Montreal, sometimes it was a load of skins, with Indians or _coureurs-de-bois_ conveying them down to be shipped to Europe, and sometimes it was a small canoe which bore a sunburned grizzly-haired man, with rusty weather-stained black cassock, who zigzagged from bank to bank, stopping at every Indian hut upon his way. If aught were amiss with the Church in Canada the fault lay not with men like these village priests, who toiled and worked and spent their very lives in bearing comfort and hope, and a little touch of refinement too, through all those wilds. More than once these wayfarers wished to have speech with the fugitives, but they pushed onwards, disregarding their signs and hails. From below nothing overtook them, for they paddled from early morning until late at night, drawing up the canoe when they halted, and building a fire of dry wood, for already the nip of the coming winter was in the air. It was not only the people and their dwellings which were stretched out before the wondering eyes of the French girl as she sat day after day in the stern of the canoe. Her husband and Amos Green taught her also to take notice of the sights of the woodlands, and as they skirted the bank, they pointed out a thousand things which her own senses would never have discerned. Sometimes it was the furry face of a raccoon peeping out from some tree-cleft, or an otter swimming under the overhanging brushwood with the gleam of a white fish in its mouth. Or, perhaps, it was the wild cat crouching along a branch with its wicked yellow eyes fixed upon the squirrels which played at the farther end, or else with a scuttle and rush the Canadian porcupine would thrust its way among the yellow blossoms of the resin weed and the tangle of the whortleberry bushes. She learned, too, to recognise the pert sharp cry of the tiny chick-a-dee, the call of the blue-bird, and the flash of its wings amid the foliage, the sweet chirpy note of the black and white bobolink, and the long-drawn mewing of the cat-bird. On the breast of the broad blue river, with Nature's sweet concert ever sounding from the bank, and with every colour that artist could devise spread out before her eyes on the foliage of the dying woods, the smile came back to her lips, and her cheeks took a glow of health which France had never been able to give. De Catinat saw the change in her, but her presence weighed him down with fear, for he knew that while Nature had made these woods a heaven, man had changed it into a hell, and that a nameless horror lurked behind all the beauty of the fading leaves and of the woodland flowers. Often as he lay at night beside the smouldering fire upon his couch of spruce, and looked at the little figure muffled in the blanket and slumbering peacefully by his side, he felt that he had no right to expose her to such peril, and that in the morning they should turn the canoe eastward again and take what fate might bring them at Quebec. But ever with the daybreak there came the thought of the humiliation, the dreary homeward voyage, the separation which would await them in galley and dungeon, to turn him from his purpose. On the seventh day they rested at a point but a few miles from the mouth of the Richelieu River, where a large blockhouse, Fort Richelieu, had been built by M. de Saurel. Once past this they had no great distance to go to reach the seigneury of De Catinat's friend of the _noblesse_ who would help them upon their way. They had spent the night upon a little island in midstream, and at early dawn they were about to thrust the canoe out again from the sand-lined cove in which she lay, when Ephraim Savage growled in his throat and pointed Out across the water. A large canoe was coming up the river, flying along as quick as a dozen arms could drive it. In the stern sat a dark figure which bent forward with every swing of the paddles, as though consumed by eagerness to push onwards. Even at that distance there was no mistaking it. It was the fanatical monk whom they had left behind them. Concealed among the brushwood, they watched their pursuers fly past and vanish round a curve in the stream. Then they looked at one another in perplexity. "We'd have done better either to put him overboard or to take him as ballast," said Ephraim. "He's hull down in front of us now, and drawing full." "Well, we can't take the back track anyhow," remarked Amos. "And yet how can we go on?" said De Catinat despondently. "This vindictive devil will give word at the fort and at every other point along the river. He has been back to Quebec. It is one of the governor's own canoes, and goes three paces to our two." "Let me cipher it out." Amos Green sat on a fallen maple with his head sunk upon his hands. "Well," said he presently, "if it's no good going on, and no good going back, there's only one way, and that is to go to one side. That's so, Ephraim, is it not?" "Ay, ay, lad, if you can't run you must tack, but it seems shoal water on either bow." "We can't go to the north, so it follows that we must go to the south." "Leave the canoe?" "It's our only chance. We can cut through the woods and come out near this friendly house on the Richelieu. The friar will lose our trail then, and we'll have no more trouble with him, if he stays on the St. Lawrence." "There's nothing else for it," said Captain Ephraim ruefully. "It's not my way to go by land if I can get by water, and I have not been a fathom deep in a wood since King Philip came down on the province, so you must lay the course and keep her straight, Amos." "It is not far, and it will not take us long. Let us get over to the southern bank and we shall make a start. If madame tires, De Catinat, we shall take turns to carry her." "Ah, monsieur, you cannot think what a good walker I am. In this splendid air one might go on forever." "We will cross then." In a very few minutes they were at the other side and had landed at the edge of the forest. There the guns and ammunition were allotted to each man, and his share of the provisions and of the scanty baggage. Then having paid the Indians, and having instructed them to say nothing of their movements, they turned their backs upon the river and plunged into the silent woods. CHAPTER XXXI. THE HAIRLESS MAN. All day they pushed on through the woodlands, walking in single file, Amos Green first, then the seaman, then the lady, and De Catinat bringing up the rear. The young woodsman advanced cautiously, seeing and hearing much that was lost to his companions, stopping continually and examining the signs of leaf and moss and twig. Their route lay for the most part through open glades amid a huge pine forest, with a green sward beneath their feet, made beautiful by the white euphorbia, the golden rod, and the purple aster. Sometimes, however, the great trunks closed in upon them, and they had to grope their way in a dim twilight, or push a path through the tangled brushwood of green sassafras or scarlet sumach. And then again the woods would shred suddenly away in front of them, and they would skirt marshes, overgrown with wild rice and dotted with little dark clumps of alder bushes, or make their way past silent woodland lakes, all streaked and barred with the tree shadows which threw their crimsons and clarets and bronzes upon the fringe of the deep blue sheet of water. There were streams, too, some clear and rippling where the trout flashed and the king-fisher gleamed, others dark and poisonous from the tamarack swamps, where the wanderers had to wade over their knees and carry Adele in their arms. So all day they journeyed 'mid the great forests, with never a hint or token of their fellow-man. But if man were absent, there was at least no want of life. It buzzed and chirped and chattered all round them from marsh and stream and brushwood. Sometimes it was the dun coat of a deer which glanced between the distant trunks, sometimes the badger which scuttled for its hole at their approach. Once the long in-toed track of a bear lay marked in the soft earth before them, and once Amos picked a great horn from amid the bushes which some moose had shed the month before. Little red squirrels danced and clattered above their heads, and every oak was a choir with a hundred tiny voices piping from the shadow of its foliage. As they passed the lakes the heavy gray stork flapped up in front of them, and they saw the wild duck whirring off in a long V against the blue sky, or heard the quavering cry of the loon from amid the reeds. That night they slept in the woods, Amos Green lighting a dry wood fire in a thick copse where at a dozen paces it was invisible. A few drops of rain had fallen, so with the quick skill of the practised woodsman he made two little sheds of elm and basswood bark, one to shelter the two refugees, and the other for Ephraim and himself. He had shot a wild goose, and this, with the remains of their biscuit, served them both for supper and for breakfast. Next day at noon they passed a little clearing, in the centre of which were the charred embers of a fire. Amos spent half an hour in reading all that sticks and ground could tell him. Then, as they resumed their way, he explained to his companions that the fire had been lit three weeks before, that a white man and two Indians had camped there, that they had been journeying from west to east, and that one of the Indians had been a squaw. No other traces of their fellow-mortals did they come across, until late in the afternoon Amos halted suddenly in the heart of a thick grove, and raised his hand to his ear. "Listen!" he cried. "I hear nothing," said Ephraim. "Nor I," added De Catinat. "Ah, but I do!" cried Adele gleefully. "It is a bell--and at the very time of day when the bells all sound in Paris!" "You are right, madame. It is what they call the Angelus bell." "Ah, yes, I hear it now!" cried De Catinat. "It was drowned by the chirping of the birds. But whence comes a bell in the heart of a Canadian forest?" "We are near the settlements on the Richelieu. It must be the bell of the chapel at the fort." "Fort St. Louis! Ah, then, we are no great way from my friend's seigneury." "Then we may sleep there to-night, if you think that he is indeed to be trusted." "Yes. He is a strange man, with ways of his own, but I would trust him with my life." "Very good. We shall keep to the south of the fort and make for his house. But something is putting up the birds over yonder. Ah, I hear the sound of steps! Crouch down here among the sumach, until we see who it is who walks so boldly through the woods." They stooped all four among the brushwood, peeping out between the tree trunks at a little glade towards which Amos was looking. For a long time the sound which the quick ears of the woodsman had detected was inaudible to the others, but at last they too heard the sharp snapping of twigs as some one forced his passage through the undergrowth. A moment later a man pushed his way into the open, whose appearance was so strange and so ill-suited to the spot, that even Amos gazed upon him with amazement. He was a very small man, so dark and weather-stained that he might have passed for an Indian were it not that he walked and was clad as no Indian had ever been. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, frayed at the edges, and so discoloured that it was hard to say what its original tint had been. His dress was of skins, rudely cut and dangling loosely from his body, and he wore the high boots of a dragoon, as tattered and stained as the rest of his raiment. On his back he bore a huge bundle of canvas with two long sticks projecting from it, and under each arm he carried what appeared to be a large square painting. "He's no Injun," whispered Amos, "and he's no Woodsman either. Blessed if I ever saw the match of him!" "He's neither _voyageur_, nor soldier, nor _coureur-de-bois_," said De Catinat. "'Pears to me to have a jurymast rigged upon his back, and fore and main staysails set under each of his arms," said Captain Ephraim. "Well, he seems to have no consorts, so we may hail him without fear." They rose from their ambush, and as they did so the stranger caught sight of them. Instead of showing the uneasiness which any man might be expected to feel at suddenly finding himself in the presence of strangers in such a country, he promptly altered his course and came towards them. As he crossed the glade, however, the sounds of the distant bell fell upon his ears, and he instantly whipped off his hat and sunk his head in prayer. A cry of horror rose, not only from Adele but from everyone of the party, at the sight which met their eyes. The top of the man's head was gone. Not a vestige of hair or of white skin remained, but in place of it was a dreadful crinkled discoloured surface with a sharp red line running across his brow and round over his ears. "By the eternal!" cried Amos, "the man has lost his scalp!" "My God!" said De Catinat. "Look at his hands!" He had raised them in prayer. Two or three little stumps projecting upwards showed where the fingers had been. "I've seen some queer figure-heads in my life, but never one like that," said Captain Ephraim. It was indeed a most extraordinary face which confronted them as they advanced. It was that of a man who might have been of any age and of any nation, for the features were so distorted that nothing could be learned from them. One eyelid was drooping with a puckering and flatness which showed that the ball was gone. The other, however, shot as bright and merry and kindly a glance as ever came from a chosen favourite of fortune. His face was flecked over with peculiar brown spots which had a most hideous appearance, and his nose had been burst and shattered by some terrific blow. And yet, in spite of this dreadful appearance, there was something so noble in the carriage of the man, in the pose of his head and in the expression which still hung, like the scent from a crushed flower, round his distorted features, that even the blunt Puritan seaman was awed by it. "Good-evening, my children," said the stranger, picking up his pictures again and advancing towards them. "I presume that you are from the fort, though I may be permitted to observe that the woods are not very safe for ladies at present." "We are going to the manor-house of Charles de la Noue at Sainte Marie," said De Catinat, "and we hope soon to be in a place of safety. But I grieve, sir, to see how terribly you have been mishandled." "Ah, you have observed my little injuries, then! They know no better, poor souls. They are but mischievous children--merry-hearted but mischievous. Tut, tut, it is laughable indeed that a man's vile body should ever clog his spirit, and yet here am I full of the will to push forward, and yet I must even seat myself on this log and rest myself, for the rogues have blown the calves of my legs off." "My God! Blown them off! The devils!" "Ah, but they are not to be blamed. No, no, it would be uncharitable to blame them. They are ignorant poor folk, and the prince of darkness is behind them to urge them on. They sank little charges of powder into my legs and then they exploded them, which makes me a slower walker than ever, though I was never very brisk. 'The Snail' was what I was called at school in Tours, yes, and afterwards at the seminary I was always 'the Snail.'" "Who are you then, sir, and who is it who has used you so shamefully?" asked De Catinat. "Oh, I am a very humble person. I am Ignatius Morat, of the Society of Jesus, and as to the people who have used me a little roughly, why, if you are sent upon the Iroquois mission, of course you know what to expect. I have nothing at all to complain of. Why, they have used me very much better than they did Father Jogues, Father Breboeuf, and a good many others whom I could mention. There were times, it is true, when I was quite hopeful of martyrdom, especially when they thought my tonsure was too small, which was their merry way of putting it. But I suppose I was not worthy of it; indeed I know that I was not, so it only ended in just a little roughness." "Where are you going then?" asked Amos, who had listened in amazement to the man's words. "I am going to Quebec. You see I am such a useless person that, until I have seen the bishop, I can really do no good at all." "You mean that you will resign your mission into the bishop's hands?" said De Catinat. "Oh, no. That would be quite the sort of thing which I should do if I were left to myself, for it is incredible how cowardly I am. You would not think it possible that a priest of God could be so frightened as I am sometimes. The mere sight of a fire makes me shrink all into myself ever since I went through the ordeal of the lighted pine splinters, which have left all these ugly stains upon my face. But then, of course, there is the Order to be thought of, and members of the Order do not leave their posts for trifling causes. But it is against the rules of Holy Church that a maimed man should perform the rites, and so, until I have seen the bishop and had his dispensation, I shall be even more useless than ever." "And what will you do then?" "Oh, then, of course, I will go back to my flock." "To the Iroquois!" "That is where I am stationed." "Amos," said De Catinat, "I have spent my life among brave men, but I think that this is the bravest man that I have ever met!" "On my word," said Amos, "I have seen some good men, too, but never one that I thought was better than this. You are weary, father. Have some of our cold goose, and there is still a drop of cognac in my flask." "Tut, tut, my son, if I take anything but the very simplest living it makes me so lazy that I become a snail indeed." "But you have no gun and no food. How do you live?" "Oh, the good God has placed plenty of food in these forests for a traveller who dare not eat very much. I have had wild plums, and wild grapes, and nuts and cranberries, and a nice little dish of _tripe-de-mere_ from the rocks." The woodsman made a wry face at the mention of this delicacy. "I had as soon eat a pot of glue," said he. "But what is this which you carry on your back?" "It is my church. Ah, I have everything here, tent, altar, surplice, everything. I cannot venture to celebrate service myself without the dispensation, but surely this venerable man is himself in orders and will solemnise the most blessed function." Amos, with a sly twinkle of the eyes, translated the proposal to Ephraim, who stood with his huge red hands clenched, mumbling about the saltless pottage of papacy. De Catinat replied briefly, however, that they were all of the laity, and that if they were to reach their destination before nightfall, it was necessary that they should push on. "You are right, my son," said the little Jesuit. "These poor people have already left their villages, and in a few days the woods will be full of them, though I do not think that any have crossed the Richelieu yet. There is one thing, however, which I would have you do for me." "And what is that?" "It is but to remember that I have left with Father Lamberville at Onondaga the dictionary which I have made of the Iroquois and French languages. There also is my account of the copper mines of the Great Lakes which I visited two years ago, and also an orrery which I have made to show the northern heavens with the stars of each month as they are seen from this meridian. If aught were to go amiss with Father Lamberville or with me, and we do not live very long on the Iroquois mission, it would be well that some one else should profit from my work." "I will tell my friend to-night. But what are these great pictures, father, and why do you bear them through the wood?" He turned them over as he spoke, and the whole party gathered round them, staring in amazement. They were very rough daubs, crudely coloured and gaudy. In the first, a red man was reposing serenely upon what appeared to be a range of mountains, with a musical instrument in his hand, a crown upon his head, and a smile upon his face. In the second, a similar man was screaming at the pitch of his lungs, while half-a-dozen black creatures were battering him with poles and prodding him with lances. "It is a damned soul and a saved soul," said Father Ignatius Morat, looking at his pictures with some satisfaction. "These are clouds upon which the blessed spirit reclines, basking in all the joys of paradise. It is well done this picture, but it has had no good effect, because there are no beaver in it, and they have not painted in a tobacco-pipe. You see they have little reason, these poor folk, and so we have to teach them as best we can through their eyes and their foolish senses. This other is better. It has converted several squaws and more than one Indian. I shall not bring back the saved soul when I come in the spring, but I shall bring five damned souls, which will be one for each nation. We must fight Satan with such weapons as we can get, you see. And now, my children, if you must go, let me first call down a blessing upon you!" And then occurred a strange thing, for the beauty of this man's soul shone through all the wretched clouds of sect, and, as he raised his hand to bless them, down went those Protestant knees to earth, and even old Ephraim found himself with a softened heart and a bent head listening to the half-understood words of this crippled, half-blinded, little stranger. "Farewell, then," said he, when they had risen. "May the sunshine of Saint Eulalie be upon you, and may Saint Anne of Beaupre shield you at the moment of your danger." And so they left him, a grotesque and yet heroic figure, staggering along through the woods with his tent, his pictures, and his mutilation. If the Church of Rome should ever be wrecked it may come from her weakness in high places, where all Churches are at their weakest, or it may be because with what is very narrow she tries to explain that which is very broad, but assuredly it will never be through the fault of her rank and file, for never upon earth have men and women spent themselves more lavishly and more splendidly than in her service. CHAPTER XXXII. THE LORD OF SAINTE MARIE. Leaving Fort St. Louis, whence the bells had sounded, upon their right, they pushed onwards as swiftly as they could, for the sun was so low in the heavens that the bushes in the clearings threw shadows like trees. Then suddenly, as they peered in front of them between the trunks, the green of the sward turned to the blue of the water, and they saw a broad river running swiftly before them. In France it would have seemed a mighty stream, but, coming fresh from the vastness of the St. Lawrence, their eyes were used to great sheets of water. But Amos and De Catinat had both been upon the bosom of the Richelieu before, and their hearts bounded as they looked upon it, for they knew that this was the straight path which led them, the one to home, and the other to peace and freedom. A few days' journeying down there, a few more along the lovely island-studded lakes of Champlain and Saint Sacrament, under the shadow of the tree-clad Adirondacks, and they would be at the headquarters of the Hudson, and their toils and their dangers be but a thing of gossip for the winter evenings. Across the river was the terrible Iroquois country, and at two points they could see the smoke of fires curling up into the evening air. They had the Jesuit's word for it that none of the war-parties had crossed yet, so they followed the track which led down the eastern bank. As they pushed onwards, however, a stern military challenge suddenly brought them to a stand, and they saw the gleam of two musket barrels which covered them from a thicket overlooking the path. "We are friends," cried De Catinat. "Whence come you, then?" asked an invisible sentinel. "From Quebec." "And whither are you going?" "To visit Monsieur Charles de la Noue, seigneur of Sainte Marie." "Very good. It is quite safe, Du Lhut. They have a lady with them, too. I greet you, madame, in the name of my father." Two men had emerged from the bushes, one of whom might have passed as a full-blooded Indian, had it not been for these courteous words which he uttered in excellent French. He was a tall slight young man, very dark, with piercing black eyes, and a grim square relentless mouth which could only have come with Indian descent. His coarse flowing hair was gathered up into a scalp-lock, and the eagle feather which he wore in it was his only headgear. A rude suit of fringed hide with caribou-skin mocassins might have been the fellow to the one which Amos Green was wearing, but the gleam of a gold chain from his belt, the sparkle of a costly ring upon his finger, and the delicate richly-inlaid musket which he carried, all gave a touch of grace to his equipment. A broad band of yellow ochre across his forehead and a tomahawk at his belt added to the strange inconsistency of his appearance. The other was undoubtedly a pure Frenchman, elderly, dark and wiry, with a bristling black beard and a fierce eager face. He, too, was clad in hunter's dress, but he wore a gaudy striped sash round his waist, into which a brace of long pistols had been thrust. His buckskin tunic had been ornamented over the front with dyed porcupine quills and Indian bead-work, while his leggings were scarlet with a fringe of raccoon tails hanging down from them. Leaning upon his long brown gun he stood watching the party, while his companion advanced towards them. "You will excuse our precautions," said he. "We never know what device these rascals may adopt to entrap us. I fear, madame, that you have had a long and very tiring journey." Poor Adele, who had been famed for neatness even among housekeepers of the Rue St. Martin, hardly dared to look down at her own stained and tattered dress. Fatigue and danger she had endured with a smiling face, but her patience almost gave way at the thought of facing strangers in this attire. "My mother will be very glad to welcome you, and to see to every want," said he quickly, as though he had read her thoughts. "But you, sir, I have surely seen you before." "And I you," cried the guardsman. "My name is Amory de Catinat, once of the regiment of Picardy. Surely you are Achille de la Noue de Sainte Marie, whom I remember when you came with your father to the government _levees_ at Quebec." "Yes, it is I," the young man answered, holding out his hand and smiling in a somewhat constrained fashion. "I do not wonder that you should hesitate, for when you saw me last I was in a very different dress to this." De Catinat did indeed remember him as one of the band of the young _noblesse_ who used to come up to the capital once a year, where they inquired about the latest modes, chatted over the year-old gossip of Versailles, and for a few weeks at least lived a life which was in keeping with the traditions of their order. Very different was he now, with scalp-lock and war-paint, under the shadow of the great oaks, his musket in his hand and his tomahawk at his belt. "We have one life for the forest and one for the cities," said he, "though indeed my good father will not have it so, and carries Versailles with him wherever he goes. You know him of old, monsieur, and I need not explain my words. But it is time for our relief, and so we may guide you home." Two men in the rude dress of Canadian _censitaires_ or farmers, but carrying their muskets in a fashion which told De Catinat's trained senses that they were disciplined soldiers, had suddenly appeared upon the scene. Young De la Noue gave them a few curt injunctions, and then accompanied the refugees along the path. "You may not know my friend here," said he, pointing to the other sentinel, "but I am quite sure that his name is not unfamiliar to you. This is Greysolon du Lhut." Both Amos and De Catinat looked with the deepest curiosity and interest at the famous leader of _coureurs-de-bois_, a man whose whole life had been spent in pushing westward, ever westward, saying little, writing nothing, but always the first wherever there was danger to meet or difficulty to overcome. It was not religion and it was not hope of gain which led him away into those western wildernesses, but pure love of nature and of adventure, with so little ambition that he had never cared to describe his own travels, and none knew where he had been or where he had stopped. For years he would vanish from the settlements away into the vast plains of the Dacotah, or into the huge wilderness of the north-west, and then at last some day would walk back into Sault La Marie, or any other outpost of civilisation, a little leaner, a little browner, and as taciturn as ever. Indians from the furthest corners of the continent knew him as they knew their own sachem. He could raise tribes and bring a thousand painted cannibals to the help of the French who spoke a tongue which none knew, and came from the shores of rivers which no one else had visited. The most daring French explorers, when, after a thousand dangers, they had reached some country which they believed to be new, were as likely as not to find Du Lhut sitting by his camp fire there, some new squaw by his side, and his pipe between his teeth. Or again, when in doubt and danger, with no friends within a thousand miles, the traveller might suddenly meet this silent man, with one or two tattered wanderers of his own kidney, who would help him from his peril, and then vanish as unexpectedly as he came. Such was the man who now walked by their sides along the bank of the Richelieu, and both Amos and De Catinat knew that his presence there had a sinister meaning, and that the place which Greysolon du Lhut had chosen was the place where the danger threatened. "What do you think of those fires over yonder, Du Lhut?" asked young De la Noue. The adventurer was stuffing his pipe with rank Indian tobacco, which he pared from a plug with a scalping knife. He glanced over at the two little plumes of smoke which stood straight up against the red evening sky. "I don't like them," said he. "They are Iroquois then?" "Yes." "Well, at least it proves that they are on the other side of the river." "It proves that they are on this side." "What!" Du Lhut lit his pipe from a tinder paper. "The Iroquois are on this side," said he. "They crossed to the south of us." "And you never told us. How do you know that they crossed, and why did you not tell us?" "I did not know until I saw the fires over yonder." "And how did they tell you?" "Tut, an Indian papoose could have told," said Du Lhut impatiently. "Iroquois on the trail do nothing without an object. They have an object then in showing that smoke. If their war-parties were over yonder there would be no object. Therefore their braves must have crossed the river. And they could not get over to the north without being seen from the fort. They have got over on the south then." Amos nodded with intense appreciation. "That's it!" said he, "that's Injun ways. I'll lay that he is right." "Then they may be in the woods round us. We may be in danger," cried De la Noue. Du Lhut nodded and sucked at his pipe. De Catinat cast a glance round him at the grand tree trunks, the fading foliage, the smooth sward underneath with the long evening shadows barred across it. How difficult it was to realise that behind all this beauty there lurked a danger so deadly and horrible that a man alone might well shrink from it, far less one who had the woman whom he loved walking within hand's touch of him. It was with a long heart-felt sigh of relief that he saw a wall of stockade in the midst of a large clearing in front of him, with the stone manor house rising above it. In a line from the stockade were a dozen cottages with cedar-shingled roofs turned up in the Norman fashion, in which dwelt the habitants under the protection of the seigneur's chateau--a strange little graft of the feudal system in the heart of an American forest. Above the main gate as they approached was a huge shield of wood with a coat of arms painted upon it, a silver ground with a chevron ermine between three coronets gules. At either corner a small brass cannon peeped through an embrasure. As they passed the gate the guard inside closed it and placed the huge wooden bars into position. A little crowd of men, women, and children were gathered round the door of the chateau, and a man appeared to be seated on a high-backed chair upon the threshold. "You know my father," said the young man with a shrug of his shoulders. "He will have it that he has never left his Norman castle, and that he is still the Seigneur de la Noue, the greatest man within a day's ride of Rouen, and of the richest blood of Normandy. He is now taking his dues and his yearly oaths from his tenants, and he would not think it becoming, if the governor himself were to visit him, to pause in the middle of so august a ceremony. But if it would interest you, you may step this way and wait until he has finished. You, madame, I will take at once to my mother, if you will be so kind as to follow me." The sight was, to the Americans at least, a novel one. A triple row of men, women, and children were standing round in a semicircle, the men rough and sunburned, the women homely and clean, with white caps upon their heads, the children open-mouthed and round-eyed, awed into an unusual quiet by the reverent bearing of their elders. In the centre, on his high-backed carved chair, there sat an elderly man very stiff and erect, with an exceedingly solemn face. He was a fine figure of a man, tall and broad, with large strong features, clean-shaven and deeply-lined, a huge beak of a nose, and strong shaggy eyebrows which arched right up to the great wig, which he wore full and long as it had been worn in France in his youth. On his wig was placed a white hat cocked jauntily at one side with a red feather streaming round it, and he wore a coat of cinnamon-coloured cloth with silver at the neck and pockets, which was still very handsome, though it bore signs of having been frayed and mended more than once. This, with black velvet knee-breeches and high well-polished boots, made a costume such as De Catinat had never before seen in the wilds of Canada. As they watched, a rude husbandman walked forwards from the crowd, and kneeling down upon a square of carpet placed his hands between those of the seigneur. "Monsieur de Sainte Marie, Monsieur de Sainte Marie, Monsieur de Sainte Marie," said he three times, "I bring you the faith and homage which I am bound to bring you on account of my fief Herbert, which I hold as a man of faith of your seigneury." "Be true, my son. Be valiant and true!" said the old nobleman solemnly, and then with a sudden change of tone: "What in the name of the devil has your daughter got there?" A girl had advanced from the crowd with a large strip of bark in front of her on which was heaped a pile of dead fish. "It is your eleventh fish which I am bound by my oath to render to you," said the _censitaire_. "There are seventy-three in the heap, and I have caught eight hundred in the month." "_Peste!_" cried the nobleman. "Do you think, Andre Dubois, that I will disorder my health by eating three-and-seventy fish in this fashion? Do you think that I and my body-servants and my personal retainers and the other members of my household have nothing to do but to eat your fish? In future, you will pay your tribute not more than five at a time. Where is the major-domo? Theuriet, remove the fish to our central store-house, and be careful that the smell does not penetrate to the blue tapestry chamber or to my lady's suite." A man in very shabby black livery, all stained and faded, advanced with a large tin platter and carried off the pile of white fish. Then, as each of the tenants stepped forward to pay their old-world homage, they all left some share of their industry for their lord's maintenance. With some it was a bundle of wheat, with some a barrel of potatoes, while others had brought skins of deer or of beaver. All these were carried off by the major-domo, until each had paid his tribute, and the singular ceremony was brought to a conclusion. As the seigneur rose, his son, who had returned, took De Catinat by the sleeve and led him through the throng. "Father," said he, "this is Monsieur de Catinat, whom you may remember some years ago at Quebec." The seigneur bowed with much condescension, and shook the guardsman by the hand. "You are extremely welcome to my estates, both you and your body-servants--" "They are my friends, monsieur. This is Monsieur Amos Green and Captain Ephraim Savage. My wife is travelling with me, but your courteous son has kindly taken her to your lady." "I am honoured--honoured indeed!" cried the old man, with a bow and a flourish. "I remember you very well, sir, for it is not so common to meet men of quality in this country. I remember your father also, for he served with me at Rocroy, though he was in the Foot, and I in the Red Dragoons of Grissot. Your arms are a martlet in fess upon a field azure, and now that I think of it, the second daughter of your great-grand-father married the son of one of the La Noues of Andelys, which is one of our cadet branches. Kinsman, you are welcome!" He threw his arms suddenly round De Catinat and slapped him three times on the back. The young guardsman was only too delighted to find himself admitted to such an intimacy. "I will not intrude long upon your hospitality," said he. "We are journeying down to Lake Champlain, and we hope in a day or two to be ready to go on." "A suite of rooms shall be laid at your disposal as long as you do me the honour to remain here. _Peste!_ It is not every day that I can open my gates to a man with good blood in his veins! Ah, sir, that is what I feel most in my exile, for who is there with whom I can talk as equal to equal? There is the governor, the intendant, perhaps, one or two priests, three or four officers, but how many of the _noblesse_? Scarcely one. They buy their titles over here as they buy their pelts, and it is better to have a canoe-load of beaver skins than a pedigree from Roland. But I forget my duties. You are weary and hungry, you and your friends. Come up with me to the tapestried _salon_, and we shall see if my stewards can find anything for your refreshment. You play piquet, if I remember right? Ah, my skill is leaving me, and I should be glad to try a hand with you." The manor-house was high and strong, built of gray stone in a framework of wood. The large iron-clamped door through which they entered was pierced for musketry fire, and led into a succession of cellars and store-houses in which the beets, carrots, potatoes, cabbages, cured meat, dried eels, and other winter supplies were placed. A winding stone staircase led them through a huge kitchen, flagged and lofty, from which branched the rooms of the servants or retainers as the old nobleman preferred to call them. Above this again was the principal suite, centering in the dining-hall with its huge fireplace and rude home-made furniture. Rich rugs formed of bear or deer-skin were littered thickly over the brown-stained floor, and antlered heads bristled out from among the rows of muskets which were arranged along the wall. A broad rough-hewn maple table ran down the centre of this apartment, and on this there was soon set a venison pie, a side of calvered salmon, and a huge cranberry tart, to which the hungry travellers did full justice. The seigneur explained that he had already supped, but having allowed himself to be persuaded into joining them, he ended by eating more than Ephraim Savage, drinking more than Du Lhut, and finally by singing a very amorous little French _chanson_ with a tra-le-ra chorus, the words of which, fortunately for the peace of the company, were entirely unintelligible to the Bostonian. "Madame is taking her refection in my lady's boudoir," he remarked, when the dishes had been removed. "You may bring up a bottle of Frontiniac from bin thirteen, Theuriet. Oh, you will see, gentlemen, that even in the wilds we have a little, a very little, which is perhaps not altogether bad. And so you come from Versailles, De Catinat? It was built since my day, but how I remember the old life of the court at St. Germain, before Louis turned serious! Ah, what innocent happy days they were when Madame de Nevailles had to bar the windows of the maids of honour to keep out the king, and we all turned out eight deep on to the grass plot for our morning duel! By Saint Denis, I have not quite forgotten the trick of the wrist yet, and, old as I am, I should be none the worse for a little breather." He strutted in his stately fashion over to where a rapier and dagger hung upon the wall, and began to make passes at the door, darting in and out, warding off imaginary blows with his poniard, and stamping his feet with little cries of "Punto! reverso! stoccata! dritta! mandritta!" and all the jargon of the fencing schools. Finally he rejoined them, breathing heavily and with his wig awry. "That was our old exercise," said he. "Doubtless you young bloods have improved upon it, and yet it was good enough for the Spaniards at Rocroy and at one or two other places which I could mention. But they still see life at the court, I understand. There are still love passages and blood lettings. How has Lauzun prospered in his wooing of Mademoiselle de Montpensier? Was it proved that Madame de Clermont had bought a phial from Le Vie, the poison woman, two days before the soup disagreed so violently with monsieur? What did the Due de Biron do when his nephew ran away with the duchess? Is it true that he raised his allowance to fifty thousand livres for having done it?" Such were the two-year-old questions which had not been answered yet upon the banks of the Richelieu River. Long into the hours of the night, when his comrades were already snoring under their blankets, De Catinat, blinking and yawning, was still engaged in trying to satisfy the curiosity of the old courtier, and to bring him up to date in all the most minute gossip of Versailles. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SLAYING OF BROWN MOOSE. Two days were spent by the travellers at the seigneury of Sainte Marie, and they would very willingly have spent longer, for the quarters were comfortable and the welcome warm, but already the reds of autumn were turning to brown, and they knew how suddenly the ice and snow come in those northern lands, and how impossible it would be to finish their journey if winter were once fairly upon them. The old nobleman had sent his scouts by land and by water, but there were no signs of the Iroquois upon the eastern banks, so that it was clear that De Lhut had been mistaken. Over on the other side, however, the high gray plumes of smoke still streamed up above the trees as a sign that their enemies were not very far off. All day from the manor-house windows and from the stockade they could see those danger signals which reminded them that a horrible death lurked ever at their elbow. The refugees were rested now and refreshed, and of one mind about pushing on. "If the snow comes, it will be a thousand times more dangerous," said Amos, "for we shall leave a track then that a papoose could follow." "And why should we fear?" urged old Ephraim. "Truly this is a desert of salt, even though it lead to the vale of Hinnom, but we shall be borne up against these sons of Jeroboam. Steer a straight course, lad, and jam your helm, for the pilot will see you safe." "And I am not frightened, Amory, and I am quite rested now," said Adele. "We shall be so much more happy when we are in the English Provinces, for even now, how do we know that that dreadful monk may not come with orders to drag us back to Quebec and Paris?" It was indeed very possible that the vindictive Franciscan, when satisfied that they had not ascended to Montreal, or remained at Three Rivers, might seek them on the banks of the Richelieu. When De Catinat thought of how he passed them in his great canoe that morning, his eager face protruded, and his dark body swinging in time to the paddles, he felt that the danger which his wife suggested was not only possible but imminent. The seigneur was his friend, but the seigneur could not disobey the governor's orders. A great hand, stretching all the way from Versailles, seemed to hang over them, even here in the heart of the virgin forest, ready to snatch them up and carry them back into degradation and misery. Better all the perils of the woods than that! But the seigneur and his son, who knew nothing of their pressing reasons for haste, were strenuous in urging De Catinat the other way, and in this they were supported by the silent Du Lhut, whose few muttered words were always more weighty than the longest speech, for he never spoke save about that of which he was a master. "You have seen my little place," said the old nobleman, with a wave of his beruffled ring-covered hand. "It is not what I should wish it, but such as it is, it is most heartily yours for the winter, if you and your comrades would honour me by remaining. As to madame, I doubt not that my own dame and she will find plenty to amuse and occupy them, which reminds me, De Catinat, that you have not yet been presented. Theuriet, go to your mistress and inform her that I request her to be so good as to come to us in the hall of the dais." De Catinat was too seasoned to be easily startled, but he was somewhat taken aback when the lady, to whom the old nobleman always referred in terms of exaggerated respect, proved to be as like a full-blooded Indian squaw as the hall of the dais was to a French barn. She was dressed, it was true, in a bodice of scarlet taffeta with a black skirt, silver-buckled shoes, and a scented pomander ball dangling by a silver chain from her girdle, but her face was of the colour of the bark of the Scotch fir, while her strong nose and harsh mouth, with the two plaits of coarse black hair which dangled down her back, left no possible doubt as to her origin. "Allow me to present you, Monsieur de Catinat," said the Seigneur de Sainte Marie solemnly, "to my wife, Onega de la Noue de Sainte Marie, chatelaine by right of marriage to this seigneury, and also to the Chateau d'Andelys in Normandy, and to the estate of Varennes in Provence, while retaining in her own right the hereditary chieftainship on the distaff side of the nation of the Onondagas. My angel, I have been endeavouring to persuade our friends to remain with us at Sainte Marie instead of journeying on to Lake Champlain." "At least leave your White Lily at Sainte Marie," said the dusky princess, speaking in excellent French, and clasping with her ruddy fingers the ivory hand of Adele. "We will hold her safe for you until the ice softens, and the leaves and the partridge berries come once more. I know my people, monsieur, and I tell you that the woods are full of murder, and that it is not for nothing that the leaves are the colour of blood, for death lurks behind every tree." De Catinat was more moved by the impressive manner of his hostess than by any of the other warnings which he had received. Surely she, if anyone, must be able to read the signs of the times. "I know not what to do!" he cried in despair. "I must go on, and yet how can I expose her to these perils? I would fain stay the winter, but you must take my word for it, sir, that it is not possible." "Du Lhut, you know how things should be ordered," said the seigneur. "What should you advise my friend to do, since he is so set upon getting to the English Provinces before the winter comes?" The dark silent pioneer stroked his beard with his hand as he pondered over the question. "There is but one way," said he at last, "though even in it there is danger. The woods are safer than the river, for the reeds are full of _cached_ canoes. Five leagues from here is the blockhouse of Poitou, and fifteen miles beyond, that of Auvergne. We will go to-morrow to Poitou through the woods and see if all be safe. I will go with you, and I give you my word that if the Iroquois are there, Greysolon du Lhut will know it. The lady we shall leave here, and if we find that all is safe we shall come back for her. Then in the same fashion we shall advance to Auvergne, and there you must wait until you hear where their war-parties are. It is in my mind that it will not be very long before we know." "What! You would part us!" cried Adele aghast. "It is best, my sister," said Onega, passing her arm caressingly round her. "You cannot know the danger, but we know it, and we will not let our White Lily run into it. You will stay here to gladden us, while the great chief Du Lhut, and the French soldier, your husband, and the old warrior who seems so wary, and the other chief with limbs like the wild deer, go forward through the woods and see that all is well before you venture." And so it was at last agreed, and Adele, still protesting, was consigned to the care of the lady of Sainte Marie, while De Catinat swore that without a pause he would return from Poitou to fetch her. The old nobleman and his son would fain have joined them in their adventure, but they had their own charge to watch and the lives of many in their keeping, while a small party were safer in the woods than a larger one would be. The seigneur provided them with a letter for De Lannes, the governor of the Poitou blockhouse, and so in the early dawn the four of them crept like shadows from the stockade-gate, amid the muttered good wishes of the guard within, and were lost in an instant in the blackness of the vast forest. From La Noue to Poitou was but twelve miles down the river, but by the woodland route where creeks were to be crossed, reed-girt lakes to be avoided, and paths to be picked among swamps where the wild rice grew higher than their heads, and the alder bushes lay in dense clumps before them, the distance was more than doubled. They walked in single file, Du Lhut leading, with the swift silent tread of some wild creature, his body bent forward, his gun ready in the bend of his arm, and his keen dark eyes shooting little glances to right and left, observing everything from the tiniest mark upon the ground or tree trunk to the motion of every beast and bird of the brushwood. De Catinat walked behind, then Ephraim Savage, and then Amos, all with their weapons ready and with every sense upon the alert. By midday they were more than half-way, and halted in a thicket for a scanty meal of bread and cheese, for De Lhut would not permit them to light a fire. "They have not come as far as this," he whispered, "and yet I am sure that they have crossed the river. Ah, Governor de la Barre did not know what he did when he stirred these men up, and this good dragoon whom the king has sent us now knows even less." "I have seen them in peace," remarked Amos. "I have traded to Onondaga and to the country of the Senecas. I know them as fine hunters and brave men." "They are fine hunters, but the game that they hunt best are their fellow-men. I have myself led their scalping parties, and I have fought against them, and I tell you that when a general comes out from France who hardly knows enough to get the sun behind him in a fight, he will find that there is little credit to be gained from them. They talk of burning their villages! It would be as wise to kick over the wasps' nest, and think that you have done with the wasps. You are from New England, monsieur?" "My comrade is from New England; I am from New York." "Ah, yes. I could see from your step and your eye that the woods were as a home to you. The New England man goes on the waters and he slays the cod with more pleasure than the caribou. Perhaps that is why his face is so sad. I have been on the great water, and I remember that my face was sad also. There is little wind, and so I think that we may light our pipes without danger. With a good breeze I have known a burning pipe fetch up a scalping party from two miles' distance, but the trees stop scent, and the Iroquois noses are less keen than the Sioux and the Dacotah. God help you, monsieur, if you should ever have an Indian war. It is bad for us, but it would be a thousand times worse for you." "And why?" "Because we have fought the Indians from the first, and we have them always in our mind when we build. You see how along this river every house and every hamlet supports its neighbour? But you, by Saint Anne of Beaupre, it made my scalp tingle when I came on your frontiers and saw the lonely farm-houses and little clearings out in the woods with no help for twenty leagues around. An Indian war is a purgatory for Canada, but it would be a hell for the English Provinces!" "We are good friends with the Indians," said Amos. "We do not wish to conquer." "Your people have a way of conquering although they say that they do not wish to do it," remarked Du Lhut. "Now, with us, we bang our drums, and wave our flags, and make a stir, but no very big thing has come of it yet. We have never had but two great men in Canada. One was Monsieur de la Salle, who was shot last year by his own men down the great river, and the other, old Frontenac, will have to come back again if New France is not to be turned into a desert by the Five Nations. It would surprise me little if by this time two years the white and gold flag flew only over the rock of Quebec. But I see that you look at me impatiently, Monsieur de Catinat, and I know that you count the hours until we are back at Sainte Marie again. Forward, then, and may the second part of our journey be as peaceful as the first." For an hour or more they picked their way through the woods, following in the steps of the old French pioneer. It was a lovely day with hardly a cloud in the heavens, and the sun streaming down through the thick foliage covered the shaded sward with a delicate network of gold. Sometimes where the woods opened they came out into the pure sunlight, but only to pass into thick glades beyond, where a single ray, here and there, was all that could break its way through the vast leafy covering. It would have been beautiful, these sudden transitions from light to shade, but with the feeling of impending danger, and of a horror ever lurking in these shadows, the mind was tinged with awe rather than admiration. Silently, lightly, the four men picked their steps among the great tree trunks. Suddenly Du Lhut dropped upon his knees and stooped his ear to the ground. He rose, shook his head, and walked on with a grave face, casting quick little glances into the shadows in every direction. "Did you hear something?" whispered Amos. Du Lhut put his finger to his lips, and then in an instant was down again upon his face with his ear fixed to the ground. He sprang up with the look of a man who has heard what he expected to hear. "Walk on," said he quietly, "and behave exactly as you have done all day." "What is it, then?" "Indians." "In front of us?" "No, behind us." "What are they doing?" "They are following us." "How many of them?" "Two, I think." The friends glanced back involuntarily over their shoulders into the dense blackness of the forest. At one point a single broad shaft of light slid down between two pines and cast a golden blotch upon their track. Save for this one vivid spot all was sombre and silent. "Do not look round," whispered Du Lhut sharply. "Walk on as before." "Are they enemies?" "They are Iroquois." "And pursuing us?" "No, we are now pursuing them." "Shall we turn, then?" "No, they would vanish like shadows," "How far off are they?" "About two hundred paces, I think." "They cannot see us, then?" "I think not, but I cannot be sure. They are following our trail, I think." "What shall we do, then?" "Let us make a circle and get behind them." Turning sharp to the left he led them in a long curve through the woods, hurrying swiftly and yet silently under the darkest shadows of the trees. Then he turned again, and presently halted. "This is our own track," said he. "Ay, and two Redskins have passed over it," cried Amos, bending down, and pointing to marks which were entirely invisible to Ephraim Savage or De Catinat. "A full-grown warrior and a lad on his first warpath," said Du Lhut. "They were moving fast, you see, for you can hardly see the heel marks of their moccasins. They walked one behind the other. Now let us follow them as they followed us, and see if we have better luck." He sped swiftly along the trail with his musket cocked in his hand, the others following hard upon his heels, but there was no sound, and no sign of life from the shadowy woods in front of them. Suddenly Du Lhut stopped and grounded his weapon. "They are still behind us," he said. "Still behind us?" "Yes. This is the point where we branched off. They have hesitated a moment, as you can see by their footmarks, and then they have followed on." "If we go round again and quicken our pace we may overtake them." "No, they are on their guard now. They must know that it could only be on their account that we went back on our tracks. Lie here behind the fallen log and we shall see if we can catch a glimpse of them." A great rotten trunk, all green with mould and blotched with pink and purple fungi, lay to one side of where they stood. Behind this the Frenchman crouched, and his three companions followed his example, peering through the brushwood screen in front of them. Still the one broad sheet of sunshine poured down between the two pines, but all else was as dim and as silent as a vast cathedral with pillars of wood and roof of leaf. Not a branch that creaked, nor a twig that snapped, nor any sound at all save the sharp barking of a fox somewhere in the heart of the forest. A thrill of excitement ran through the nerves of De Catinat. It was like one of those games of hide-and-seek which the court used to play, when Louis was in a sportive mood, among the oaks and yew hedges of Versailles. But the forfeit there was a carved fan, or a box of bonbons, and here it was death. Ten minutes passed and there was no sign of any living thing behind them. "They are over in yonder thicket," whispered Du Lhut, nodding his head towards a dense clump of brushwood, two hundred paces away. "Have you seen them?" "No." "How do you know, then?" "I saw a squirrel come from his hole in the great white beech-tree yonder. He scuttled back again as if something had scared him. From his hole he can see down into that brushwood." "Do you think that they know that we are here?" "They cannot see us. But they are suspicious. They fear a trap." "Shall we rush for the brushwood?" "They would pick two of us off, and be gone like shadows through the woods. No, we had best go on our way." "But they will follow us." "I hardly think that they will. We are four and they are only two, and they know now that we are on our guard and that we can pick up a trail as quickly as they can themselves. Get behind these trunks where they cannot see us. So! Now stoop until you are past the belt of alder bushes. We must push on fast now, for where there are two Iroquois there are likely to be two hundred not very far off." "Thank God that I did not bring Adele!" cried De Catinat. "Yes, monsieur, it is well for a man to make a comrade of his wife, but not on the borders of the Iroquois country, nor of any other Indian country either." "You do not take your own wife with you when you travel, then?" asked the soldier. "Yes, but I do not let her travel from village to village. She remains in the wigwam." "Then you leave her behind?" "On the contrary, she is always there to welcome me. By Saint Anne, I should be heavy-hearted if I came to any village between this and the Bluffs of the Illinois, and did not find my wife waiting to greet me." "Then she must travel before you." Du Lhut laughed heartily, without, however, emitting a sound. "A fresh village, a fresh wife," said he. "But I never have more than one in each, for it is a shame for a Frenchman to set an evil example when the good fathers are spending their lives so freely in preaching virtue to them. Ah, here is the Ajidaumo Creek, where the Indians set the sturgeon nets. It is still seven miles to Poitou." "We shall be there before nightfall, then?" "I think that we had best wait for nightfall before we make our way in. Since the Iroquois scouts are out as far as this, it is likely that they lie thick round Poitou, and we may find the last step the worst unless we have a care, the more so if these two get in front of us to warn the others." He paused a moment with slanting head and sidelong ear. "By Saint Anne," he muttered, "we have not shaken them off. They are still upon our trail!" "You hear them?" "Yes, they are no great way from us. They will find that they have followed us once too often this time. Now, I will show you a little bit of woodcraft which may be new to you. Slip off your moccasins, monsieur." De Catinat pulled off his shoes as directed, and Du Lhut did the same. "Put them on as if they were gloves," said the pioneer, and an instant later Ephraim Savage and Amos had their comrades' shoes upon their hands. "You can sling your muskets over your back. So! Now down on all fours, bending yourselves double, with your hands pressing hard upon the earth. That is excellent. Two men can leave the trail of four! Now come with me, monsieur." He flitted from tree to tree on a line which was parallel to, but a few yards distant from, that of their comrades. Then suddenly he crouched behind a bush and pulled De Catinat down beside him. "They must pass us in a few minutes," he whispered. "Do not fire if you can help it." Something gleamed in Du Lhut's hand, and his comrade, glancing down, saw that he had drawn a keen little tomahawk from his belt. Again the mad wild thrill ran through the soldier's blood, as he peered through the tangled branches and waited for whatever might come out of the dim silent aisles of tree-boles. And suddenly he saw something move. It flitted like a shadow from one trunk to the other so swiftly that De Catinat could not have told whether it were beast or human. And then again he saw it, and yet again, sometimes one shadow, sometimes two shadows, silent, furtive, like the _loup-garou_ with which his nurse had scared him in his childhood. Then for a few moments all was still once more, and then in an instant there crept out from among the bushes the most terrible-looking creature that ever walked the earth, an Iroquois chief upon the war-trail. He was a tall powerful man, and his bristle of scalp-locks and eagle feathers made him look a giant in the dim light, for a good eight feet lay between his beaded moccasin and the topmost plume of his headgear. One side of his face was painted in soot, ochre, and vermilion to resemble a dog, and the other half as a fowl, so that the front view was indescribably grotesque and strange. A belt of wampum was braced round his loin-cloth, and a dozen scalp-locks fluttered out as he moved from the fringe of his leggings. His head was sunk forward, his eyes gleamed with a sinister light, and his nostrils dilated and contracted like those of an excited animal. His gun was thrown forward, and he crept along with bended knees, peering, listening, pausing, hurrying on, a breathing image of caution. Two paces behind him walked a lad of fourteen, clad and armed in the same fashion, but without the painted face and without the horrid dried trophies upon the leggings. It was his first campaign, and already his eyes shone and his nostrils twitched with the same lust for murder which burned within his elder. So they advanced, silent, terrible, creeping out of the shadows of the wood, as their race had come out of the shadows of history, with bodies of iron and tiger souls. They were just abreast of the bush when something caught the eye of the younger warrior, some displaced twig or fluttering leaf, and he paused with suspicion in every feature. Another instant and he had warned his companion, but Du Lhut sprang out and buried his little hatchet in the skull of the older warrior. De Catinat heard a dull crash, as when an axe splinters its way into a rotten tree, and the man fell like a log, laughing horribly, and kicking and striking with his powerful limbs. The younger warrior sprang like a deer over his fallen comrade and dashed on into the wood, but an instant later there was a gunshot among the trees in front, followed by a faint wailing cry. "That is his death-whoop," said Du Lhut composedly. "It was a pity to fire, and yet it was better than letting him go." As he spoke the two others came back, Ephraim ramming a fresh charge into his musket. "Who was laughing?" asked Amos. "It was he," said Du Lhut, nodding towards the dying warrior, who lay with his head in a horrible puddle, and his grotesque features contorted into a fixed smile. "It's a custom they have when they get their death-blow. I've known a Seneca chief laugh for six hours on end at the torture-stake. Ah, he's gone!" As he spoke the Indian gave a last spasm with his hands and feet, and lay rigid, grinning up at the slit of blue sky above him. "He's a great chief," said Du Lhut. "He is Brown Moose of the Mohawks, and the other is his second son. We have drawn first blood, but I do not think that it will be the last, for the Iroquois do not allow their war-chiefs to die unavenged. He was a mighty fighter, as you may see by looking at his neck." He wore a peculiar necklace which seemed to De Catinat to consist of blackened bean pods set upon a string. As he stooped over it he saw to his horror that they were not bean pods, but withered human fingers. "They are all right fore-fingers," said Du Lhut, "so everyone represents a life. There are forty-two in all. Eighteen are of men whom he has slain in battle, and the other twenty-four have been taken and tortured." "How do you know that?" "Because only eighteen have their nails on. If the prisoner of an Iroquois be alive, he begins always by biting his nails off. You see that they are missing from four-and-twenty." De Catinat shuddered. What demons were these amongst whom an evil fate had drifted him? And was it possible that his Adele should fall into the hands of such fiends? No, no, surely the good God, for whose sake they had suffered so much, would not permit such an infamy! And yet as evil a fate had come upon other women as tender as Adele--upon other men as loving as he. What hamlet was there in Canada which had not such stories in their record? A vague horror seized him as he stood there. We know more of the future than we are willing to admit, away down in those dim recesses of the soul where there is no reason, but only instincts and impressions. Now some impending terror cast its cloud over him. The trees around, with their great protruding limbs, were like shadowy demons thrusting out their gaunt arms to seize him. The sweat burst from his forehead, and he leaned heavily upon his musket. "By Saint Eulalie," said Du Lhut, "for an old soldier you turn very pale, monsieur, at a little bloodshed." "I am not well. I should be glad of a sup from your cognac bottle." "Here it is, comrade, and welcome! Well, I may as well have this fine scalp that we may have something to show for our walk." He held the Indian's head between his knees, and in an instant, with a sweep of his knife, had torn off the hideous dripping trophy. "Let us go!" cried De Catinat, turning away in disgust. "Yes, we shall go! But I shall also have this wampum belt marked with the totem of the Bear. So! And the gun too. Look at the 'London' printed upon the lock. Ah, Monsieur Green, Monsieur Green, it is not hard to see where the enemies of France get their arms." So at last they turned away, Du Lhut bearing his spoils, leaving the red grinning figure stretched under the silent trees. As they passed on they caught a glimpse of the lad lying doubled up among the bushes where he had fallen. The pioneer walked very swiftly until he came to a little stream which prattled down to the big river. Here he slipped off his boots and leggings, and waded down it with his companions for half a mile or so. "They will follow our tracks when they find him," said he, "but this will throw them off, for it is only on running water that an Iroquois can find no trace. And now we shall lie in this clump until nightfall, for we are little over a mile from Port Poitou, and it is dangerous to go forward, for the ground becomes more open." And so they remained concealed among the alders whilst the shadows turned from short to long, and the white drifting clouds above them were tinged with the pink of the setting sun. Du Lhut coiled himself into a ball with his pipe between his teeth and dropped into a light sleep, pricking up his ears and starting at the slightest sound from the woods around them. The two Americans whispered together for a long time, Ephraim telling some long story about the cruise of the brig _Industry_, bound to Jamestown for sugar and molasses, but at last the soothing hum of a gentle breeze through the branches lulled them off also, and they slept. De Catinat alone remained awake, his nerves still in a tingle from that strange sudden shadow which had fallen upon his soul. What could it mean? Not surely that Adele was in danger? He had heard of such warnings, but had he not left her in safety behind cannons and stockades? By the next evening at latest he would see her again. As he lay looking up through the tangle of copper leaves at the sky beyond, his mind drifted like the clouds above him, and he was back once more in the jutting window in the Rue St. Martin, sitting on the broad _bancal_, with its Spanish leather covering, with the gilt wool-bale creaking outside, and his arm round shrinking, timid Adele, she who had compared herself to a little mouse in an old house, and who yet had courage to stay by his side through all this wild journey. And then again he was back at Versailles. Once more he saw the brown eyes of the king, the fair bold face of De Montespan, the serene features of De Maintenon-- once more he rode on his midnight mission, was driven by the demon coachman, and sprang with Amos upon the scaffold to rescue the most beautiful woman in France. So clear it was and so vivid that it was with a start that he came suddenly to himself, and found that the night was creeping on in an American forest, and that Du Lhut had roused himself and was ready for a start. "Have you been awake?" asked the pioneer. "Yes." "Have you heard anything?" "Nothing but the hooting of the owl." "It seemed to me that in my sleep I heard a gunshot in the distance." "In your sleep?" "Yes, I hear as well asleep as awake and remember what I hear. But now you must follow me close, and we shall be in the fort soon." "You have wonderful ears, indeed," said De Catinat, as they picked their way through the tangled wood. "How could you hear that these men were following us to-day? I could make out no sound when they were within hand-touch of us." "I did not hear them at first." "You saw them?" "No, nor that either." "Then how could you know that they were there?" "I heard a frightened jay flutter among the trees after we were past it. Then ten minutes later I heard the same thing. I knew then that there was some one on our trail, and I listened." "_Peste!_ you are a woodsman indeed!" "I believe that these woods are swarming with Iroquois, although we have had the good fortune to miss them. So great a chief as Brown Moose would not start on the path with a small following nor for a small object. They must mean mischief upon the Richelieu. You are not sorry now that you did not bring madame?" "I thank God for it!" "The woods will not be safe, I fear, until the partridge berries are out once more. You must stay at Sainte Marie until then, unless the seigneur can spare men to guard you." "I had rather stay there forever than expose my wife to such devils." "Ay, devils they are, if ever devils walked upon earth. You winced, monsieur, when I took Brown Moose's scalp, but when you have seen as much of the Indians as I have done your heart will be as hardened as mine. And now we are on the very borders of the clearing, and the blockhouse lies yonder among the clump of maples. They do not keep very good watch, for I have been expecting during these last ten minutes to hear the _qui vive_. You did not come as near to Sainte Marie unchallenged, and yet De Lannes is as old a soldier as La Noue. We can scarce see now, but yonder, near the river, is where he exercises his men." "He does so now," said Amos. "I see a dozen of them drawn up in a line at their drill." "No sentinels, and all the men at drill!" cried Du Lhut in contempt. "It is as you say, however, for I can see them myself with their ranks open, and each as stiff and straight as a pine stump. One would think to see them stand so still that there was not an Indian nearer than Orange. We shall go across to them, and by Saint Anne, I shall tell their commander what I think of his arrangements." Du Lhut advanced from the bushes as he spoke, and the four men crossed the open ground in the direction of the line of men who waited silently for them in the dim twilight. They were within fifty paces, and yet none of them had raised hand or voice to challenge their approach. There was something uncanny in the silence, and a change came over Du Lhut's face as he peered in front of him. He craned his head round and looked up the river. "My God!" he screamed. "Look at the fort!" They had cleared the clump of trees, and the outline of the blockhouse should have shown up in front of them. There was no sign of it. It was gone! CHAPTER XXXIV. THE MEN OF BLOOD. So unexpected was the blow that even De Lhut, hardened from his childhood to every shock and danger, stood shaken and dismayed. Then, with an oath, he ran at the top of his speed towards the line of figures, his companions following at his heels. As they drew nearer they could see through the dusk that it was not indeed a line. A silent and motionless officer stood out some twenty paces in front of his silent and motionless men. Further, they could see that he wore a very high and singular head-dress. They were still rushing forward, breathless with apprehension, when to their horror this head-dress began to lengthen and broaden, and a great bird flapped heavily up and dropped down again on the nearest tree-trunk. Then they knew that their worst fears were true, and that it was the garrison of Poitou which stood before them. They were lashed to low posts with willow withies, some twenty of them, naked all, and twisted and screwed into every strange shape which an agonised body could assume. In front where the buzzard had perched was the gray-headed commandant, with two cinders thrust into his sockets and his flesh hanging from him like a beggar's rags. Behind was the line of men, each with his legs charred off to the knees, and his body so haggled and scorched and burst that the willow bands alone seemed to hold it together. For a moment the four comrades stared in silent horror at the dreadful group. Then each acted as his nature bade him. De Catinat staggered up against a tree-trunk and leaned his head upon his arm, deadly sick. Du Lhut fell down upon his knees and said something to heaven, with his two clenched hands shaking up at the darkening sky. Ephraim Savage examined the priming of his gun with a tightened lip and a gleaming eye, while Amos Green, without a word, began to cast round in circles in search of a trail. But Du Lhut was on his feet again in a moment, and running up and down like a sleuth-hound, noting a hundred things which even Amos would have overlooked. He circled round the bodies again and again. Then he ran a little way towards the edge of the woods, and then came back to the charred ruins of the blockhouse, from some of which a thin reek of smoke was still rising. "There is no sign of the women and children," said he. "My God! There were women and children?" "They are keeping the children to burn at their leisure in their villages. The women they may torture or may adopt as the humour takes them. But what does the old man want?" "I want you to ask him, Amos," said the seaman, "why we are yawing and tacking here when we should be cracking on all sail to stand after them?" Du Lhut smiled and shook his head. "Your friend is a brave man," said he, "if he thinks that with four men we can follow a hundred and fifty." "Tell him, Amos, that the Lord will bear us up," said the other excitedly. "Say that He will be with us against the children of Jeroboam, and we will cut them off utterly, and they shall be destroyed. What is the French for 'slay and spare not'? I had as soon go about with my jaw braced up, as with folk who cannot understand a plain language." But Du Lhut waved aside the seaman's suggestions. "We must have a care now," said he, "or we shall lose our own scalps, and be the cause of those at Sainte Marie losing theirs as well." "Sainte Marie!" cried De Catinat. "Is there then danger at Sainte Marie?" "Ay, they are in the wolf's mouth now. This business was done last night. The place was stormed by a war-party of a hundred and fifty men. This morning they left and went north upon foot. They have been _cached_ among the woods all day between Poitou and Sainte Marie." "Then we have come through them?" "Yes, we have come through them. They would keep their camp to-day and send out scouts. Brown Moose and his son were among them and struck our trail. To-night--" "To-night they will attack Sainte Marie?" "It is possible. And yet with so small a party I should scarce have thought that they would have dared. Well, we can but hasten back as quickly as we can, and give them warning of what is hanging over them." And so they turned for their weary backward journey, though their minds were too full to spare a thought upon the leagues which lay behind them or those which were before. Old Ephraim, less accustomed to walking than his younger comrades, was already limping and footsore, but, for all his age, he was as tough as hickory, and full of endurance. Du Lhut took the lead again and they turned their faces once more towards the north. The moon was shining brightly in the sky, but it was little aid to the travellers in the depths of the forest. Where it had been shadowy in the daytime it was now so absolutely dark that De Catinat could not see the tree-trunks against which he brushed. Here and there they came upon an open glade bathed in the moonshine, or perhaps a thin shaft of silver light broke through between the branches, and cast a great white patch upon the ground, but Du Lhut preferred to avoid these more open spaces, and to skirt the glades rather than to cross them. The breeze had freshened a little, and the whole air was filled with the rustle and sough of the leaves. Save for this dull never-ceasing sound all would have been silent had not the owl hooted sometimes from among the tree-tops, and the night-jar whirred above their heads. Dark as it was, Du Lhut walked as swiftly as during the sunlight, and never hesitated about the track. His comrades could see, however, that he was taking them a different way to that which they had gone in the morning, for twice they caught a sight of the glimmer of the broad river upon their left, while before they had only seen the streams which flowed into it. On the second occasion he pointed to where, on the farther side, they could see dark shadows flitting over the water. "Iroquois canoes," he whispered. "There are ten of them with eight men in each. They are another party, and they are also going north." "How do you know that they are another party?" "Because we have crossed the trail of the first within the hour." De Catinat was filled with amazement at this marvellous man who could hear in his sleep and could detect a trail when the very tree-trunks were invisible to ordinary eyes. Du Lhut halted a little to watch the canoes, and then turned his back to the river, and plunged into the woods once more. They had gone a mile or two when suddenly he came to a dead stop, snuffing at the air like a hound on a scent. "I smell burning wood," said he. "There is a fire within a mile of us in that direction." "I smell it too," said Amos. "Let us creep up that way and see their camp." "Be careful, then," whispered Du Lhut, "for your lives may hang from a cracking twig." They advanced very slowly and cautiously until suddenly the red flare of a leaping fire twinkled between the distant trunks. Still slipping through the brushwood, they worked round until they had found a point from which they could see without a risk of being seen. A great blaze of dry logs crackled and spurtled in the centre of a small clearing. The ruddy flames roared upwards, and the smoke spread out above it until it looked like a strange tree with gray foliage and trunk of fire. But no living being was in sight and the huge fire roared and swayed in absolute solitude in the midst of the silent woodlands. Nearer they crept and nearer, but there was no movement save the rush of the flames, and no sound but the snapping of the sticks. "Shall we go up to it?" whispered De Catinat. The wary old pioneer shook his head. "It may be a trap," said he. "Or an abandoned camp?" "No, it has not been lit more than an hour." "Besides, it is far too great for a camp fire," said Amos. "What do you make of it?" asked Du Lhut. "A signal." "Yes, I daresay that you are right. This light is not a safe neighbour, so we shall edge away from it and then make a straight line for Sainte Marie." The flames were soon but a twinkling point behind them, and at last vanished behind the trees. Du Lhut pushed on rapidly until they came to the edge of a moonlit clearing. He was about to skirt this, as he had done others, when suddenly he caught De Catinat by the shoulder and pushed him down behind a clump of sumach, while Amos did the same with Ephraim Savage. A man was walking down the other side of the open space. He had just emerged, and was crossing it diagonally, making in the direction of the river. His body was bent double, but as he came out from the shadow of the trees they could see that he was an Indian brave in full war-paint, with leggings, loin-cloth, and musket. Close at his heels came a second, and then a third and a fourth, on and on until it seemed as if the wood were full of men, and that the line would never come to an end. They flitted past like shadows in the moonlight, in absolute silence, all crouching and running in the same swift stealthy fashion. Last of all came a man in the fringed tunic of a hunter, with a cap and feather upon his head. He passed across like the others, and they vanished into the shadows as silently as they had appeared. It was five minutes before Du Lhut thought it safe to rise from their shelter. "By Saint Anne," he whispered, "did you count them?" "Three hundred and ninety-six," said Amos. "I made it four hundred and two." "And you thought that there were only a hundred and fifty of them!" cried De Catinat. "Ah, you do not understand. This is a fresh band. The others who took the blockhouse must be over there, for their trail lies between us and the river." "They could not be the same," said Amos, "for there was not a fresh scalp among them." Du Lhut gave the young hunter a glance of approval. "On my word," said he, "I did not know that your woodsmen are as good as they seem to be. You have eyes, monsieur, and it may please you some day to remember that Greysolon du Lhut told you so." Amos felt a flush of pride at these words from a man whose name was honoured wherever trader or trapper smoked round a camp fire. He was about to make some answer when a dreadful cry broke suddenly out of the woods, a horrible screech, as from some one who was goaded to the very last pitch of human misery. Again and again, as they stood with blanched cheeks in the darkness, they heard that awful cry swelling up from the night and ringing drearily through the forest. "They are torturing the women," said Du Lhut. "Their camp lies over there." "Can we do nothing to aid them?" cried Amos. "Ay, ay, lad," said the captain in English. "We can't pass distress signals without going out of our course. Let us put about and run down yonder." "In that camp," said Du Lhut slowly, "there are now nearly six hundred warriors. We are four. What you say has no sense. Unless we warn them at Sainte Marie, these devils will lay some trap for them. Their parties are assembling by land and by water, and there may be a thousand before daybreak. Our duty is to push on and give our warning." "He speaks the truth," said Amos to Ephraim. "Nay, but you must not go alone!" He seized the stout old seaman by the arm and held him by main force to prevent him from breaking off through the woods. "There is one thing which we can do to spoil their night's amusement," said Du Lhut. "The woods are as dry as powder, and there has been no drop of rain for a long three months." "Yes?" "And the wind blows straight for their camp, with the river on the other side of it." "We should fire the woods!" "We cannot do better." In an instant Du Lhut had scraped together a little bundle of dry twigs, and had heaped them up against a withered beech tree which was as dry as tinder. A stroke of flint and steel was enough to start a little smoulder of flame, which lengthened and spread until it was leaping along the white strips of hanging bark. A quarter of a mile farther on Du Lhut did the same again, and once more beyond that, until at three different points the forest was in a blaze. As they hurried onwards they could hear the dull roaring of the flames behind them, and at last, as they neared Sainte Marie, they could see, looking back, the long rolling wave of fire travelling ever westward towards the Richelieu, and flashing up into great spouts of flame as it licked up a clump of pines as if it were a bundle of faggots. Du Lhut chuckled in his silent way as he looked back at the long orange glare in the sky. "They will need to swim for it, some of them," said he. "They have not canoes to take them all off. Ah, if I had but two hundred of my _coureurs-de-bois_ on the river at the farther side of them not one would have got away." "They had one who was dressed like a white man," remarked Amos. "Ay, and the most deadly of the lot. His father was a Dutch trader, his mother an Iroquois, and he goes by the name of the Flemish Bastard. Ah, I know him well, and I tell you that if they want a king in hell, they will find one all ready in his wigwam. By Saint Anne, I have a score to settle with him, and I may pay it before this business is over. Well, there are the lights of Sainte Marie shining down below there. I can understand that sigh of relief, monsieur, for, on my word, after what we found at Poitou, I was uneasy myself until I should see them." CHAPTER XXXV. THE TAPPING OF DEATH. Day was just breaking as the four comrades entered the gate of the stockade, but early as it was the _censitaires_ and their families were all afoot staring at the prodigious fire which raged to the south of them. De Catinat burst through the throng and rushed upstairs to Adele, who had herself flown down to meet him, so that they met in each other's arms half-way up the great stone staircase with a burst of those little inarticulate cries which are the true unwritten language of love. Together, with his arm round her, they ascended to the great hall where old De la Noue with his son were peering out of the window at the wonderful spectacle. "Ah, monsieur," said the old nobleman, with his courtly bow, "I am indeed rejoiced to see you safe under my roof again, not only for your own sake, but for that of madame's eyes, which, if she will permit an old man to say so, are much too pretty to spoil by straining them all day in the hopes of seeing some one coming out of the forest. You have done forty miles, Monsieur de Catinat, and are doubtless hungry and weary. When you are yourself again I must claim my revenge in piquet, for the cards lay against me the other night." But Du Lhut had entered at De Catinat's heels with his tidings of disaster. "You will have another game to play, Monsieur de Sainte-Marie," said he. "There are six hundred Iroquois in the woods and they are preparing to attack." "Tut, tut, we cannot allow our arrangements to be altered by a handful of savages," said the seigneur. "I must apologise to you, my dear De Catinat, that you should be annoyed by such people while you are upon my estate. As regards the piquet, I cannot but think that your play from king and knave is more brilliant than safe. Now when I played piquet last with De Lannes of Poitou--" "De Lannes of Poitou is dead, and all his people," said Du Lhut. "The blockhouse is a heap of smoking ashes." The seigneur raised his eyebrows and took a pinch of snuff, tapping the lid of his little round gold box. "I always told him that his fort would be taken unless he cleared away those maple trees which grew up to the very walls. They are all dead, you say?" "Every man." "And the fort burned?" "Not a stick was left standing." "Have you seen these rascals?" "We saw the trail of a hundred and fifty. Then there were a hundred in canoes, and a war-party of four hundred passed us under the Flemish Bastard. Their camp is five miles down the river, and there cannot be less than six hundred." "You were fortunate in escaping them." "But they were not so fortunate in escaping us. We killed Brown Moose and his son, and we fired the woods so as to drive them out of their camp." "Excellent! Excellent!" said the seigneur, clapping gently with his dainty hands. "You have done very well indeed, Du Lhut! You are, I presume, very tired?" "I am not often tired. I am quite ready to do the journey again." "Then perhaps you would pick a few men and go back into the woods to see what these villains are doing?" "I shall be ready in five minutes." "Perhaps you would like to go also, Achille?" His son's dark eyes and Indian face lit up with a fierce joy. "Yes, I shall go also," he answered. "Very good, and we shall make all ready in your absence. Madame, you will excuse these little annoyances which mar the pleasure of your visit. Next time that you do me the honour to come here I trust that we shall have cleared all these vermin from my estate. We have our advantages. The Richelieu is a better fish pond, and these forests are a finer deer preserve than any of which the king can boast. But on the other hand we have, as you see, our little troubles. You will excuse me now, as there are one or two things which demand my attention. De Catinat, you are a tried soldier and I should be glad of your advice. Onega, give me my lace handkerchief and my cane of clouded amber, and take care of madame until her husband and I return." It was bright daylight now, and the square enclosure within the stockade was filled with an anxious crowd who had just learned the evil tidings. Most of the _censitaires_ were old soldiers and trappers who had served in many Indian wars, and whose swarthy faces and bold bearing told their own story. They were sons of a race which with better fortune or with worse has burned more powder than any other nation upon earth, and as they stood in little groups discussing the situation and examining their arms, a leader could have asked for no more hardy or more war-like following. The women, however, pale and breathless, were hurrying in from the outlying cottages, dragging their children with them, and bearing over their shoulders the more precious of their household goods. The confusion, the hurry, the cries of the children, the throwing down of bundles and the rushing back for more, contrasted sharply with the quiet and the beauty of the woods which encircled them, all bathed in the bright morning sunlight. It was strange to look upon the fairy loveliness of their many-tinted foliage, and to know that the spirit of murder and cruelty was roaming unchained behind that lovely screen. The scouting party under Du Lhut and Achille de la Noue had already left, and at the order of the seigneur the two gates were now secured with huge bars of oak fitted into iron staples on either side. The children were placed in the lower store-room with a few women to watch them, while the others were told off to attend to the fire buckets, and to reload the muskets. The men had been paraded, fifty-two of them in all, and they were divided into parties now for the defence of each part of the stockade. On one side it had been built up to within a few yards of the river, which not only relieved them from the defence of that face, but enabled them to get fresh water by throwing a bucket at the end of a rope from the stockade. The boats and canoes of Sainte Marie were drawn up on the bank just under the wall, and were precious now as offering a last means of escape should all else fail. The next fort, St. Louis, was but a few leagues up the river, and De la Noue had already sent a swift messenger to them with news of the danger. At least it would be a point on which they might retreat should the worst come to the worst. And that the worst might come to the worst was very evident to so experienced a woodsman as Amos Green. He had left Ephraim Savage snoring in a deep sleep upon the floor, and was now walking round the defences with his pipe in his mouth, examining with a critical eye every detail in connection with them. The stockade was very strong, nine feet high and closely built of oak stakes which were thick enough to turn a bullet. Half-way up it was loop-holed in long narrow slits for the fire of the defenders. But on the other hand the trees grew up to within a hundred yards of it, and formed a screen for the attack, while the garrison was so scanty that it could not spare more than twenty men at the utmost for each face. Amos knew how daring and dashing were the Iroquois warriors, how cunning and fertile of resource, and his face darkened as he thought of the young wife who had come so far in their safe-keeping, and of the women and children whom he had seen crowding into the fort. "Would it not be better if you could send them up the river?" he suggested to the seigneur. "I should very gladly do so, monsieur, and perhaps if we are all alive we may manage it to-night if the weather should be cloudy. But I cannot spare the men to guard them, and I cannot send them without a guard when we know that Iroquois canoes are on the river and their scouts are swarming on the banks." "You are right. It would be madness." "I have stationed you on this eastern face with your friends and with fifteen men. Monsieur de Catinat, will you command the party?" "Willingly." "I will take the south face as it seems to be the point of danger. Du Lhut can take the north, and five men should be enough to watch the river side." "Have we food and powder?" "I have flour and smoked eels enough to see this matter through. Poor fare, my dear sir, but I daresay you learned in Holland that a cup of ditch water after a brush may have a better smack than the blue-sealed Frontiniac which you helped me to finish the other night. As to powder, we have all our trading stores to draw upon." "We have not time to clear any of these trees?" asked the soldier. "Impossible. They would make better shelter down than up." "But at least I might clear that patch of brushwood round the birch sapling which lies between the east face and the edge of the forest. It is good cover for their skirmishers." "Yes, that should be fired without delay." "Nay, I think that I might do better," said Amos. "We might bait a trap for them there. Where is this powder of which you spoke?" "Theuriet, the major-domo, is giving out powder in the main store-house." "Very good." Amos vanished upstairs, and returned with a large linen bag in his hand. This he filled with powder, and then, slinging it over his shoulder, he carried it out to the clump of bushes and placed it at the base of the sapling, cutting a strip out of the bark immediately above the spot. Then with a few leafy branches and fallen leaves he covered the powder bag very carefully over so that it looked like a little hillock of earth. Having arranged all to his satisfaction he returned, clambering over the stockade, and dropping down upon the other side. "I think that we are all ready for them now," said the seigneur. "I would that the women and children were in a safe place, but we may send them down the river to-night if all goes well. Has anyone heard anything of Du Lhut?" "Jean has the best ears of any of us, your excellency," said one man from beside the brass corner cannon. "He thought that he heard shots a few minutes ago." "Then he has come into touch with them. Etienne, take ten men and go to the withered oak to cover them if they are retreating, but do not go another yard on any pretext. I am too short-handed already. Perhaps, De Catinat, you wish to sleep?" "No, I could not sleep." "We can do no more down here. What do you say to a round or two of piquet? A little turn of the cards will help us to pass the time." They ascended to the upper hall, where Adele came and sat by her husband, while the swarthy Onega crouched by the window looking keenly out into the forest. De Catinat had little thought to spare upon the cards, as his mind wandered to the danger which threatened them and to the woman whose hand rested upon his own. The old nobleman, on the other hand, was engrossed by the play, and cursed under his breath, or chuckled and grinned as the luck swayed one way or the other. Suddenly as they played there came two sharp raps from without. "Some one is tapping," cried Adele. "It is death that is tapping," said the Indian woman at the window. "Ay, ay, it was the patter of two spent balls against the woodwork. The wind is against our hearing the report. The cards are shuffled. It is my cut and your deal. The capot, I think, was mine." "Men are rushing from the woods," cried Onega. "Tut! It grows serious!" said the nobleman. "We can finish the game later. Remember that the deal lies with you. Let us see what it all means." De Catinat had already rushed to the window. Du Lhut, young Achille de la Noue, and eight of the covering party were running with their heads bent towards the stockade, the door of which had been opened to admit them. Here and there from behind the trees came little blue puffs of smoke, and one of the fugitives who wore white calico breeches began suddenly to hop instead of running and a red splotch showed upon the white cloth. Two others threw their arms round him and the three rushed in abreast while the gate swung into its place behind them. An instant later the brass cannon at the corner gave a flash and a roar while the whole outline of the wood was traced in a rolling cloud, and the shower of bullets rapped up against the wooden wall like sleet on a window. CHAPTER XXXVI. THE TAKING OF THE STOCKADE. Having left Adele to the care of her Indian hostess, and warned her for her life to keep from the windows, De Catinat seized his musket and rushed downstairs. As he passed a bullet came piping through one of the narrow embrasures and starred itself in a little blotch of lead upon the opposite wall. The seigneur had already descended and was conversing with Du Lhut beside the door. "A thousand of them, you say?" "Yes, we came on a fresh trail of a large war-party, three hundred at the least. They are all Mohawks and Cayugas with a sprinkling of Oneidas. We had a running fight for a few miles, and we have lost five men." "All dead, I trust." "I hope so, but we were hard pressed to keep from being cut off. Jean Mance is shot through the leg." "I saw that he was hit." "We had best have all ready to retire to the house if they carry the stockade. We can scarce hope to hold it when they are twenty to one." "All is ready." "And with our cannon we can keep their canoes from passing, so we might send our women away to-night." "I had intended to do so. Will you take charge of the north side? You might come across to me with ten of your men now, and I shall go back to you if they change their attack." The firing came in one continuous rattle now from the edges of the wood, and the air was full of bullets. The assailants were all trained shots, men who lived by their guns, and to whom a shaking hand or a dim eye meant poverty and hunger. Every slit and crack and loop-hole was marked, and a cap held above the stockade was blown in an instant from the gun barrel which supported it. On the other hand, the defenders were also skilled in Indian fighting, and wise in every trick and lure which could protect themselves or tempt their enemies to show. They kept well to the sides of the loop-holes, watching through little crevices of the wood, and firing swiftly when a chance offered. A red leg sticking straight up into the air from behind a log showed where one bullet at least had gone home, but there was little to aim at save a puff and flash from among the leaves, or the shadowy figure of a warrior seen for an instant as he darted from one tree-trunk to the other. Seven of the Canadians had already been hit, but only three were mortally wounded, and the other four still kept manfully to their loop-holes, though one who had been struck through the jaw was spitting his teeth with his bullets down into his gun-barrel. The women sat in a line upon the ground, beneath the level of the loop-holes, each with a saucerful of bullets and a canister of powder, passing up the loaded guns to the fighting men at the points where a quick fire was most needful. At first the attack had been all upon the south face, but as fresh bodies of the Iroquois came up their line spread and lengthened until the whole east face was girt with fire, which gradually enveloped the north also. The fort was ringed in by a great loop of smoke, save only where the broad river flowed past them. Over near the further bank the canoes were lurking, and one, manned by ten warriors, attempted to pass up the stream, but a good shot from the brass gun dashed in her side and sank her, while a second of grape left only four of the swimmers whose high scalp-locks stood out above the water like the back-fins of some strange fish. On the inland side, however, the seigneur had ordered the cannon to be served no more, for the broad embrasures drew the enemy's fire, and of the men who had been struck half were among those who worked the guns. The old nobleman strutted about with his white ruffles and his clouded cane behind the line of parched smoke-grimed men, tapping his snuff-box, shooting out his little jests, and looking very much less concerned than he had done over his piquet. "What do you think of it, Du Lhut?" he asked. "I think very badly of it. We are losing men much too fast." "Well, my friend, what can you expect? When a thousand muskets are all turned upon a little place like this, some one must suffer for it. Ah, my poor fellow, so you are done for too!" The man nearest him had suddenly fallen with a crash, lying quite still with his face in a platter of the sagamite which had been brought out by the women. Du Lhut glanced at him and then looked round. "He is in a line with no loop-hole, and it took him in the shoulder," said he. "Where did it come from then? Ah, by Saint Anne, look there!" He pointed upwards to a little mist of smoke which hung round the summit of a high oak. "The rascal overlooks the stockade. But the trunk is hardly thick enough to shield him at that height. This poor fellow will not need his musket again, and I see that it is ready primed." De la Noue laid down his cane, turned back his ruffles, picked up the dead man's gun, and fired at the lurking warrior. Two leaves fluttered out from the tree and a grinning vermilion face appeared for an instant with a yell of derision. Quick as a flash Du Lhut brought his musket to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The man gave a tremendous spring and crashed down through the thick foliage. Some seventy or eighty feet below him a single stout branch shot out, and on to this he fell with the sound of a great stone dropping into a bog, and hung there doubled over it, swinging slowly from side to side like a red rag, his scalp-lock streaming down between his feet. A shout of exultation rose from the Canadians at the sight, which was drowned in the murderous yell of the savages. "His limbs twitch. He is not dead," cried De la Noue. "Let him die there," said the old pioneer callously, ramming a fresh charge into his gun. "Ah, there is the gray hat again. It comes ever when I am unloaded." "I saw a plumed hat among the brushwood." "It is the Flemish Bastard. I had rather have his scalp than those of his hundred best warriors." "Is he so brave then?" "Yes, he is brave enough. There is no denying it, for how else could he be an Iroquois war-chief? But he is clever and cunning, and cruel-- Ah, my God, if all the stories told are true, his cruelty is past believing. I should fear that my tongue would wither if I did but name the things which this man has done. Ah, he is there again." The gray hat with the plume had shown itself once more in a rift of the smoke. De la Noue and Du Lhut both fired together, and the cap fluttered up into the air. At the same instant the bushes parted, and a tall warrior sprang out into full view of the defenders. His face was that of an Indian, but a shade or two lighter, and a pointed black beard hung down over his hunting tunic. He threw out his hands with a gesture of disdain, stood for an instant looking steadfastly at the fort, and then sprang back into cover amid a shower of bullets which chipped away the twigs all round him. "Yes, he is brave enough," Du Lhut repeated with an oath. "Your _censitaires_ have had their hoes in their hands more often than their muskets, I should judge from their shooting. But they seem to be drawing closer upon the east face, and I think that they will make a rush there before long." The fire had indeed grown very much fiercer upon the side which was defended by De Catinat, and it was plain that the main force of the Iroquois were gathered at that point. From every log, and trunk, and cleft, and bush came the red flash with the gray halo, and the bullets sang in a continuous stream through the loop-holes. Amos had whittled a little hole for himself about a foot above the ground, and lay upon his face loading and firing in his own quiet methodical fashion. Beside him stood Ephraim Savage, his mouth set grimly, his eyes flashing from under his down-drawn brows, and his whole soul absorbed in the smiting of the Amalekites. His hat was gone, his grizzled hair flying in the breeze, great splotches of powder mottled his mahogany face, and a weal across his right cheek showed where an Indian bullet had grazed him. De Catinat was bearing himself like an experienced soldier, walking up and down among his men with short words of praise or of precept, those fire-words rough and blunt which bring a glow to the heart and a flush to the cheek. Seven of his men were down, but as the attack grew fiercer upon his side it slackened upon the others, and the seigneur with his son and Du Lhut brought ten men to reinforce them. De la Noue was holding out his snuff-box to De Catinat when a shrill scream from behind them made them both look round. Onega, the Indian wife, was wringing her hands over the body of her son. A glance showed that the bullet had pierced his heart and that he was dead. For an instant the old nobleman's thin face grew a shade paler, and the hand which held out the little gold box shook like a branch in the wind. Then he thrust it into his pocket again and mastered the spasm which had convulsed his features. "The De la Noues always die upon the field of honour," he remarked. "I think that we should have some more men in the angle by the gun." And now it became clear why it was that the Iroquois had chosen the eastern face for their main attack. It was there that the clump of cover lay midway between the edge of the forest and the stockade. A storming party could creep as far as that and gather there for the final rush. First one crouching warrior, and then a second, and then a third darted across the little belt of open space, and threw themselves down among the bushes. The fourth was hit, and lay with his back broken a few paces out from the edge of the wood, but a stream of warriors continued to venture the passage, until thirty-six had got across, and the little patch of underwood was full of lurking savages. Amos Green's time had come. From where he lay he could see the white patch where he had cut the bark from the birch sapling, and he knew that immediately underneath it lay the powder bag. He sighted the mark, and then slowly lowered his barrel until he had got to the base of the little trees as nearly as he could guess it among the tangle of bushes. The first shot produced no result, however, and the second was aimed a foot lower. The bullet penetrated the bag, and there was an explosion which shook the manor-house and swayed the whole line of stout stockades as though they were corn-stalks in a breeze. Up to the highest summits of the trees went the huge column of blue smoke, and after the first roar there was a deathly silence which was broken by the patter and thud of falling bodies. Then came a wild cheer from the defenders, and a furious answering whoop from the Indians, while the fire from the woods burst out with greater fury than ever. But the blow had been a heavy one. Of the thirty-six warriors, all picked for their valour, only four regained the shelter of the woods, and those so torn and shattered that they were spent men. Already the Indians had lost heavily, and this fresh disaster made them reconsider their plan of attack, for the Iroquois were as wary as they were brave, and he was esteemed the best war-chief who was most chary of the lives of his followers. Their fire gradually slackened, and at last, save for a dropping shot here and there, it died away altogether. "Is it possible that they are going to abandon the attack?" cried De Catinat joyously. "Amos, I believe that you have saved us." But the wily Du Lhut shook his head. "A wolf would as soon leave a half-gnawed bone as an Iroquois such a prize as this." "But they have lost heavily." "Ay, but not so heavily as ourselves in proportion to our numbers. They have fifty out of a thousand, and we twenty out of threescore. No, no, they are holding a council, and we shall soon hear from them again. But it may be some hours first, and if you will take my advice you will have an hour's sleep, for you are not, as I can see by your eyes, as used to doing without it as I am, and there may be little rest for any of us this night." De Catinat was indeed weary to the last pitch of human endurance. Amos Green and the seaman had already wrapped themselves in their blankets and sunk to sleep under the shelter of the stockade. The soldier rushed upstairs to say a few words of comfort to the trembling Adele, and then throwing himself down upon a couch he slept the dreamless sleep of an exhausted man. When at last he was roused by a fresh sputter of musketry fire from the woods the sun was already low in the heavens, and the mellow light of evening tinged the bare walls of the room. He sprang from his couch, seized his musket, and rushed downstairs. The defenders were gathered at their loop-holes once more, while Du Lhut, the seigneur, and Amos Green were whispering eagerly together. He noticed as he passed that Onega still sat crooning by the body of her son, without having changed her position since morning. "What is it, then? Are they coming on?" he asked. "They are up to some devilry," said Du Lhut, peering out at the corner of the embrasure. "They are gathering thickly at the east fringe, and yet the firing comes from the south. It is not the Indian way to attack across the open, and yet if they think help is coming from the fort they might venture it." "The wood in front of us is alive with them," said Amos. "They are as busy as beavers among the underwood." "Perhaps they are going to attack from this side, and cover the attack by a fire from the flank." "That is what I think," cried the seigneur. "Bring the spare guns up here and all the men except five for each side." The words were hardly out of his mouth when a shrill yell burst from the wood, and in an instant a cloud of warriors dashed out and charged across the open, howling, springing, and waving their guns or tomahawks in the air. With their painted faces, smeared and striped with every vivid colour, their streaming scalp-locks, their waving arms, their open mouths, and their writhings and contortions, no more fiendish crew ever burst into a sleeper's nightmare. Some of those in front bore canoes between them, and as they reached the stockade they planted them against it and swarmed up them as if they had been scaling-ladders. Others fired through the embrasures and loop-holes, the muzzles of their muskets touching those of the defenders, while others again sprang unaided on to the tops of the palisades and jumped fearlessly down upon the inner side. The Canadians, however, made such a resistance as might be expected from men who knew that no mercy awaited them. They fired whilst they had time to load, and then, clubbing their muskets, they smashed furiously at every red head which showed above the rails. The din within the stockade was infernal, the shouts and cries of the French, the whooping of the savages, and the terrified screaming of the frightened women blending into one dreadful uproar, above which could be heard the high shrill voice of the old seigneur imploring his _censitaires_ to stand fast. With his rapier in his hand, his hat lost, his wig awry, and his dignity all thrown to the winds, the old nobleman showed them that day how a soldier of Rocroy could carry himself, and with Du Lhut, Amos, De Catinat and Ephraim Savage, was ever in the forefront of the defence. So desperately did they fight, the sword and musket-butt outreaching the tomahawk, that though at one time fifty Iroquois were over the palisades, they had slain or driven back nearly all of them when a fresh wave burst suddenly over the south face which had been stripped of its defenders. Du Lhut saw in an instant that the enclosure was lost and that only one thing could save the house. "Hold them for an instant," he screamed, and rushing at the brass gun he struck his flint and steel and fired it straight into the thick of the savages. Then as they recoiled for an instant he stuck a nail into the touch-hole and drove it home with a blow from the butt of his gun. Darting across the yard he spiked the gun at the other corner, and was back at the door as the remnants of the garrison were hurled towards it by the rush of the assailants. The Canadians darted in, and swung the ponderous mass of wood into position, breaking the leg of the foremost warrior who had striven to follow them. Then for an instant they had time for breathing and for council. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE COMING OF THE FRIAR. But their case was a very evil one. Had the guns been lost so that they might be turned upon the door, all further resistance would have been vain, but Du Lhut's presence of mind had saved them from that danger. The two guns upon the river face and the canoes were safe, for they were commanded by the windows of the house. But their numbers were terribly reduced, and those who were left were weary and wounded and spent. Nineteen had gained the house, but one had been shot through the body and lay groaning in the hall, while a second had his shoulder cleft by a tomahawk and could no longer raise his musket. Du Lhut, De la Noue, and De Catinat were uninjured, but Ephraim Savage had a bullet-hole in his forearm, and Amos was bleeding from a cut upon the face. Of the others hardly one was without injury, and yet they had no time to think of their hurts for the danger still pressed and they were lost unless they acted. A few shots from the barricaded windows sufficed to clear the enclosure, for it was all exposed to their aim; but on the other hand they had the shelter of the stockade now, and from the further side of it they kept up a fierce fire upon the windows. Half-a-dozen of the _censitaires_ returned the fusillade, while the leaders consulted as to what had best be done. "We have twenty-five women and fourteen children," said the seigneur. "I am sure that you will agree with me, gentlemen, that our first duty is towards them. Some of you, like myself, have lost sons or brothers this day. Let us at least save our wives and sisters." "No Iroquois canoes have passed up the river," said one of the Canadians. "If the women start in the darkness they can get away to the fort." "By Saint Anne of Beaupre," exclaimed Du Lhut, "I think it would be well if you could get your men out of this also, for I cannot see how it is to be held until morning." A murmur of assent broke from the other Canadians, but the old nobleman shook his bewigged head with decision. "Tut! Tut! What nonsense is this!" he cried. "Are we to abandon the manor-house of Sainte Marie to the first gang of savages who choose to make an attack upon it? No, no, gentlemen, there are still nearly a score of us, and when the garrison learn that we are so pressed, which will be by to-morrow morning at the latest, they will certainly send us relief." Du Lhut shook his head moodily. "If you stand by the fort I will not desert you," said he, "and yet it is a pity to sacrifice brave men for nothing." "The canoes will hardly hold the women and children as it is," cried Theuriet. "There are but two large and four small. There is not space for a single man." "Then that decides it," said De Catinat. "But who are to row the women?" "It is but a few leagues with the current in their favour, and there are none of our women who do not know how to handle a paddle." The Iroquois were very quiet now, and an occasional dropping shot from the trees or the stockade was the only sign of their presence. Their losses had been heavy, and they were either engaged in collecting their dead, or in holding a council as to their next move. The twilight was gathering in, and the sun had already sunk beneath the tree-tops. Leaving a watchman at each window, the leaders went round to the back of the house where the canoes were lying upon the bank. There were no signs of the enemy upon the river to the north of them. "We are in luck," said Amos. "The clouds are gathering and there will be little light." "It is luck indeed, since the moon is only three days past the full," answered Du Lhut. "I wonder that the Iroquois have not cut us off upon the water, but it is likely that their canoes have gone south to bring up another war-party. They may be back soon, and we had best not lose a moment." "In an hour it might be dark enough to start." "I think that there is rain in those clouds, and that will make it darker still." The women and children were assembled and their places in each boat were assigned to them. The wives of the censitaires, rough hardy women whose lives had been spent under the shadow of a constant danger, were for the most part quiet and collected, though a few of the younger ones whimpered a little. A woman is always braver when she has a child to draw her thoughts from herself, and each married woman had one now allotted to her as her own special charge until they should reach the fort. To Onega, the Indian wife of the seigneur, who was as wary and as experienced as a war sachem of her people, the command of the women was entrusted. "It is not very far, Adele," said De Catinat, as his wife clung to his arm. "You remember how we heard the Angelus bells as we journeyed through the woods. That was Fort St. Louis, and it is but a league or two." "But I do not wish to leave you, Amory. We have been together in all our troubles. Oh, Amory, why should we be divided now?" "My dear love, you will tell them at the fort how things are with us, and they will bring us help." "Let the others do that, and I will stay. I will not be useless, Amory. Onega has taught me to load a gun. I will not be afraid, indeed I will not, if you will only let me stay." "You must not ask it, Adele. It is impossible, child I could not let you stay." "But I feel so sure that it would be best." The coarser reason of man has not yet learned to value those subtle instincts which guide a woman. De Catinat argued and exhorted until he had silenced if he had not convinced her. "It is for my sake, dear. You do not know what a load it will be from my heart when I know that you are safe. And you need not be afraid for me. We can easily hold the place until morning. Then the people from the fort will come, for I hear that they have plenty of canoes, and we shall all meet again." Adele was silent, but her hands tightened upon his arm. Her husband was still endeavouring to reassure her when a groan burst from the watcher at the window which overlooked the stream. "There is a canoe on the river to the north of us," he cried. The besieged looked at each other in dismay. The Iroquois had then cut off their retreat after all. "How many warriors are in it?" asked the seigneur. "I cannot see. The light is not very good, and it is in the shadow of the bank." "Which way is it coming?" "It is coming this way. Ah, it shoots out into the open now, and I can see it. May the good Lord be praised! A dozen candles shall burn in Quebec Cathedral if I live till next summer!" "What is it then?" cried De la Noue impatiently. "It is not an Iroquois canoe. There is but one man in it. He is a Canadian." "A Canadian!" cried Du Lhut, springing up to the window. "Who but a madman would venture into such a hornet's nest alone! Ah, yes, I can see him now. He keeps well out from the bank to avoid their fire. Now he is in mid-stream and he turns towards us. By my faith, it is not the first time that the good father has handled a paddle." "It is a Jesuit!" said one, craning his neck. "They are ever where there is most danger." "No, I can see his capote," cried another. "It is a Franciscan friar!" An instant later there was the sound of a canoe grounding upon the pebbles, the door was unbarred, and a man strode in, attired in the long brown gown of the Franciscans. He cast a rapid glance around, and then, stepping up to De Catinat, laid his hand upon his shoulder. "So, you have not escaped me!" said he. "We have caught the evil seed before it has had time to root." "What do you mean, father?" asked the seigneur. "You have made some mistake. This is my good friend Amory de Catinat, of a noble French family." "This is Amory de Catinat, the heretic and Huguenot," cried the monk. "I have followed him up the St. Lawrence, and I have followed him up the Richelieu, and I would have followed him to the world's end if I could but bring him back with me." "Tut, father, your zeal carries you too far," said the seigneur. "Whither would you take my friend, then?" "He shall go back to France with his wife. There is no place in Canada for heretics." Du Lhut burst out laughing. "By Saint Anne, father," said he, "if you could take us all back to France at present we should be very much your debtors." "And you will remember," said De la Noue sternly, "that you are under my roof and that you are speaking of my guest." But the friar was not to be abashed by the frown of the old nobleman. "Look at this," said he, whipping a paper out of his bosom. "It is signed by the governor, and calls upon you, under pain of the king's displeasure, to return this man to Quebec. Ah, monsieur, when you left me upon the island that morning you little thought that I would return to Quebec for this, and then hunt you down so many hundreds of miles of river. But I have you now, and I shall never leave you until I see you on board the ship which will carry you and your wife back to France." For all the bitter vindictiveness which gleamed in the monk's eyes, De Catinat could not but admire the energy and tenacity of the man. "It seems to me, father, that you would have shone more as a soldier than as a follower of Christ," said he; "but, since you have followed us here, and since there is no getting away, we may settle this question at some later time." But the two Americans were less inclined to take so peaceful a view. Ephraim Savage's beard bristled with anger, and he whispered something into Amos Green's ear. "The captain and I could easily get rid of him," said the young woodsman, drawing De Catinat aside. "If he _will_ cross our path he must pay for it." "No, no, not for the world, Amos! Let him alone. He does what he thinks to be his duty, though his faith is stronger than his charity, I think. But here comes the rain, and surely it is dark enough now for the boats." A great brown cloud had overspread the heavens, and the night had fallen so rapidly that they could hardly see the gleam of the river in front of them. The savages in the woods and behind the captured stockade were quiet, save for an occasional shot, but the yells and whoops from the cottages of the _censitaires_ showed that they were being plundered by their captors. Suddenly a dull red glow began to show above one of the roofs. "They have set it on fire," cried Du Lhut. "The canoes must go at once, for the river will soon be as light as day. In! In! There is not an instant to lose!" There was no time for leave-taking. One impassioned kiss and Adele was torn away and thrust into the smallest canoe, which she shared with Onega, two children, and an unmarried girl. The others rushed into their places, and in a few moments they had pushed off, and had vanished into the drift and the darkness. The great cloud had broken and the rain pattered heavily upon the roof, and splashed upon their faces as they strained their eyes after the vanishing boats. "Thank God for this storm!" murmured Du Lhut. "It will prevent the cottages from blazing up too quickly." But he had forgotten that though the roofs might be wet the interior was as dry as tinder. He had hardly spoken before a great yellow tongue of flame licked out of one of the windows, and again and again, until suddenly half of the roof fell in, and the cottage was blazing like a pitch-bucket. The flames hissed and sputtered in the pouring rain, but, fed from below, they grew still higher and fiercer, flashing redly upon the great trees, and turning their trunks to burnished brass. Their light made the enclosure and the manor-house as clear as day, and exposed the whole long stretch of the river. A fearful yell from the woods announced that the savages had seen the canoes, which were plainly visible from the windows not more than a quarter of a mile away. "They are rushing through the woods. They are making for the water's edge," cried De Catinat. "They have some canoes down there," said Du Lhut. "But they must pass us!" cried the Seigneur of Sainte Marie. "Get down to the cannon and see if you cannot stop them." They had hardly reached the guns when two large canoes filled with warriors shot out from among the reeds below the fort, and steering out into mid-stream began to paddle furiously after the fugitives. "Jean, you are our best shot," cried De la Noue. "Lay for her as she passes the great pine tree. Lambert, do you take the other gun. The lives of all whom you love may hang upon the shot!" The two wrinkled old artillerymen glanced along their guns and waited for the canoes to come abreast of them. The fire still blazed higher and higher, and the broad river lay like a sheet of dull metal with two dark lines, which marked the canoes, sweeping swiftly down the centre. One was fifty yards in front of the other, but in each the Indians were bending to their paddles and pulling frantically, while their comrades from the wooded shores whooped them on to fresh exertions. The fugitives had already disappeared round the bend of the river. As the first canoe came abreast of the lower of the two guns, the Canadian made the sign of the cross over the touch-hole and fired. A cheer and then a groan went up from the eager watchers. The discharge had struck the surface close to the mark, and dashed such a shower of water over it that for an instant it looked as if it had been sunk. The next moment, however, the splash subsided, and the canoe shot away uninjured, save that one of the rowers had dropped his paddle while his head fell forward upon the back of the man in front of him. The second gunner sighted the same canoe as it came abreast of him, but at the very instant when he stretched out his match to fire a bullet came humming from the stockade and he fell forward dead without a groan. "This is work that I know something of, lad," said old Ephraim, springing suddenly forward. "But when I fire a gun I like to train it myself. Give me a help with the handspike and get her straight for the island. So! A little lower for an even keel! Now we have them!" He clapped down his match and fired. It was a beautiful shot. The whole charge took the canoe about six feet behind the bow, and doubled her up like an eggshell. Before the smoke had cleared she had foundered, and the second canoe had paused to pick up some of the wounded men. The others, as much at home in the water as in the woods, were already striking out for the shore. "Quick! Quick!" cried the seigneur. "Load the gun! We may get the second one yet!" But it was not to be. Long before they could get it ready the Iroquois had picked up their wounded warriors and were pulling madly up-stream once more. As they shot away the fire died suddenly down in the burning cottages and the rain and the darkness closed in upon them. "My God!" cried De Catinat furiously, "they will be taken. Let us abandon this place, take a boat, and follow them. Come! Come! Not an instant is to be lost!" "Monsieur, you go too far in your very natural anxiety," said the seigneur coldly. "I am not inclined to leave my post so easily!" "Ah, what is it? Only wood and stone, which can be built again. But to think of the women in the hands of these devils! Oh, I am going mad! Come! Come! For Christ's sake come!" His face was deadly pale, and he raved with his clenched hands in the air. "I do not think that they will be caught," said Du Lhut, laying his hand soothingly upon his shoulder. "Do not fear. They had a long start and the women here can paddle as well as the men. Again, the Iroquois canoe was overloaded at the start, and has the wounded men aboard as well now. Besides, these oak canoes of the Mohawks are not as swift as the Algonquin birch barks which we use. In any case it is impossible to follow, for we have no boat." "There is one lying there." "Ah, it will but hold a single man. It is that in which the friar came." "Then I am going in that! My place is with Adele!" He flung open the door, rushed out, and was about to push off the frail skiff, when some one sprang past him, and with a blow from a hatchet stove in the side of the boat. "It is my boat," said the friar, throwing down the axe and folding his arms. "I can do what I like with it." "You fiend! You have ruined us!" "I have found you and you shall not escape me again." The hot blood flushed to the soldier's head, and picking up the axe, he took a quick step forward. The light from the open door shone upon the grave, harsh face of the friar, but not a muscle twitched nor a feature changed as he saw the axe whirl up in the hands of a furious man. He only signed himself with the cross, and muttered a Latin prayer under his breath. It was that composure which saved his life. De Catinat hurled down the axe again with a bitter curse, and was turning away from the shattered boat, when in an instant, without a warning, the great door of the manor-house crashed inwards, and a flood of whooping savages burst into the house. CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE DINING HALL OF SAINTE MARIE. What had occurred is easily explained. The watchers in the windows at the front found that it was more than flesh and blood could endure to remain waiting at their posts while the fates of their wives and children were being decided at the back. All was quiet at the stockade, and the Indians appeared to be as absorbed as the Canadians in what was passing upon the river. One by one, therefore, the men on guard had crept away and had assembled at the back to cheer the seaman's shot and to groan as the remaining canoe sped like a bloodhound down the river in the wake of the fugitives. But the savages had one at their head who was as full of wiles and resource as Du Lhut himself. The Flemish Bastard had watched the house from behind the stockade as a dog watches a rat-hole, and he had instantly discovered that the defenders had left their post. With a score of other warriors he raised a great log from the edge of the forest, and crossing the open space unchallenged, he and his men rushed it against the door with such violence as to crack the bar across and tear the wood from the hinges. The first intimation which the survivors had of the attack was the crash of the door, and the screams of two of the negligent watchmen who had been seized and scalped in the hall. The whole basement floor was in the hands of the Indians, and De Catinat and his enemy the friar were cut off from the foot of the stairs. Fortunately, however, the manor-houses of Canada were built with the one idea of defence against Indians, and even now there were hopes for the defenders. A wooden ladder which could be drawn up in case of need hung down from the upper windows to the ground upon the river-side. De Catinat rushed round to this, followed by the friar. He felt about for the ladder in the darkness. It was gone. Then indeed his heart sank in despair. Where could he fly to? The boat was destroyed. The stockades lay between him and the forest, and they were in the hands of the Iroquois. Their yells were ringing in his ears. They had not seen him yet, but in a few minutes they must come upon him. Suddenly he heard a voice from somewhere in the darkness above him. "Give me your gun, lad," it said. "I see the loom of some of the heathen down by the wall." "It is I. It is I, Amos," cried De Catinat. "Down with the ladder or I am a dead man." "Have a care. It may be a ruse," said the voice of Du Lhut. "No, no, I'll answer for it," cried Amos, and an instant later down came the ladder. De Catinat and the friar rushed up it, and they hardly had their feet upon the rungs when a swarm of warriors burst out from the door and poured along the river bank. Two muskets flashed from above, something plopped like a salmon in the water, and next instant the two were among their comrades and the ladder had been drawn up once more. But it was a very small band who now held the last point to which they could retreat. Only nine of them remained, the seigneur, Du Lhut, the two Americans, the friar, De Catinat, Theuriet the major-domo, and two of the _censitaires_. Wounded, parched, and powder-blackened, they were still filled with the mad courage of desperate men who knew that death could come in no more terrible form than through surrender. The stone staircase ran straight up from the kitchen to the main hall, and the door, which had been barricaded across the lower part by two mattresses, commanded the whole flight. Hoarse whisperings and the click of the cocking of guns from below told that the Iroquois were mustering for a rush. "Put the lantern by the door," said Du Lhut, "so that it may throw the light upon the stair. There is only room for three to fire, but you can all load and pass the guns. Monsieur Green, will you kneel with me, and you, Jean Duval? If one of us is hit let another take his place at once. Now be ready, for they are coming!" As he spoke there was a shrill whistle from below, and in an instant the stair was filled with rushing red figures and waving weapons. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the three guns, and then again and again Bang! Bang! Bang! The smoke was so thick in the low-roofed room that they could hardly see to pass the muskets to the eager hands which grasped for them. But no Iroquois had reached the barricade, and there was no patter of their feet now upon the stair. Nothing but an angry snarling and an occasional groan from below. The marksmen were uninjured, but they ceased to fire and waited for the smoke to clear. And when it cleared they saw how deadly their aim had been at those close quarters. Only nine shots had been fired, and seven Indians were littered up and down on the straight stone stair. Five of them lay motionless, but two tried to crawl slowly back to their friends. Du Lhut and the _censitaire_ raised their muskets, and the two crippled men lay still. "By Saint Anne!" said the old pioneer, as he rammed home another bullet. "If they have our scalps we have sold them at a great price. A hundred squaws will be howling in their villages when they hear of this day's work." "Ay, they will not forget their welcome at Sainte Marie," said the old nobleman. "I must again express my deep regret, my dear De Catinat, that you and your wife should have been put to such inconvenience when you have been good enough to visit me. I trust that she and the others are safe at the fort by this time." "May God grant that they are! Oh, I shall never have an easy moment until I see her once more." "If they are safe we may expect help in the morning, if we can hold out so long. Chambly, the commandant, is not a man to leave a comrade at a pinch." The cards were still laid out at one end of the table, with the tricks overlapping each other, as they had left them on the previous morning. But there was something else there of more interest to them, for the breakfast had not been cleared away, and they had been fighting all day with hardly bite or sup. Even when face to face with death, Nature still cries out for her dues, and the hungry men turned savagely upon the loaf, the ham, and the cold wild duck. A little cluster of wine bottles stood upon the buffet, and these had their necks knocked off, and were emptied down parched throats. Three men still took their turn, however, to hold the barricade, for they were not to be caught napping again. The yells and screeches of the savages came up to them as though all the wolves of the forest were cooped up in the basement, but the stair was deserted save for the seven motionless figures. "They will not try to rush us again," said Du Lhut with confidence. "We have taught them too severe a lesson." "They will set fire to the house." "It will puzzle them to do that," said the major-domo. "It is solid stone, walls and stair, save only for a few beams of wood, very different from those other cottages." "Hush!" cried Amos Green, and raised his hand. The yells had died away, and they heard the heavy thud of a mallet beating upon wood. "What can it be?" "Some fresh devilry, no doubt." "I regret to say, messieurs," observed the seigneur, with no abatement of his courtly manner, "that it is my belief that they have learned a lesson from our young friend here, and that they are knocking out the heads of the powder-barrels in the store-room." But Du Lhut shook his head at the suggestion. "It is not in a Redskin to waste powder," said he. "It is a deal too precious for them to do that. Ah, listen to that!" The yellings and screechings had begun again, but there was a wilder, madder ring in their shrillness, and they were mingled with snatches of song and bursts of laughter. "Ha! It is the brandy casks which they have opened," cried Du Lhut. "They were bad before, but they will be fiends out of hell now." As he spoke there came another burst of whoops, and high above them a voice calling for mercy. With horror in their eyes the survivors glanced from one to the other. A heavy smell of burning flesh rose from below, and still that dreadful voice shrieking and pleading. Then slowly it quavered away and was silent forever. "Who was it?" whispered De Catinat, his blood running cold in his veins. "It was Jean Corbeil, I think." "May God rest his soul! His troubles are over. Would that we were as peaceful as he! Ah, shoot him! Shoot!" A man had suddenly sprung out at the foot of the stair and had swung his arm as though throwing something. It was the Flemish Bastard. Amos Green's musket flashed, but the savage had sprung back again as rapidly as he appeared. Something splashed down amongst them and rolled across the floor in the lamp-light. "Down! Down! It is a bomb!" cried De Catinat But it lay at Du Lhut's feet, and he had seen it clearly. He took a cloth from the table and dropped it over it. "It is not a bomb," said he quietly, "and it _was_ Jean Corbeil who died." For four hours sounds of riot, of dancing and of revelling rose up from the store-house, and the smell of the open brandy casks filled the whole air. More than once the savages quarrelled and fought among themselves, and it seemed as if they had forgotten their enemies above, but the besieged soon found that if they attempted to presume upon this they were as closely watched as ever. The major-domo, Theuriet, passing between a loop-hole and a light, was killed instantly by a bullet from the stockade, and both Amos and the old seigneur had narrow escapes until they blocked all the windows save that which overlooked the river. There was no danger from this one, and, as day was already breaking once more, one or other of the party was forever straining their eyes down the stream in search of the expected succour. Slowly the light crept up the eastern sky, a little line of pearl, then a band of pink, broadening, stretching, spreading, until it shot its warm colour across the heavens, tinging the edges of the drifting clouds. Over the woodlands lay a thin gray vapour, the tops of the high oaks jutting out like dim islands from the sea of haze. Gradually as the light increased the mist shredded off into little ragged wisps, which thinned and drifted away, until at last, as the sun pushed its glowing edge over the eastern forests, it gleamed upon the reds and oranges and purples of the fading leaves, and upon the broad blue river which curled away to the northward. De Catinat, as he stood at the window looking out, was breathing in the healthy resinous scent of the trees, mingled with the damp heavy odour of the wet earth, when suddenly his eyes fell upon a dark spot upon the river to the north of them. "There is a canoe coming down!" he cried. In an instant they had all rushed to the opening, but Du Lhut sprang after them, and pulled them angrily towards the door. "Do you wish to die before your time?" he cried. "Ay, ay!" said Captain Ephraim, who understood the gesture if not the words. "We must leave a watch on deck. Amos, lad, lie here with me and be ready if they show." The two Americans and the old pioneer held the barricade, while the eyes of all the others were turned upon the approaching boat. A groan broke suddenly from the only surviving _censitaire_. "It is an Iroquois canoe!" he cried. "Impossible!" "Alas, your excellency, it is so, and it is the same one which passed us last night." "Ah, then the women have escaped them." "I trust so. But alas, seigneur, I fear that there are more in the canoe now than when they passed us." The little group of survivors waited in breathless anxiety while the canoe sped swiftly up the river, with a line of foam on either side of her, and a long forked swirl in the waters behind. They could see that she appeared to be very crowded, but they remembered that the wounded of the other boat were aboard her. On she shot and on, until as she came abreast of the fort she swung round, and the rowers raised their paddles and burst into a shrill yell of derision. The stern of the canoe was turned towards them now, and they saw that two women were seated in it. Even at that distance there was no mistaking the sweet pale face or the dark queenly one beside it. The one was Onega and the other was Adele. CHAPTER XXXIX. THE TWO SWIMMERS. Charles de la Noue, Seigneur de Sainte Marie, was a hard and self-contained man, but a groan and a bitter curse burst from him when he saw his Indian wife in the hands of her kinsmen, from whom she could hope for little mercy. Yet even now his old-fashioned courtesy to his guest had made him turn to De Catinat with some words of sympathy, when there was a clatter of wood, something darkened the light of the window, and the young soldier was gone. Without a word he had lowered the ladder and was clambering down it with frantic haste. Then as his feet touched the ground he signalled to his comrades to draw it up again, and dashing into the river he swam towards the canoe. Without arms and without a plan he had but the one thought that his place was by the side of his wife in this, the hour of her danger. Fate should bring him what it brought her, and he swore to himself, as he clove a way with his strong arms, that whether it were life or death they should still share it together. But there was another whose view of duty led him from safety into the face of danger. All night the Franciscan had watched De Catinat as a miser watches his treasure, filled with the thought that this heretic was the one little seed which might spread and spread until it choked the chosen vineyard of the Church. Now when he saw him rush so suddenly down the ladder, every fear was banished from his mind save the overpowering one that he was about to lose his precious charge. He, too, clambered down at the very heels of his prisoner, and rushed into the stream not ten paces behind him. And so the watchers at the window saw the strangest of sights. There, in mid-stream, lay the canoe, with a ring of dark warriors clustering in the stern, and the two women crouching in the midst of them. Swimming madly towards them was De Catinat, rising to the shoulders with the strength of every stroke, and behind him again was the tonsured head of the friar, with his brown capote and long trailing gown floating upon the surface of the water behind him. But in his zeal he had thought too little of his own powers. He was a good swimmer, but he was weighted and hampered by his unwieldy clothes. Slower and slower grew his stroke, lower and lower his head, until at last with a great shriek of _In manus tuas, Domine!_ he threw up his hands, and vanished in the swirl of the river. A minute later the watchers, hoarse with screaming to him to return, saw De Catinat pulled aboard the Iroquois canoe, which was instantly turned and continued its course up the river. "My God!" cried Amos hoarsely. "They have taken him. He is lost." "I have seen some strange things in these forty years, but never the like of that!" said Du Lhut. The seigneur took a little pinch of snuff from his gold box, and flicked the wandering grains from his shirt-front with his dainty lace handkerchief. "Monsieur de Catinat has acted like a gentleman of France," said he. "If I could swim now as I did thirty years ago, I should be by his side." Du Lhut glanced round him and shook his head. "We are only six now," said he. "I fear they are up to some devilry because they are so very still." "They are leaving the house!" cried the _censitaire_, who was peeping through one of the side windows. "What can it mean? Holy Virgin, is it possible that we are saved? See how they throng through the trees. They are making for the canoe. Now they are waving their arms and pointing." "There is the gray hat of that mongrel devil amongst them," said the captain. "I would try a shot upon him were it not a waste of powder and lead." "I have hit the mark at as long a range," said Amos, pushing his long brown gun through a chink in the barricade which they had thrown across the lower half of the window. "I would give my next year's trade to bring him down." "It is forty paces further than my musket would carry," remarked Du Lhut, "but I have seen the English shoot a great way with those long guns." Amos took a steady aim, resting his gun upon the window sill, and fired. A shout of delight burst from the little knot of survivors. The Flemish Bastard had fallen. But he was on his feet again in an instant and shook his hand defiantly at the window. "Curse it!" cried Amos bitterly, in English. "I have hit him with a spent ball. As well strike him with a pebble." "Nay, curse not, Amos, lad, but try him again with another pinch of powder if your gun will stand it." The woodsman thrust in a full charge, and chose a well-rounded bullet from his bag, but when he looked again both the Bastard and his warriors had disappeared. On the river the single Iroquois canoe which held the captives was speeding south as swiftly as twenty paddles could drive it, but save this one dark streak upon the blue stream, not a sign was to be seen of their enemies. They had vanished as if they had been an evil dream. There was the bullet-spotted stockade, the litter of dead bodies inside it, the burned and roofless cottages, but the silent woods lay gleaming in the morning sunshine as quiet and peaceful as if no hell-burst of fiends had ever broken out from them. "By my faith, I believe that they have gone!" cried the seigneur. "Take care that it is not a ruse," said Du Lhut. "Why should they fly before six men when they have conquered sixty?" But the _censitaire_ had looked out of the other window, and in an instant he was down upon his knees with his hands in the air, and his powder blackened face turned upwards, pattering out prayers and thanksgivings. His five comrades rushed across the room and burst into a shriek of joy. The upper reach of the river was covered with a flotilla of canoes from which the sun struck quick flashes as it shone upon the musket-barrels and trappings of the crews. Already they could see the white coats of the regulars, the brown tunics of the coureurs-de-bois_, and the gaudy colours of the Hurons and Algonquins. On they swept, dotting the whole breadth of the river, and growing larger every instant, while far away on the southern bend, the Iroquois canoe was a mere moving dot which had shot away to the farther side and lost itself presently under the shadow of the trees. Another minute and the survivors were out upon the bank, waving their caps in the air, while the prows of the first of their rescuers were already grating upon the pebbles. In the stern of the very foremost canoe sat a wizened little man with a large brown wig, and a gilt-headed rapier laid across his knees. He sprang out as the keel touched bottom, splashing through the shallow water with his high leather boots, and rushing up to the seigneur, he flung himself into his arms. "My dear Charles," he cried, "you have held your house like a hero. What, only six of you! Tut, tut, this has been a bloody business!" "I knew that you would not desert a comrade, Chambly. We have saved the house, but our losses have been terrible. My son is dead. My wife is in that Iroquois canoe in front of you." The commandant of Fort St. Louis pressed his friend's hand in silent sympathy. "The others arrived all safe," he said at last. "Only that one was taken, on account of the breaking of a paddle. Three were drowned and two captured. There was a French lady in it, I understand, as well as madame." "Yes, and they have taken her husband as well." "Ah, poor souls! Well, if you are strong enough to join us, you and your friends, we shall follow after them without the loss of an instant. Ten of my men will remain to guard the house, and you can have their canoe. Jump in then, and forward, for life and death may hang upon our speed!" CHAPTER XL. THE END. The Iroquois had not treated De Catinat harshly when they dragged him from the water into their canoe. So incomprehensible was it to them why any man should voluntarily leave a place of safety in order to put himself in their power that they could only set it down to madness, a malady which inspires awe and respect among the Indians. They did not even tie his wrists, for why should he attempt to escape when he had come of his own free will? Two warriors passed their hands over him, to be sure that he was unarmed, and he was then thrust down between the two women, while the canoe darted in towards the bank to tell the others that the St. Louis garrison was coming up the stream. Then it steered out again, and made its way swiftly up the centre of the river. Adele was deadly pale and her hand, as her husband laid his upon it, was as cold as marble. "My darling," he whispered, "tell me that all is well with you--that you are unhurt!" "Oh, Amory, why did you come? Why did you come, Amory? Oh, I think I could have borne anything, but if they hurt you I could not bear that." "How could I stay behind when I knew that you were in their hands? I should have gone mad!" "Ah, it was my one consolation to think that you were safe." "No, no, we have gone through so much together that we cannot part now. What is death, Adele? Why should we be afraid of it?" "I am not afraid of it." "And I am not afraid of it. Things will come about as God wills it, and what He wills must in the end be the best. If we live, then we have this memory in common. If we die, then we go hand-in-hand into another life. Courage, my own, all will be well with us." "Tell me, monsieur," said Onega, "is my lord still living?" "Yes, he is alive and well." "It is good. He is a great chief, and I have never been sorry, not even now, that I have wedded with one who was not of my own people. But ah, my son! Who shall give my son back to me? He was like the young sapling, so straight and so strong! Who could run with him, or leap with him, or swim with him? Ere that sun shines again we shall all be dead, and my heart is glad, for I shall see my boy once more." The Iroquois paddles had bent to their work until a good ten miles lay between them and Sainte Marie. Then they ran the canoe into a little creek upon their own side of the river, and sprang out of her, dragging the prisoners after them. The canoe was carried on the shoulders of eight men some distance into the wood, where they concealed it between two fallen trees, heaping a litter of branches over it to screen it from view. Then, after a short council, they started through the forest, walking in single file, with their three prisoners in the middle. There were fifteen warriors in all, eight in front and seven behind, all armed with muskets and as swift-footed as deer, so that escape was out of the question. They could but follow on, and wait in patience for whatever might befall them. All day they pursued their dreary march, picking their way through vast morasses, skirting the borders of blue woodland lakes where the gray stork flapped heavily up from the reeds at their approach, or plunging into dark belts of woodland where it is always twilight, and where the falling of the wild chestnuts and the chatter of the squirrels a hundred feet above their heads were the only sounds which broke the silence. Onega had the endurance of the Indians themselves, but Adele, in spite of her former journeys, was footsore and weary before evening. It was a relief to De Catinat, therefore, when the red glow of a great fire beat suddenly through the tree-trunks, and they came upon an Indian camp in which was assembled the greater part of the war-party which had been driven from Sainte Marie. Here, too, were a number of the squaws who had come from the Mohawk and Cayuga villages in order to be nearer to the warriors. Wigwams had been erected all round in a circle, and before each of them were the fires with kettles slung upon a tripod of sticks in which the evening meal was being cooked. In the centre of all was a very fierce fire which had been made of brushwood placed in a circle, so as to leave a clear space of twelve feet in the middle. A pole stood up in the centre of this clearing, and something all mottled with red and black was tied up against it. De Catinat stepped swiftly in front of Adele that she might not see the dreadful thing, but he was too late. She shuddered, and drew a quick breath between her pale lips, but no sound escaped her. "They have begun already, then," said Onega composedly. "Well, it will be our turn next, and we shall show them that we know how to die." "They have not ill-used us yet," said De Catinat. "Perhaps they will keep us for ransom or exchange." The Indian woman shook her head. "Do not deceive yourself by any such hope," said she. "When they are as gentle as they have been with you it is ever a sign that you are reserved for the torture. Your wife will be married to one of their chiefs, but you and I must die, for you are a warrior, and I am too old for a squaw." Married to an Iroquois! Those dreadful words shot a pang through both their hearts which no thought of death could have done. De Catinat's head dropped forward upon his chest, and he staggered and would have fallen had Adele not caught him by the arm. "Do not fear, dear Amory," she whispered. "Other things may happen but not that, for I swear to you that I shall not survive you. No, it may be sin or it may not, but if death will not come to me, I will go to it." De Catinat looked down at the gentle face which had set now into the hard lines of an immutable resolve. He knew that it would be as she had said, and that, come what might, that last outrage would not befall them. Could he ever have believed that the time would come when it would send a thrill of joy through his heart to know that his wife would die? As they entered the Iroquois village the squaws and warriors had rushed towards them, and they passed through a double line of hideous faces which jeered and jibed and howled at them as they passed. Their escort led them through this rabble and conducted them to a hut which stood apart. It was empty, save for some willow fishing-nets hanging at the side, and a heap of pumpkins stored in the corner. "The chiefs will come and will decide upon what is to be done with us," said Onega. "Here they are coming now, and you will soon see that I am right, for I know the ways of my own people." An instant later an old war-chief, accompanied by two younger braves and by the bearded half-Dutch Iroquois who had led the attack upon the manor-house, strolled over and stood in the doorway, looking in at the prisoners, and shooting little guttural sentences at each other. The totems of the Hawk, the Wolf, the Bear, and the Snake showed that they each represented one of the great families of the Nation. The Bastard was smoking a stone pipe, and yet it was he who talked the most, arguing apparently with one of the younger savages, who seemed to come round at last to his opinion. Finally the old chief said a few short stern words, and the matter appeared to be settled. "And you, you beldame," said the Bastard in French to the Iroquois woman, "you will have a lesson this night which will teach you to side against your own people." "You half-bred mongrel," replied the fearless old woman, "you should take that hat from your head when you speak to one in whose veins runs the best blood of the Onondagas. You a warrior? You who, with a thousand at your back, could not make your way into a little house with a few poor husbandmen within it! It is no wonder that your father's people have cast you out! Go back and work at the beads, or play at the game of plum-stones, for some day in the woods you might meet with a man, and so bring disgrace upon the nation which has taken you in!" The evil face of the Bastard grew livid as he listened to the scornful words which were hissed at him by the captive. He strode across to her, and taking her hand he thrust her forefinger into the burning bowl of his pipe. She made no effort to remove it, but sat with a perfectly set face for a minute or more, looking out through the open door at the evening sunlight and the little groups of chattering Indians. He had watched her keenly in the hope of hearing a cry, or seeing some spasm of agony upon her face, but at last, with a curse, he dashed down her hand and strode from the hut. She thrust her charred finger into her bosom and laughed. "He is a good-for-nought!" she cried. "He does not even know how to torture. Now, I could have got a cry out of him. I am sure of it. But you--monsieur, you are very white!" "It was the sight of such a hellish deed. Ah, if we were but set face to face, I with my sword, he with what weapon he chose, by God, he should pay for it with his heart's blood." The Indian woman seemed surprised. "It is strange to me," she said, "that you should think of what befalls me when you are yourselves under the same shadow. But our fate will be as I said." "Ah!" "You and I are to die at the stake. She is to be given to the dog who has left us." "Ah!" "Adele! Adele! What shall I do!" He tore his hair in his helplessness and distraction. "No, no, fear not, Amory, for my heart will not fail me. What is the pang of death if it binds us together?" "The younger chief pleaded for you, saying that the _Mitche Manitou_ had stricken you with madness, as could be seen by your swimming to their canoe, and that a blight would fall upon the nation if you were led to the stake. But this Bastard said that love came often like madness among the pale-faces, and that it was that alone which had driven you. Then it was agreed that you should die and that she should go to his wigwam, since he had led the war-party. As for me, their hearts were bitter against me, and I also am to die by the pine splinters." De Catinat breathed a prayer that he might meet his fate like a soldier and a gentleman. "When is it to be?" he asked. "Now! At once! They have gone to make all ready! But you have time yet, for I am to go first." "Amory, Amory, could we not die together now?" cried Adele, throwing her arms round her husband. "If it be sin, it is surely a sin which will be forgiven us. Let us go, dear. Let us leave these dreadful people and this cruel world and turn where we shall find peace." The Indian woman's eyes flashed with satisfaction. "You have spoken well, White Lily," said she. "Why should you wait until it is their pleasure to pluck you. See, already the glare of their fire beats upon the tree-trunks, and you can hear the howlings of those who thirst for your blood. If you die by your own hands, they will be robbed of their spectacle, and their chief will have lost his bride. So you will be the victors in the end, and they the vanquished. You have said rightly, White Lily. There lies the only path for you!" "But how to take it?" Onega glanced keenly at the two warriors who stood as sentinels at the door of the hut. They had turned away, absorbed in the horrible preparations which were going on. Then she rummaged deeply within the folds of her loose gown and pulled out a small pistol with two brass barrels and double triggers in the form of winged dragons. It was only a toy to look at, all carved and scrolled and graven with the choicest work of the Paris gunsmith. For its beauty the seigneur had bought it at his last visit to Quebec, and yet it might be useful, too, and it was loaded in both barrels. "I meant to use it on myself," said she, as she slipped it into the hand of De Catinat. "But now I am minded to show them that I can die as an Onondaga should die, and that I am worthy to have the blood of their chiefs in my veins. Take it, for I swear that I will not use it myself, unless it be to fire both bullets into that Bastard's heart." A flush of joy shot over De Catinat as his fingers closed round the pistol. Here was indeed a key to unlock the gates of peace. Adele laid her cheek against his shoulder and laughed with pleasure. "You will forgive me, dear," he whispered. "Forgive you! I bless you, and love you with my whole heart and soul. Clasp me close, darling, and say one prayer before you do it." They had sunk on their knees together when three warriors entered the hut and said a few abrupt words to their country-woman. She rose with a smile. "They are waiting for me," said she. "You shall see, White Lily, and you also, monsieur, how well I know what is due to my position. Farewell, and remember Onega!" She smiled again, and walked from the hut amidst the warriors with the quick firm step of a queen who sweeps to a throne. "Now, Amory!" whispered Adele, closing her eyes, and nestling still closer to him. He raised the pistol, and then, with a quick sudden intaking of the breath, he dropped it, and knelt with glaring eyes looking up at a tree which faced the open door of the hut. It was a beech-tree, exceedingly old and gnarled, with its bark hanging down in strips and its whole trunk spotted with moss and mould. Some ten feet above the ground the main trunk divided into two, and in the fork thus formed a hand had suddenly appeared, a large reddish hand, which shook frantically from side to side in passionate dissuasion. The next instant, as the two captives still stared in amazement, the hand disappeared behind the trunk again and a face appeared in its place, which still shook from side to side as resolutely as its forerunner. It was impossible to mistake that mahogany, wrinkled skin, the huge bristling eyebrows, or the little glistening eyes. It was Captain Ephraim Savage of Boston! And even as they stared and wondered a sudden shrill whistle burst out from the depths of the forest, and in a moment every bush and thicket and patch of brushwood were spouting fire and smoke, while the snarl of the musketry ran round the whole glade, and the storm of bullets whizzed and pelted among the yelling savages. The Iroquois' sentinels had been drawn in by their bloodthirsty craving to see the prisoners die, and now the Canadians were upon them, and they were hemmed in by a ring of fire. First one way and then another they rushed, to be met always by the same blast of death, until finding at last some gap in the attack they streamed through, like sheep through a broken fence, and rushed madly away through the forest, with the bullets of their pursuers still singing about their ears, until the whistle sounded again to recall the woodsmen from the chase. But there was one savage who had found work to do before he fled. The Flemish Bastard had preferred his vengeance to his safety! Rushing at Onega, he buried his tomahawk in her brain, and then, yelling his war-cry, he waved the blood-stained weapon above his head, and flew into the hut where the prisoners still knelt. De Catinat saw him coming, and a mad joy glistened in his eyes. He rose to meet him, and as he rushed in he fired both barrels of his pistol into the Bastard's face. An instant later a swarm of Canadians had rushed over the writhing bodies, the captives felt warm friendly hands which grasped their own, and looking upon the smiling, well-known faces of Amos Green, Savage, and Du Lhut, they knew that peace had come to them at last. And so the refugees came to the end of the toils of their journey, for that winter was spent by them in peace at Fort St. Louis, and in the spring, the Iroquois having carried the war to the Upper St. Lawrence, the travellers were able to descend into the English provinces, and so to make their way down the Hudson to New York, where a warm welcome awaited them from the family of Amos Green. The friendship between the two men was now so cemented together by common memories and common danger that they soon became partners in fur-trading, and the name of the Frenchman came at last to be as familiar in the mountains of Maine and on the slopes of the Alleghanies as it had once been in the _salons_ and corridors of Versailles. In time De Catinat built a house on Staten Island, where many of his fellow-refugees had settled, and much of what he won from his fur-trading was spent in the endeavour to help his struggling Huguenot brothers. Amos Green had married a Dutch maiden of Schenectady, and as Adele and she became inseparable friends, the marriage served to draw closer the ties of love which held the two families together. As to Captain Ephraim Savage, he returned safely to his beloved Boston, where he fulfilled his ambition by building himself a fair brick house upon the rising ground in the northern part of the city, whence he could look down both upon the shipping in the river and the bay. There he lived, much respected by his townsfolk, who made him selectman and alderman, and gave him the command of a goodly ship when Sir William Phips made his attack upon Quebec, and found that the old Lion Frontenac was not to be driven from his lair. So, honoured by all, the old seaman lived to an age which carried him deep into the next century, when he could already see with his dim eyes something of the growing greatness of his country. The manor-house of Sainte Marie was soon restored to its former prosperity, but its seigneur was from the day that he lost his wife and son a changed man. He grew leaner, fiercer, less human, forever heading parties which made their way into the Iroquois woods and which outrivalled the savages themselves in the terrible nature of their deeds. A day came at last when he sallied out upon one of these expeditions, from which neither he nor any of his men ever returned. Many a terrible secret is hid by those silent woods, and the fate of Charles de la Noue, Seigneur de Sainte Marie, is among them. NOTE ON THE HUGUENOTS AND THEIR DISPERSION. Towards the latter quarter of the seventeenth century there was hardly an important industry in France which was not controlled by the Huguenots, so that, numerous as they were, their importance was out of all proportion to their numbers. The cloth trade of the north and the south-east, the manufacture of serges and light stuffs in Languedoc, the linen trade of Normandy and Brittany, the silk and velvet industry of Tours and Lyons, the glass of Normandy, the paper of Auvergne and Angoumois, the jewellery of the Isle of France, the tan yards of Touraine, the iron and tin work of the Sedanais--all these were largely owned and managed by Huguenots. The numerous Saint days of the Catholic Calendar handicapped their rivals, and it was computed that the Protestant worked 310 days in the year to his fellow-countryman's 260. A very large number of the Huguenot refugees were brought back, and the jails and galleys of France were crowded with them. One hundred thousand settled in Friesland and Holland, 25,000 in Switzerland, 75,000 in Germany, and 50,000 in England. Some made their way even to the distant Cape of Good Hope, where they remained in the Paarl district. In war, as in industry, the exiles were a source of strength to the countries which received them. Frenchmen drilled the Russian armies of Peter the Great, a Huguenot Count became commander-in-chief in Denmark, and Schomberg led the army of Brandenburg, and afterwards that of England. In England three Huguenot regiments were formed for the service of William. The exiles established themselves as silk workers in Spitalfields, cotton spinners at Bideford, tapestry weavers at Exeter, wool carders at Taunton, kersey makers at Norwich, weavers at Canterbury, bat makers at Wandsworth, sailcloth makers at Ipswich, workers in calico in Bromley, glass in Sussex, paper at Laverstock, cambric at Edinburgh. Early Protestant refugees had taken refuge in America twenty years before the revocation, where they formed a colony at Staten Island. A body came to Boston in 1684, and were given 11,000 acres at Oxford, by order of the General Court at Massachusetts. In New York and Long Island colonies sprang up, and later in Virginia (the Monacan Settlement), in Maryland, and in South Carolina (French Santee and Orange Quarter). NOTE ON THE FUTURE OF LOUIS, MADAMS DE MAINTENON, AND MADAME DE MONTESPAN. It has been left to our own century to clear the fair fame of Madame de Maintenon of all reproach, and to show her as what she was, a pure woman and a devoted wife. She has received little justice from the memoir writers of the seventeenth century, most of whom, the Duc de St. Simon, for example, and the Princess Elizabeth of Bavaria, had their own private reasons for disliking her. An admirable epitome of her character and influence will be found in Dr. Dollinger's _Historical Studies_. She made Louis an excellent wife, waited upon him assiduously for thirty years of married life, influenced him constantly towards good--save only in the one instance of the Huguenots, and finally died very shortly after her husband. Madame de Montespan lived in great magnificence after the triumph of her rival, and spent freely the vast sums which the king's generosity had furnished her with. Eventually, having exhausted all that this world could offer, she took to hair-shirts and nail-studded girdles, in the hope of securing a good position in the next. Her horror of death was excessive. In thunderstorms she sat with a little child in her lap, in the hope that its innocence might shield her from the lightning. She slept always with her room ablaze with tapers, and with several women watching by the side of her couch. When at last the inevitable arrived she left her body for the family tomb, her heart to the convent of La Fleche, and her entrails to the priory of Menoux near Bourbon. These latter were thrust into a box and given to a peasant to convey to the priory. Curiosity induced him to look into the box upon the way, and, seeing the contents, he supposed himself to be the victim of a practical joke, and emptied them out into a ditch. A swineherd was passing at the moment with his pigs, and so it happened that, in the words of Mrs. Julia Pardoe, "in a few minutes the most filthy animals in creation had devoured portions of the remains of one of the haughtiest women who ever trod the earth." Louis, after a reign of more than fifty years, which comprised the most brilliant epoch of French history, died at last in 1715 amidst the saddest surroundings. One by one those whom he loved had preceded him to the grave, his brother, his son, the two sons of his son, their wives, and finally his favourite great-grandson, until he, the old dying monarch, with his rouge and his stays, was left with only a little infant in arms, the Duc D'Anjou, three generations away from him, to perpetuate his line. On 20th August, 1715, he was attacked by senile gangrene, which gradually spread up the leg until on the 30th it became fatal. His dying words were worthy of his better self. "Gentlemen, I desire your pardon for the bad example which I have set you. I have greatly to thank you fur the manner in which you have served me, as well as for the attachment and fidelity which I have always experienced at your hands. I request from you the same zeal and fidelity for my grandson. Farewell, gentlemen. I feel that this parting has affected not only myself but you also. Forgive me! I trust that you will sometimes think of me when I am gone." 
52734	----	Google Books (Library of the University of Virginia) Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: Google Books https://books.google.com/books?id=LtJEAAAAYAAJ (Library of the University of Virginia) Appleton's Town and Country Library No. 251 THE SCOURGE OF GOD BY J. BLOUNDELLE-BURTON. _Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents_. The Clash of Arms. In this stirring romance of the seventeenth century the reader shares the adventures of an English officer who serves under Turenne in his German campaigns. The author has written an engrossing story of love and war. Denounced. "The author of 'Denounced' is second to none in the romantic recounting of the tales of earlier days. A story of the critical times of the vagrant and ambitious Charles I, it is so replete with incident and realistic happenings that one seems translated to the very scenes and days of that troublous era in English history. The interest throughout is of that absorbing and magnetic kind that holds one's attention closely from the first chapter to the last."--_Boston Courier_. In the Day of Adversity "We do not hesitate to declare that Mr. Bloundelle-Burton's new romance will be very hard to beat in its own particular line. . . . Mr. Burton's creative skill is of the kind which must fascinate those who revel in the narratives of Stevenson, Rider Haggard, and Stanley Weyman. Even the author of 'A Gentleman of France' has not surpassed the writer of 'In the Day of Adversity' in the moving interest of his tale."--_St. James's Gazette_. D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. THE SCOURGE OF GOD _A ROMANCE OF RELIGIOUS PERSECUTION_ BY JOHN BLOUNDELLE-BURTON. AUTHOR OF DENOUNCED, IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY, ETC. "Prince! que j'ai honoré comme mon Roi, et que j'honore encore comme Le Fléau de Dieu!" Saurin à Louis XIV NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1898 COPYRIGHT, 1898, By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. CONTENTS. I.--Awaiting the traveller. II.--The traveller from England. III.--A parting soul. IV.--Les attroupés. V.--'Twixt then and now. VI.--"La femme, malheureusement si fameuse, funeste et terrible."--St. Simon. VII.--The house by the bridge. VIII.--An exodus. IX.--"Baville! un magistrat dont les epouvantables rigueurs doivent être signalée à l'horreur de la postérité"--St. Simon. X.--The lighted torch. XI.--"Consorting with heretics." XII.--"I am a Protestant." XIII.--Urbaine. XIV.--The attack. XV.--Shelter and refuge. XVI.--Succour. XVII.--The ruse. XVIII.--La divinéresse. XIX.--Lex talionis. XX.--What is this mystery? XXI.--"You will never find him." XXII.--I love you. XXIII.--"Love her! Beyond all thought! And she is there." XXIV.--"An errand of life or death." XXV.--Par le fer et par le feu. XXVI.--Doomed. XXVII.--Her father, Urbain Ducaire. XXVIII.--Baville--superb! XXIX.--"Her father's murderer." XXX.--Free. XXXI.--Betrayed. XXXII.--The bitterness of death. XXXIII.--Tout savoir, c'est pardonner. THE SCOURGE OF GOD. CHAPTER I. AWAITING THE TRAVELLER. With all the pomp and ceremony that should accompany the dying hours of a great lady of France, the Princesse de Rochebazon--Marquise du Gast d'Ançilly, Comtesse de Montrachet, Baronne de Beauvilliers, and possessor of many other titles, as well as the right to the tabouret--drew near her end. A great lady of France, yet a woman against whom scandal had never breathed a word; a woman whose name had never been coupled with that of any courtier in a manner disadvantageous to her fame, but who instead, since first she came into the family a bride, had always been spoken highly of. As a saint by some--nay, by many; as a Christian by all; as a good servant of the Church. Now, the priests said, she was about to reap her reward in another existence, where her exalted rank would count as nothing and the good deeds of her life as everything. Below, in the courtyard of her great hotel--which was situated in the Rue Champfleury, still called by many La Rue Honteuse because of what had gone on in that street hundreds of years before--the huge Suisse stood at the open gateway, leaning on his silver-headed cane, which he no longer dared to thump vigorously on the ground for fear of disturbing his dying mistress, stood and gazed forth into the long though narrow street. Perhaps to see that none intruded within the crimson cord set in front of the _porte-cochère_ of the Hôtel de Rochebazon; perhaps to observe--with that pride which the menial takes in the greatness of his employers--how all the noble and illustrious callers on his mistress had to leave their coaches and their chairs outside of that barrier, and advance on foot for some yards along the filthy _chaussée_ ere they could enter the courtyard; also, perhaps, to tell himself, with a warm glow of satisfaction, that none below royalty who had ever approached their end in Paris had been inquired after by more illustrious visitors. Above, in the room where the princess lay dying--yet with all her faculties about her, and with, though maybe she hardly thought so, a great deal of vitality still left in her body--everything presented the appearance of belonging to one of wealth and position. The apartment was the bed chamber in which none but the chiefs of the house of de Rochebazon were ever permitted to lie; the bed, of great splendour and vast antiquity, was the bed in which countless de Beauvilliers and Montrachets and du Gast d'Ançillys and de Rochebazons had been born and died. A bed with a _ruelle_ around it as handsome in its velvet and gold lace and gilt pilasters as the _ruelle_ of _Le Dieudonné_ himself--for the de Rochebazons assumed, and were allowed to assume without protest, many of the royal attributes and peculiarities--a bed standing upon a raised platform, or rostrum, as though the parquet floor was not exalted enough to come into contact with the legs of the couch on which the rulers of the house stretched their illustrious limbs. In the room itself all was done that could be done to make it a fitting apartment for those heads of this great family. Arras and tapestry hung on the walls, representing religious scenes, battle scenes, hawking and hunting scenes; upon the uncovered portions of the wainscot were paintings of members who had borne at different times the different names of the family; on _plaques_ in other places were miniatures and pictures by Bordier and Petitot, Mignard and Le Brun. Also, although 'twas autumn now, all about the great chamber were placed bowls of flowers and ferns and grasses. These brightened not only the room, but sweetened it as well, and mingled their pure perfume with the less pure Pulvilio and _Bouquet du Roi_ with which the air was impregnated. In silvery tones a masterpiece of Fromantil's struck far down the room, over the mantelshelf of the huge fireplace, by the side of which a monk sat reading his breviary, and as it did so the princess, lying on her bed, opened her eyes--large, blue-gray eyes, the brightness of which age had no power to quench, nor would have till she was dead--and spoke to a girl seated outside the _ruelle_. "What hour was that, Manon? Three or four?" "Three, Madame la Princesse," the other answered, rising and passing under the bar to her mistress. "The day is fair," the dying aristocrat said, letting her eyes glance toward the windows, through the heavy lace curtains of which the sun's rays strayed. "Fair. There is nothing to impede his journey. He should be here to-night. He must have crossed from England yesterday, must he not?" "I should suppose so, madame. This is Friday. Your courier left for London last Sunday. It is certain Monsieur Ashurst must be very near Paris now." "Ah, Manon! Monsieur Ashurst! Monsieur Ashurst! I would, instead, he were Monsieur de Beauvilliers. Then--then----" She broke off in what she had been about to say and bade the girl go tell the holy father he might leave the room, might walk in the garden if he chose, and see if there were any roses left. His services were not now required; if she could judge by her feelings, her death was not to be yet. Send him away, she gave order. Obedient to her commands--was she not a patroness of all the religious foundations in and around Paris, as well as a magnificent benefactress?--the monk departed. Then the Princesse de Rochebazon continued: "If he were not Monsieur Ashurst, but were instead of my husband's side, the de Rochebazons would not have come to an end--to an end. My God! why is he not a de Beauvilliers? Yet, had he been, I might not have loved him as I do." "'Tis pity, madame," the girl said. "Yet even as it is----" then paused, breaking off. "'Even as it is,' you would say, 'he will inherit much--much of the de Rochebazon fortune.' Yes, 'tis true. He will be well provided for. After the Church--that first. Also you, Manon, are remembered." "Madame!" the girl exclaimed softly, gratefully. Then went on, while as she spoke the tears stood in her eyes. "You have been always very good to me, oh! so good, so good, as ever and to all. What shall we do? What shall we do?" "Nay, weep not. And--and--'Good!' Never say that. I----" A tap, gentle as became the sick room, was heard at the door, whereupon the girl, drying her eyes, went down to where it opened, and after a whispered word with some domestic outside, returned to the bed and, standing outside the _ruelle_, said, "Madame is here." "Again! To-day! She is very thoughtful. Let her be brought to me at once. And, Manon, we will be alone." "Yes, Madame la Princesse," whereupon, bowing, she left her mistress, going once more toward the door, at which she waited until steps were heard outside, when she opened it wide and courtesied lowly and reverently before the woman who had been spoken of as "Madame," and who now came in. A lady well advanced in years, having the appearance of being about seventy, yet looking almost more, since the sumptuous black in which she was arrayed seemed by its fashion to be suitable to an older woman than even she was--a lady stately enough, though not tall, with a white complexion and worn features, eyes that were piercing though not dark, a mouth in which there were few teeth left, those that still remained being black and discoloured. "Aurore," she said, advancing to the bedside and passing within the _ruelle_, a bar of which had been lifted by the attendant ere she went out, "Aurore, I thank our Heavenly Father that he has not yet thought fit to take you to himself. I--I--was very desirous of seeing you again before we meet in Heaven--as I pray we shall ere long." "Madame," the princess said, her voice calm and, for one reaching her end, marvellously clear and distinct, "to see you must always be a gratification to me, even in my extremity. Madame----" "Cease this form of address," the other said, seating herself as she did so in a low chair by the side of the great bed. "There is no necessity for ceremony. We have always been friends, going hand in hand in God's work since--long ago--since you were wife to the Baron de Beauvilliers and with a greater position still to come; since I was Madame Scarron only, with little thought of ever being a----" "Queen!" "Nay! Never that. A king's wife--but no queen." "It rested with you. The acknowledgment might have been forthcoming had you desired it." "Even so. Only it was best to--to--let matters remain as they are." So far as one so feeble as the princess now was could do so, she bent her head acquiescingly; doubtless she knew also that it was best that this woman should never be an acknowledged queen. She had not been a brilliant figure of the court of France for fifty years without being aware of all that was said, all that was whispered of Françoise d'Aubigné ere she found religion--as well as favour in the eyes of the king! Also, all that was whispered after that favour was found. There were a thousand tongues for ever wagging, as well as innumerable pens--the pen of De Sevignés to hint, the pens of Rabutins and Tallement des Réaux to speak plainly. Also her first lover was remembered and spoken of with many a courtier's tongue thrust in his, or her, cheek. But now--now! she posed as God's vicegerent in France. Religion, even God himself, as some said bitterly, had been taken under her patronage; the king trembled for his soul as she worked on the fears of his mind, and Jansenists, Calvinists, Huguenots had been driven forth by hundreds of thousands to other lands, or, remaining in France, had been dragooned, sent to the galleys, the wheel, and the flames. The "_femme fameuse et funeste_" was the greatest living saint in Europe. And as a saint, a patroness of the Holy Roman Church, she came now to visit the Princesse de Rochebazon once more ere she died. "Aurore," she said, a moment later, "I have come to you again, hoping to find you not yet gone before me; because--because--oh, Aurore! to--to plead once more for the sacred cause of our Church; to beseech you to consider what you are about to do. Think! Think! You have worked so much good for that Church--yet you may do more." "More!" the dying woman said, her clear, bright eyes fixed full blaze upon the other. "Madame--well, Françoise, since you insist--what more can I do? There is no de Rochebazon succeeding to title or estate, the power to will the latter, and--and all the movables, the _argent comptant_, is mine. And it is done. Beyond a few gifts to those who have served me, beyond what I have saved from that which is not justly mine, the Church will have all--all! Can it demand further?" "'Tis that, 'tis that, Aurore! What you have saved from that which is most justly yours? 'Tis that! You told me," and now her voice, never loud, sank almost to a whisper, as though she feared that even in this vast room there might still be some who could overhear her, "that to this young man, this Martin Ashurst--this _Anglais_--you have left those savings. A noble heritage, five hundred thousand pistoles. Oh, Aurore! Aurore! think, think! it is French money, and he is--English----" "He is my own flesh and blood," the other interjected. "My brother's child! And he is of our Church!" "That alone redeems it. Yet think of all our Church, here in this France of ours, needs. Money to extirpate the heretics--some can even be _bought_ with money, they say; in the _Midi_ there are those who will adopt our religion for a handful of Louis d'ors----" "They must have changed since their grandfather's days!--since La Rochelle!" "They _have_ changed, though--Vengeance confound and crush them!--some are still obstinate. But, Aurore, listen. This young man, this nephew, needs not the money. He is provided for, will be provided for in his own land. He will do well--go far under the heretic, Anne. Oh, Aurore, he is your flesh and blood, I know. 'Tis but nature that you should benefit him--yet not so much, not so much. God is before man--before all earthly relations." "He is my brother's child," the Princesse de Rochebazon repeated. "And I loved that brother. Also this one has been my care----" "I know, I know! Supported, educated by you, given money hourly to squander in waste. Yet I speak not against that; he is of your race. But now you will give him all this--so great a sum! And France needs money. Aurore," she cried, "do you know that our--that Louis'--coffers are empty? The wars, the buildings, the pomps and vanities, the awful prodigalities of the court have left those coffers bare. And money is needed so, needed so--especially for the work of the Church--needed so much!" And she almost wrung her hands as thus she pleaded. Yet again the dying aristocrat murmured: "My own flesh and blood. Also of our faith." Exhausted by her own efforts, the De Maintenon--the Curse of France! as many had termed her--seemed now to desist, to be beaten back by the words of the princess. Then suddenly seemed also roused to fresh excitement as the other spoke again--excitement mixed this time with anger, as testified by the glances her eyes shot forth. For the dying woman had continued: "Though I provide for him I must tell him the truth--tell all. I can not die with a lie on my lips--in my heart." "Aurore!" she exclaimed--had she not been a king's wife, had this not been a sick-room, it might almost have seemed that she screamed at the other--"Aurore, your brain is gone. You are mad. Tell him all, and lead to further evil to our Church. Aurore, for God's sake say this is a fantasy of your mind. Why," she exclaimed, her passion mounting with her thoughts, "why should you, a stranger to France, a woman raised by marriage to your high position, bring scandal on the name of a noble family--reveal secrets that have slumbered for years?" "I can not die," the other repeated, "with the truth hidden." "The truth," Madame de Maintenon muttered through her discoloured teeth, "the truth! What has the truth to do with--what account is it when set against our faith! Aurore, in the name of that faith, recall your words, your resolve." But the dying woman was unshaken. Even the other, whose influence terrified all France, could not affright her--perhaps because the princess knew that henceforth she had to answer to a greater than she. "I must confess it to him--I must--I must!" she murmured faintly. "I must. I can not die with such a secret in my heart." CHAPTER II. THE TRAVELLER FROM ENGLAND. A great _Berline à quatre chevaux_ halted at the North Gate outside Paris, and the young man seated within the carriage let down the window and prepared to once more answer all the questions that would be put to him. Yet he also thanked Heaven, in a somewhat wearied manner, that this must be the last of it. After that he would be in Paris, with nothing before him but to drive as fast as might be to the Rue Champfleury, known long ago as La Rue Honteuse. Then the formula began once more, was repeated and gone through with, precisely in the same manner as it had been gone through with at Boulogne, where he had landed, at Amiens, Abbeville, and half a dozen other towns and villages. "Monsieur's name?" asked the _guet_, respectfully enough, while as each answer was made he glanced at the passport handed to him and countersigned by the Ambassador to England from "Louis, Roi de France et de Navarre, etc." "Martin Ashurst." "Country?" "England." "Position?" "Gentleman. Also----" But here he found that no more explanation whatever was required from him. Precisely as he had found it all along the road, whenever the inquiring eyes of warders or _guets_ or gatekeepers (in some cases soldiers) had lit upon one of the many statements appended to his passport--the statement that Monsieur Ashurst was nephew to "Madame la Princesse de Rochebazon." "Passez, monsieur," said the man, as all the other men had said on seeing this, and saluting as all the other men had saluted; after which, with a direction to the coachman to proceed, he retired into his room in the gatehouse. "The last, thank God," the occupant of the Berline muttered, "the last. It has been wearisome, but, well, it is over. Now for my aunt." In spite of his weariness incurred by an unhalting journey from London, in which sleep could only be obtained by snatches here and there, in spite of the dust along the highroads both of England and France having discoloured his scarlet coat and tarnished his gold lacings and rendered dirty his Valenciennes cravat, as well as having turned the whiteness of his wig to a dirty yellowish brown, Martin Ashurst presented an attractive appearance. His features were handsome and manly, clear-cut and aristocratic--Madame la Princesse de Rochebazon, once Aurora Ashurst, had herself possessed the same features when young--his figure was slight, yet strong and well knit, his whole appearance satisfactory. Also he bore about him those indefinable traits which mark the gentleman, which, perhaps, it may be said without offence to others, mark and distinguish the English gentleman particularly. A certain calm, a self-contained air, a lack of perception of the existence of those who were unknown to him, and thereby without his ken, distinguished Martin Ashurst as it has always distinguished so many of the well-bred of our land. Yet his life had not been all passed in England, the first fifteen years of it being, indeed, spent in France under the patronage of the aunt to whom the _Berline à quatre chevaux_ was now bearing him as fast as four heavy Flanders roadsters could drag it. Gabriel Ashurst, his father, and Gabriel's sister Aurora, had been two among the hundreds of Royalists who, in the year 1647, were taken by their parents to France as soon as it was possible to escape out of England and from the clutches of the Parliamentarians. Then, in France, in Paris, had begun for them that long career of exile against which so many of the followers of the Stuarts had repined so much at first, and which, in due course, so many had come to like and, in some cases, to appreciate. Also there had come to this exiled family a splendid piece of good fortune, the like of which did not fall often in the way of English exiles. Aurora Ashurst, a girl of twenty, had won the heart of Henri de Beauvilliers, then Baron de Beauvilliers, but with, before him in the near future, the titles and wealth and great positions of Comte de Montrachet, Marquis du Gast d'Ançilly, and Prince de Rochebazon, for the head of the house who held them all was near his end; they were almost within the grasp of Henri, as he stood at the altar with his English bride. Three months after their marriage they were his. Time passed. Gabriel married, as well as his sister, his wife being a countrywoman of his own, also in exile with her family. Cromwell died, the Stuarts were restored. Then Gabriel and his wife returned to England, but the lad, Martin, was left in charge of the Princesse de Rochebazon, who had become by now a childless widow--was, indeed, almost adopted by her. It was true she could not make him heir to the great titles--those must die out!--but at least she could provide for him, and she set about doing it. The whole control of the de Rochebazon wealth was hers to do what she pleased with; she might, if she had desired, have left their châteaux, their woods and forests in half a dozen provinces, their hotel in the Rue Champfleury--everything, to him. Only, because she was a just woman and a religious, she would not do that, recognising that the wealth accumulated by generations of French nobles ought not in common honesty to go to one who had no tie of blood with them and who belonged to a land which was almost always at war with France. Therefore, urged partly by the promptings of her own heart and deep Catholic feelings, partly by the promptings of a priest, and partly by those of the De Maintenon, as well as by a whispered hint in the soft courtly tones of _le Roi Soleil_, now cowering under the awful terrors that too often assail the self-righteous, she left all the wealth of the heirless De Rochebazons to the Church, reserving only for Martin Ashurst the fortune she had saved out of her private purse. Yet 'twas a fortune which would make him rich for life, place him on a high pinnacle in either France or England, cause women either at St. James's or Versailles to angle for him, and throw aside forever, as commodities too expensive to be indulged in, the men whom they loved; a fortune that would buy him a peerage in England, obtain for him the _justaucorps à brevet_ in France, and orders and decorations, the command of regiments, the governorships of provinces, embassies, stars and ribbons, surround him with parasites and flatterers! Half a million pistoles! In English money nigh upon five hundred thousand guineas! As the berline rolled through St. Ouen and Aubervilliers, the wheels sometimes sticking in a rut of the ill-kept roads--whereby the great, cumbersome vehicle lurched so heavily that the young man expected to be overturned at every moment--sometimes, too, scattering a flock of ducks and fowls before it as they sought for subsistence amid the dust and filth, while the coachman and postillion hurled curses at all and everything that came in their way, and the English man servant in the banquette roared with laughter, Martin Ashurst thought of what lay before him in the future. For he knew well enough to what he went--the princess had long since apprised him of the inheritance that was to be his--he knew that future. Yet he was not particularly enamoured of it. "The conditions," he muttered more than once to himself, "are irksome. To live in France, yet with my thoughts ever cast back to England, to London, to St. James's and the suppers at Locket's and Pontac's, the merry nights at Chaves's and White's. And--and--to be banished from England! Faugh! whatever my aunt has to leave me can scarce be worth that." In sober truth, although he knew he was heir to Madame la Princesse, he did not know how great the inheritance was to be. In thinking it all over, in talking it all over, too, with his father and mother, he had imagined with them that there might be some thirty or forty thousand pounds which would be his, and that, owning this sum of money, he would thereby be a rich man. But that any such sum as that which his aunt had really put aside was ever likely to come to him had never entered his thoughts. "Also," he mused, "how serve Louis, be subject to him when my own country may require me? And though we are at peace, how long shall we be so? Marlborough, the Dutch, are restless; they itch to fly at this French king's throat. It will come again. It must. No treaty ever yet put an end to our wars for any considerable time. Also--also--there is the other thing. In honour I must tell her that, even though by doing so I cause her to renounce me, to disinherit me. To leave me not so much as will pay the score at Locket's for suppers. She must know it." Down the Rue de la Boucherie the berline rumbled, the dry fetid smell of the blood of slaughtered beasts being perceptible to the young man's nostrils as he passed through it, since it was still the shambles of Paris; down the Rue des Chants Poulets and past the Rue des Mauvais Garçons it went, with still the driver hurling curses at all who got in his way, at children playing in the road and at a _cordelier_ telling his beads as he walked, yet glinting an evil eye at the coachman and muttering maledictions at him under his breath, and with the English servant still laughing as now he donned his drugget coat and put on his puff wig. For the driver, in between his curses and howls and whoops at the animals, had found time to mutter that the next street was La Rue Champfleury, though, _diantre!_ few flowers grew there now, except in the gardens of the great Princesse de Rochebazon. "Sir," said the man servant, glancing down through the open window in the back of the great vehicle, "we are nearly there." "I know it," Martin Ashurst replied. Then asked suddenly, as they passed under the _Beau Dieu_ stuck in a corner house of the street, "Why does he roar afresh, and why pull up with such a jerk?" "There are red cords stretched all about the street, sir, in front of a great house; also the road is half a foot deep in tan to deaden sounds. And a fellow with a three-cornered hat as big as a table waves a gilt stick to him to stop. What shall we do?" "Why, stop to be sure. Also I will alight. We have arrived." Whereon he descended out of the berline, bidding the man follow with his sword, as well as pay the driver and see to the necessaries being taken off the roof. After which he passed through the cords, and addressing the Suisse, said: "How is it with Madame la Princesse?" "Madame la Princesse still lives, monsieur," the man replied, his eye roving over the scarlet coat and richly laced hat of the traveller; noticing, too, the rings upon his fingers and the silver-hilted rapier carried by the servant. "Doubtless monsieur is the nephew of Madame la Princesse, expected to-day." "I am he." With a bow the man invited Martin Ashurst to follow him, and led him through a cool vestibule to where some footmen stood about, then ordered them to conduct monsieur to his apartment, saying that possibly he would desire to make his toilet. "The rooms prepared for monsieur are those he has occupied often before, I hear," this man of importance said. "Upon this _étage_, giving on the garden, if monsieur pleases." And now, left alone with only his servant to attend upon him, monsieur made a hasty toilet, washing from off his hands and face the dust and dirt of the journey, discarding, too, his scarlet coat and waistcoat for others of a more suitable colour, changing his wig and shoes and stockings. Then bade the man go say that if the princess would receive him he was ready to attend upon her. Sitting there waiting to be summoned to her presence, his eyes glancing out through the long open windows on to the fresh, green garden with its banks of roses, now drooping with the advent of autumn, he thought of all that she had done for him since first he could remember. Of how, as a child, when he lived in this great house, or went with her in the summer heats to fair Touraine--where was a castle of the de Rochebazon's embowered in woods--or to that other great château in Perche, or to still a third one which hung over the golden sands of La Gironde, she seemed to live almost to shower gentle kindnesses upon him, her brother's child. To do all for him that she would have done had he been her own; to surround him with luxuries far too good and dainty for one so young as he; to provide him with tutors and keepers, with horses and carriages and rich silks and satins, and gold pieces in his pockets to fling to beggars as other men flung sols and deniers, because she loved him, and in her love had but one regret--that he was not a de Rochebazon to succeed to all they owned. Also, when they were separated, he in England, she at Versailles, how much she had done for him as he grew to manhood! How much! How much! Money sent over for his pleasures because she desired that, in all things, he should have the best, should be able to hold his own with those who were in the court circle and the fashion. That his early years should never know any narrowness of means which in after life might cramp him as he recalled it; also that, as he stepped over the threshold of youth and reached manhood, he should do so with ease and comfort. "I owe her all, everything," he mused to himself as still his eyes gazed out upon the trim-kept and still luxurious _parterres_ of the great gardens. "All, all! My father, beggared as he was by his loyalty, could have done naught beyond equipping me for some simple, unambitious calling, beyond, perhaps, obtaining me a pair of colours in some marching regiment. I owe her all--the clothes upon my back, the food I eat, the very knowledge of how to wield a sword! And--and--God forgive me! I have deceived her for years, kept back for years a secret that should not have existed for one hour. Still, she shall know now. She shall not go to her grave without knowing that I have no right to own one single livre that she has put aside for me." As he finished his reflections the door was rapped at, and the footman, entering at his command, told him that the Demoiselle Manon was without and waiting to escort him to the bedside of Madame la Princesse. CHAPTER III. A PARTING SOUL. Looking down upon her as she lay in the great bed whereon had reposed so many of the de Rochebazons for generations--when they had been the head of the house--Martin Ashurst told himself how, except for the reason that he was about to lose the kindest benefactress and kinswoman any man had ever had, there was no cause for the tears to rise to his eyes. For never was a more peaceful parting about to be made, to all external appearances; never could a woman have trod more calmly the dark road that, sooner or later, all have to pass along, than was now treading Aurora, Princesse de Rochebazon. Also it seemed as if death was smoothing away every wrinkle that time had brought to her face, changing back that face to the soft, innocent one which, in the spring of life, had been Aurora Ashurst's greatest charm; the face that had been hers when, as a winsome child, she played in the meadows round her father's old home in Worcestershire--demolished by Lambert; the face that, but a few years later, had won Henri de Beauvilliers away from the intoxicating charms of Mancinis, of Clerembaults, of Baufremonts, and Châtillons, and a hundred other beauties who then revolved round the court of the young king, now grown so old. "You do not suffer, dear and honoured one," Martin said, bending over her and gazing into the eyes that were still so bright--the last awful glazed look and vacant stare, which tell of the near end being still some hours off; "you do not suffer, dear one. That I can see, and thank God for so seeing." "No," the princess said, "I have no pain. I am dying simply of what comes to all--decay. I am seventy years of age, and it has come to me a little earlier than it does sometimes. That is all. But, Martin, we have no time to talk of this. Time is short--I know that." Then, suddenly lifting the clear eyes to his own, she said, "Do you know why I sent a special courier to London for you?" "To bid me hurry to you, I should suppose, dear one. To give me your blessing. Oh!" he exclaimed, bending a little nearer to her, "you are a saint. You would not part from me without giving me that. Therefore bless me now!" and he made as though he would kneel by her side betwixt the bed and the _ruelle_. "Wait," she said, "wait. I have something to tell you. After I have done so I know not if you will still deem me a saint, still desire my blessing. Bring that chair within the _ruelle_; sit down and listen." Because he thought that already her mind was beginning to enter that hazy approach to death in which the senses lose all clearness, and the dying, when they speak at all, speak wanderingly, he neither showed nor felt wonderment at her words. Instead, because he desired to soothe and calm her, he did as she bade him, drawing the chair within the rail and holding her hand as he did so. "Whatever," he said softly, "you may tell me can make no difference in my love and reverence for you--make me desire your blessing less or deem you less a saint. Yet--yet--if it pleases you to speak, if you have aught you desire to say, say on. Still, I beseech you, weary not yourself." At first she did not answer him, but lay quite still, her eyes fixed on his face; lay so still that from far down the room he heard the ticking of the clock, heard the logs fall softly together with a gentle clash now and again, even found himself listening to a bird twittering outside in the garden. Then, suddenly, once more her voice sounded clearly in the silence of the room; he heard her say: "What I tell you now will make me accursed in the eyes of all the Church--our Church. I am about to confide to you a secret that all in that Church have ordered me never to divulge, or I would have done it long since. Yet now I must tell it." "A secret," he repeated silently to himself, "a secret!" Therefore he knew that her mind must indeed be wandering. What secret could this saintly woman have to reveal? Ah! yes, she was indeed wandering! Yet, even as he thought this, he reflected how strange a thing it was that, while he had actually a revelation to make to her--one that his honour prompted him to make--she, in the delirium of coming death, should imagine that she had something which it behooved her to disclose. Once more he heard her speaking. Heard her say: "All deem that with me perishes the last bearer, man or woman, of the de Rochebazon name. It is not so. There is probably one in existence." "Madame!" the young man exclaimed very quietly, yet startled, almost appalled. "Madame! A de Rochebazon in existence! Are you conscious of what you are saying?" and he leaned a little over the coverlet and gazed into her eyes as he spoke. Surely _this_ was wandering. "As conscious as that I am dying here, as that you, Martin Ashurst, are sitting by my side." "I am astounded. How long has what you state been known--supposed--by you?" "Known--not supposed--since I became Henri de Beauvillier's wife, forty-six years ago." "My God! What does it mean? A de Rochebazon alive! Man or woman?" "Man!" Again Martin exclaimed, "My God!" Then added: "And this man, therefore, is, has been since the death of your husband, the Prince de Rochebazon?" "Before my husband's death," the other answered quietly, calmly, as though speaking on the most trivial subject. "My husband never was the prince." Unintentionally, without doubt--perhaps, too, unnoticed by her--his hand released hers, slipping down from the bedside to his knee, where it lay, while he, his eyes fixed full on her now and still seeking to read in her face whether that which she uttered was the frenzy of a dying woman or an absolute truth, said slowly and distinctly: "Nor you, therefore--that I must utter the words!--the princess?" "Nor I the princess." "It is incredible. Beyond all belief." "It is true." Again there was a pause; filled up on Martin Ashurst's part with a hurtling mass of thoughts which he could not separate one from the other, though above all others there predominated one--the thought that this was the derangement of a mind unhinged by the weakness of approaching death, clouded by the gradual decay of nature. And, thinking thus, he sat silent, wondering if in very truth--since all she had said seemed so utterly beyond the bound of possibility--it were worth disturbing her with questions. Yet her next words seemed uttered as though with a determination to force him to believe that what she had said was no delusion. "There are others who know it--only they will never tell." "Others! Who?" "Madame knows it"--he was well enough aware _what_ "Madame" she referred to, and that it was to neither her of Orleans nor any of the daughters of the house of France--"so, too, does La Chaise, and also Chamillart. Also," and now her voice sank to a whisper, "Louis." "Louis!" he repeated, also whisperingly, yet not recognising that his voice was lowered instinctively. "The king! knows and permits. My God!" "He must permit, seeing that she--De Maintenon--holds him in a grasp of steel." "Knowing--herself?" "I have said." Again over the room there fell a silence, broken only by the ticking of the distant clock; also now the shadows of evening were drawing on, soon the night would be at hand--a silence caused by the dying woman having ceased to speak, by the man at her side forbearing to ask more questions. Yet he was warned by signs which even he, who had as yet but little acquaintance with death, could not misinterpret; that what more was to be told must be declared at once, or--never. For the dying woman made no further effort to divulge more, or to explain aught which should elucidate the strange statement she had startled him with; instead, lay back upon her pillows, her eyes open, it was true, but staring vacantly upon the embossed and richly-painted ceiling, her breathing still regular but very low. "She will speak no more," he said to himself, "no more. Thank God, the secret does not die with her. Yet will those whom she has mentioned--this woman who is the king's wife; the king himself; La Chaise, who, if all accounts are true, is a lying, crafty priest; the minister Chamillart--will they assist to right a wrong? Alas, I fear not! Ah, if she could but speak again--tell all!" As thus he thought, the door opened and the waiting maid came in, accompanied by a gentleman clad in sombre black, his lace being, however, of the whitest and most costly nature, and his face as white as that lace itself. And the girl, advancing down the room, followed by the other, explained to Martin, when she had reached the bed, that the gentleman accompanying her was Monsieur Fagon, _premier Médecin du Roi_. Bowing to him with much courtliness, the physician passed within the _ruelle_ and stood gazing down upon the dying woman in what was now no better than twilight, but going through, as the other observed, none of the usual ceremonies of feeling the pulse or listening to the breathing. Then once he nodded his head, after which he turned away, stepping outside the _ruelle_. "What may we hope, monsieur?" the young man asked, following Fagon down the room. "What," answered Fagon in return, "does monsieur hope?" "That she may be spared for yet some hours--more, I fear, can scarcely be expected. Also that she may be able to speak again and clearly. I am her nephew, and, in a manner of speaking, am--was to be--her heir." From under his bushy eyebrows Fagon shot a glance out of his small twinkling eyes. Then he said: "So I have heard. Yet monsieur, if he will pardon me, phrases his statement strangely, in spite of his having the French extremely well. 'Was to be her heir!' Has monsieur reason to apprehend that Madame la Princesse has made any alteration in her testamentary dispositions?" "Monsieur has no reason to apprehend that such is the case. Yet," changing the subject, "he would be very glad if he could know that some hours of life will still be granted to--to--Madame la Princesse; that he might hope she will be able to converse again." "Sir," Fagon said, with still the little twinkling eyes upon him, "she may live two or three more hours. I doubt her ever speaking again. There is no more to be done. Sir, I salute you." With which words he departed, escorted by the maid servant Manon. It seemed, however, to Martin as though even should his aunt recover consciousness and be able to throw any further light upon the strange story which she had commenced, no opportunity would arise for her to do so, for Fagon had not been gone a quarter of an hour, during which time she lay so motionless in her bed that more than once he gazed down upon her, wondering if already the soul had parted from the body, before the monk who had previously been in attendance came in, and going toward the great fireplace drew forth his missal and began to read it. Nor was it without some difficulty that Martin was able to induce him to quit the room. "Depart!" this holy man said, glancing up at the tall form of the other as he whispered his request to him. "Depart, my son! Alas! do you not know that the end is near--that at any moment the last services of the Church may be required to speed the passing soul?" "I know, nor do I intend that she shall be deprived of those services. But, reverend sir, it is necessary I should be alone with my kinswoman; if she recovers her intelligence even at the last moment we have much to say to one another. I beg you, therefore, to leave us together; be sure you shall not be debarred from ministering to her when she desires you. I request you to remain outside--yet within call." Because he knew not how to resist, because also he was but a humble member of the Théatine confraternity who, in Paris at least, owed much to the wealth and support of the Rochebazons, also because in his ignorance he thought he stood in the presence of him who was, he imagined in his simplicity, the next possessor of that great name and the vast revenues attached to it, he went as bidden, begging only that he might be summoned at the necessary moment. Then for a little while kinsman and kinswoman were alone once more. "Will she ever speak again, tell me further?" Martin mused again, gazing down on the silent woman lying there, her features now lit up a little by the rays of a shaded _veilleuse_ that had been brought into the chamber by Manon and placed near the great bed. "I pray God she may." Then murmured to himself: "As well as I can see--'tis but darkly, Heaven knows--yet so far as I can peer into the future, on me there falls the task of righting a great wrong, done, if not by her, at least by those to whose house she belongs. But, to do so much, I must have light." It seemed to him, watching there, as though the light was coming--was at hand. For now the occupant of the bed by which he sat stirred; her eyes, he saw, were fixed on him; a moment later she spoke. But the voice was changed, he recognised--was hoarse and harsh, hollow and toneless. "Henri," she murmured, with many pauses 'twixt her words, "Henri was not the eldest. There was--another--son--a--a--Protestant--a Huguenot----" "Great God! what sin is here?" the startled watcher muttered; then spoke more loudly: "Yes, yes, oh, speak, speak! Continue, I beseech you. Another son--a Huguenot--and the eldest!" "That a de Rochebazon should be--a--Huguenot," the now dry voice muttered raucously, "a Huguenot! And fierce--relentless--strong, even to renouncing all--all--his rank, his name, his birthri----" Again she ceased; he thought the end had come. Surely the once clear eyes were glazing now, surely this dull glare at vacancy which expressed indefinitely that, glare how they might, they saw nothing, foretold death--near, close at hand. "Some word, some name, madame, dear one," the listener whispered. "Speak, oh! speak, or else all effort must fail. His name--that which his brother called him--that which he took, if he renounced his rightful one. The name--or--God help us all! naught can be done." "His name," the dying woman whispered through white lips, in accents too low to reach the listener's ears, "was----" If she uttered it he did not hear it. Moreover, at this supreme moment there came another interruption--the last! The door opened again. Down the room, advancing toward the bed, came a priest, a man thin to attenuation, dry and brown as a mummy, with eyes that burned like coals beneath an eyebrowless forehead, yet one who told his beads even as he advanced, his lips quivering and moving while he prayed. Do the dying know, even as we bend over them, seeking to penetrate beneath that glassy stare which suggests so deep an oblivion, of the last word we would have them speak, the last question we would have answered ere the veil of dense impenetrable darkness falls forever between them and us? Almost it seemed as if she, this sinking woman who had lived for years a great princess, yet, by her own avowal, was none, did in truth know what her kinsman sought to drag from her--the clew which should lead to the righting of a great wrong, as he had said. For, as the priest came through the lurking shadows of the room and out of the darkness of the farther end, toward where the small night lamp cast its sickly shadow, the hand which Martin Ashurst held closed tighter upon his own, and with a quivering grasp drew his toward her body, placing it upon a small substance that had lain sheltering 'twixt her arm and side. And even as thus his hand closed over hers, while that other quivered warm and damp within it, the priest knelt and, over his crucifix, uttered up prayers for the passing soul. CHAPTER IV. LES ATTROUPÉS. It was October in the year 1701 when she who had borne the title for so long of Princesse de Rochebazon was laid in the family vault in the Church of St. Sépulcre. It was July of the next year when a gentleman, looking somewhat travel-stained and weary, halted his horse at the foot of the Mont de Lozère, in Languedoc--the same man who had travelled from England eight months ago as Martin Ashurst, to attend his aunt's death-bed, but who since then had been known as Monsieur Martin. There were more reasons than one why this change of name should be made--primarily because war having been declared by England in conjunction with Austria and Holland against Louis, no subject of Queen Anne was permitted within France, or, being in, would be safe if known and identified as such. But with an assumed name, or rather with part of his own name discarded--Martin being common to both countries--and with his knowledge of the French language perfect, owing to his long residence in the country as a child, the identification of Martin Ashurst with England was, if he held his peace, almost impossible. Also there were other reasons. He believed that at last he had found traces of the missing man, of him to whom by right fell all the vast wealth of the de Rochebazons, accumulated for centuries. "Yet even now," he said to himself, "God knows if I shall succeed in finding him, or even should I do so, if I shall persuade him to claim what is his own. And, though he should still be willing, will that scourge of God, Louis, that curse of France, his wife, let one penny ever come to his hands? A Huguenot, and with the Huguenots in open rebellion, what chance would he have? I must be careful, more careful than ever, now that I am in the hotbed of revolution." As he pondered thus he turned his wrist and urged his horse forward at a walk, making his way on slowly through the mountains to the village of Montvert. "Three months," he said, "three months since I set out for Switzerland--for Geneva and Lausanne--and now, even now, but little nearer to the end than before. Coming here, I was told that it was almost impossible that Cyprien de Beauvilliers could have settled in the Cévennes without being known; travelling on to Savoy and to Lausanne, I learn at last that he did most undoubtedly come here from Geneva years ago. Shall I ever know--ever find out?" A league or so accomplished at a walking pace, for his poor beast was almost exhausted now, it having been ridden across the mountains from St. Victor de Gravière since daybreak, and from Geneva within the last three weeks, and the banks of a river named Le Tarn being slowly followed, the rider entered Montvert, and passing across the bridge, proceeded slowly up the village street. Yet even as he did so he cast his eyes on a house at the side of that bridge and on the small trim garden between it and the stream, muttering to himself: "Ah! Monsieur l'abbé! Monsieur l'abbé! you are one of the firebrands who stir up dissension in these valleys--you and your familiar spirit, Baville. Also your evil fame has travelled far. You are known and hated in Geneva, Lausanne, Vevey--maybe in Holland by now. 'Tis best you pray to Heaven to avert your fate. 'Tis threatened! And, if all the stories of you be true, it is almost deserved, no matter in what form it comes." Proceeding still farther along the little main street of the bourg, he came to a wooden house also standing in a small trimly-kept garden, in which there grew all kinds of simple flowers that made the place gay with their colours, and here he dismounted, while calling to a boy who was raking the crushed shells on the path, he bade him take his horse to the stable in the rear. "For you see, Armand," he said with a pleasant smile, "here I am back again, after a long while--yet still back." The boy smiled a greeting and said all would be glad to welcome him, then did as he was bid and led the animal away, while Martin, going up to the door, knocked lightly on it and asked, as he threw his voice into the passage, if the _pasteur_ was within. To which, in answer, there came down toward the door an elderly gray-haired man, who held out both his hands and shook those of the younger one cordially. "Back! Back!" he exclaimed joyously. "Ah! this is good. Come in. Come in. The room is always ready, the bed kept aired, the lavender in the drawers. Welcome! Welcome!" Then, after looking at him and saying that his journey had not harmed him, he exclaimed: "Well, what news? Or--is it disappointment again?" "But little news; scarcely, in truth, more than before. Yet something. I met a man at Geneva who had known Cyprien de Beauvilliers, but he was very old and, alas! it is forty years and more since he set eyes on him." "Forty years! A lifetime!" "Ay, a lifetime--long enough for him to have disappeared from all human knowledge, to have died. That, I fear, is what has happened. Otherwise, this man says, they of the reformed faith would almost surely have heard of him." "Not of necessity," the pastor answered. "If he so hated his kin and their religion that he was determined to break off forever from them and their customs, he may have resolved to obliterate every clew. He told the princess's husband that he renounced his name, his birthright. Other men have resolved on that, and kept their resolution." While they had been speaking the pastor had led Martin Ashurst into his little salon, and he called now to an elderly woman to prepare the evening meal. "And a good one to-night, Margot; a good one to-night to welcome back the wanderer." Whereon the old servant smiled upon that wanderer and murmured also some words of greeting, while she said it should be a good one. _Fichtre_, but it should! "_Soit!_ Let us see," went on her master. "First for the solids. Now, there is a trout, caught this morning and brought me by Leroux--oh, such a trout! Two kilos if an ounce, and with the true deep speckles. _Ma foi!_ he was a fool, he clung too much to the neighbourhood of the lower bridge, derided Leroux with his wicked eye; yet, observe, Leroux has got him. _Si! Si!_ Half an hour hence he will be _truite au vin blanc_, a thing not half so wholesome for him as the stream and the rushes. _Hein!_" Martin smiled to himself, yet gravely, as always now since his aunt's dying revelation. How far off seemed to him the merry days, or nights, at Locket's and Pontac's, and the jokes and jeers and flashes of wit of Betterton and Nokes, Vanburgh and gentle Farquhar!--while still the good old pastor prattled on, happy at preparing his little feast. "_Truite au vin blanc_. Ha! And the right wine, too, to wash it down. Ha! The _Crépi_, in the long, tapering glasses that the Chevalier de Fleuville brought me from Villefranche. Poor de Fleuville! Poor, poor de Fleuville! Then, Margot, the _ragoût_ and the white chipped bread, and, forget not these, clean _serviettes_ to-night, if we never have others, and the cheese from Joyeuse. Oh! we will _faire la noce_ to-night, _mon brave_. God forgive me," he broke off suddenly, his voice changing, "that even your return should make me think of feasts and _noces_ at such a time as this--a time of blood and horror and cruelty!" Over the meal, the trout being all that was expected of him, and the _Crépi_ a fitting accompaniment thereto, they talked on what had been the object of "Monsieur Martin's" journey into Switzerland, then neutral in both religion and politics, and offering, consequently, a home for refugees of all classes and denominations; talked also of what results that journey had had, or had failed to have. But all ended, or was comprised, in what the young man had already told the other--namely, that it seemed certain that Cyprien de Beauvilliers had at first gone to Geneva and Lausanne after he renounced his family and his religion, and that from there he had come to Languedoc, meaning to settle in the one spot in France where Protestantism was in its strongest force. "He would thereby," the pastor said, as now they reached the _fromage de Joyeuse_, nestling white and creamy in the vine leaves, "be able to enjoy his religion in peace for many years, until--until the unhappy events of '85. Alas! that revocation! That revocation, born of that fearful woman! What--what will be the outcome of all, for even now it is but beginning to bear its worst fruits. Martin," he continued, "Martin, _mon ami_, we are but at the commencement. I fear for what will happen here ere long. I fear, I fear, I fear." "Here! Is it as bad as that?" "It is dreadful, appalling. My friend, they will suffer no longer. They can support neither Baville's tyranny, which extends over all the district, nor--here, in this little village once so happy--the monstrous cruelties of the abbé." "The abbé! Du Chaila! What is he doing now?" "Tongue scarce dare tell for fear of not being believed. In after years, in centuries to come, when religion is free and tolerant, as some day it must be--it must! it must!--those who read of what we have suffered will deem the story false. O Martin! there, in that house by the bridge, are done things that would almost excite the envy of the Inquisition, ay! of Torquemada himself, were he still in existence. And he, this abbé, is the man who will light the flame in this tranquil spot. I pray God it may be extinguished almost ere lit." And Martin Ashurst saw that even as he spoke his hands were folded under the table, as though in prayer, and that his lips moved. "But what," he said, "what do you fear? Also to what extremes does he now proceed?" "'Proceed!' Ah, Martin, listen. There in that house by the bridge, once Fleuville's, who was hung by De Genne upon the bridge itself, so that his wife might see the thing each morning when she rose, he tortures us, the Protestants. Keeps prisoners confined, too, in the cellars deeper than the river itself. In stocks some, naked some, some with food only twice a week. He boasts he is God's appointed, then jeers and says, 'Appointed, too, by Baville under Louis.'" "And Louis knows this?" "Some say not, some say yes. For myself, I do not know. But things are near the end." And again the good pastor murmured, "I fear, I fear, I fear." Then went on, his voice lowered now and his eyes glancing through the windows, opened to let in the soft autumn air, cool and luscious as though it had passed over countless groves of flowers: "Listen. Masip--you have heard of him, Masip, the guide, he who shows the way to Switzerland and freedom--he is now there, in the cellars, in the stocks, bent double, his hands through two holes above the two where his feet are." "For what?" "He showed the Demoiselles Sexti the road to Chambery--they went dressed as boys. The girls escaped into the mountains. Masip is doomed. He dies to-morrow." "God help him!" "Him! God help all, Martin. He hunts us everywhere. Some of my brother preachers have been executed; I myself am suspended, my hour may come--to-night--to-morrow. Sooner or later it must come. Then for me the wheel or the flames or the gibbet--there." And he pointed down the street toward where the bridge was on which Fleuville's body had been hanged. "Never! Never!" Martin exclaimed, touching the old man's arm. "Never, while I have a sword by my side." Then added, a moment later: "My friend, I must declare myself. While all are so brave, all going to, or risking, their doom, I am but a craven hound to wear a mask. To-morrow I announce--or rather denounce--myself as a Protestant. My aunt died ere I could tell the secret which would have caused her to curse me instead of leaving me her heir. Here, I will shelter myself under that secret no more. To-morrow I see this abbé in his own house, to-morrow I defy him to do his worst on me as on others. I proclaim myself." "No, no, no!" the old pastor cried, springing at him, placing his hand upon his lips to prevent further words from being heard or from penetrating outside. "No, no! In God's name, no! I forbid you. If you do that, how will you ever find de Beauvilliers--de Rochebazon, as he is if alive--or, he being dead, find his children? I forbid you," he reiterated again and again in his agitation. "I forbid you." "Forbid me? Force me to live a coward in my own esteem? To see those of my own faith slaughtered like oxen in the shambles and stand by, a poltroon, afraid to declare myself?" "I forbid you. Not yet, at least. Remember, too, you are an Englishman, of France's deepest, most hated foes; your doom is doubly threatening. Yet, oh, oh, my son," he exclaimed in a broken voice, "how I love, how I reverence you! Brave man, brave, honest Protestant, I love--my God!" he exclaimed, changing his tone suddenly, desisting in his speech, "My God! what is that?" Desisted, turning a stricken, blanched face upon the younger man, who had reached for his sword and sash and was already donning them, while he whispered through white lips, "It has come! It has come! The storm has burst," while even as he spoke he fell on his knees by the table, and sinking his head into his hands, commenced to pray long and silently. Prayed long and silently, while from outside the bourg--yet advancing, approaching nearer every moment--there came a deep sound. At first a hum, then, next, a clearer, more definite noise, and next, they being distinguishable, the words of a hymn sung by many voices. Upon the soft night air, so calm and peaceful a moment earlier, those words rolled, the cadence falling and rising until it seemed as though it must reach the mountain tops o'erhanging the village. Rolled up and swelled, and sunk and rose again, telling how the Lord set ambushments against the children of Ammon, Moab, and Mount Seir, who came against Judah; telling how, when they had made an end of one of their particular foes, each helped to destroy another. Again the pastor moaned: "They have risen. They have risen. God help us all!" "Who?" asked Martin. "Who? Our own faith? The Protestants? The Camisards? Risen at last." "At last! At last!" the old man said, glancing up from his prayers. And he began to pray aloud to God to avert the horrors of battle and murder and sudden death. The tramp of many men came nearer. Past the foot of the garden those men went, a compact mass; in their hands and belts, and borne also upon their shoulders, swords, old halberds, musketoons and pistols, in some cases scythes and reaping hooks. And ahead of all marched three gaunt, weird men, the inspired ones, the prophets of the Cevennes, of the Camisards. "Keep all within doors," a deep-toned voice exclaimed from out the throng, "on pain of death. Disturb not the children of God, his persecuted ones. No harm is meant to those who interfere not. Keep within doors, also appear not at the windows. All will thereby be well." And again the psalm uprose, though now there were some who shouted: "To the vile abbé's! To the murderer's! To the house on the bridge! On! On! The soldiers first, the abbé next! On! On! To avenge the Lord!" Then from farther ahead there rang the report of musketry, and one man fell dead pell-mell among the moving crowd, and was left lying in the white dust of the roadway, as from the window Martin could well see. But still the others shouted: "On! On! God's will be done!" And again the pastor lifted his hands from where he knelt and cried aloud, "From battle, murder, and sudden death, good Lord deliver us." CHAPTER V. 'TWIXT THEN AND NOW. When Martin Ashurst bent over her who had borne for over forty years the title of Princesse de Rochebazon, and saw that, at last, the light had gone out of her eyes forever, he recognised how her dying words had changed his whole existence. Not only was he no more the heir to the wealth she had put by for him--his honour never halted for one moment in telling him that, or in dictating the renouncement of every sol that was hers--but also there had arisen before him a task which, his honour again speaking clear and trumpet-tongued, he must devote his life to fulfilling. He had to find the true Prince de Rochebazon, or, which was more likely, if he ever succeeded in his search at all, to find that man's children and put before them a plain account of all the wealth which was theirs, even though they should not be induced to accept it. That if he could discover the missing de Rochebazon, even though he were still alive, he would find him willing to reclaim what was his, he doubted. A man who could for more than forty years renounce one of the most brilliant positions in France because of his religious convictions was not very likely now to alter those convictions, he knew. Also Martin Ashurst's acquaintance with the land over which the Grand Monarque reigned was amply sufficient to tell him that here, and under the all-powerful domination of the self-righteous De Maintenon, Louis would never allow a hated Protestant to step into the wealth and titles of so Romish a family as that of the de Rochebazons. Between these two stumbling blocks, therefore--the Protestantism of the lost man on one side, and the bigotry of the arbiter of France on the other--it was scarcely to be hoped that even though he should find him whom he sought, he should succeed in his endeavour to restore to that man what was his. Yet, because he was honest and straightforward, he swore to at least make the attempt. Regaining his own room, in which the lights had been placed--even with the mistress and last ruler of the great house lying dead in it, the major domo had deemed it fit that waxen candles should blaze from girandoles in every passage and room of the hotel, and that naught should be omitted which testified to its sumptuousness and magnificence--he recollected that he was still grasping in his hand the packet which the dying woman had directed that hand to, for he had forgotten almost that he had received it from her, so agitated was he during her last moments; now that it recalled its presence to him, he determined that he would as soon as might be discover what it contained. But first he knew that there were other things to be done: Orders to be given that due proclamation of her death should be made; that, above all, the heads of her Church should at once be communicated with, since the monk now praying by her side would not, he was aware, quit the house, even though he had to leave the body while it was prepared for the grave; that a courier should be sent to Marly, where the king was; that the seals should be put on everything. There was much to do still ere he could open that packet which might tell him all--or nothing. Yet by midnight, before the great bell struck the hour from St. Eustache, as much was done as possible. Aurora, Princesse de Rochebazon, lay, not in her coffin; that, with its emblazonments and silver feet and coronets at its corners, as well as the great silver plaque telling of all the rank and honours and titles she had borne--unrighteously, if her own dying words were true--could not be prepared hurriedly. Instead, upon her bed, now transformed into a temporary bier, as the great room in which she had died had been transformed into a _Chapelle Ardente_. Also the courier was gone, the Church apprised of the death of its open-handed benefactress; already the Abbé Le Tellier (confessor to the king and all the royal family, and titulary bishop and coadjutor of Reims) was here, he having arrived from St. Cloud as fast as his _chaise roulante_ could bring him; also the place swarmed with priests--Theatines, Dominicans, Benedictines, and Augustines; the seals, too, were on doors and coffers and bureaux. Likewise, Samuel Bernard, _traitant_ and banker to the _haut monde_, had paid a visit and been closeted for an hour with the clergy. For the Church was the principal inheritor of the de Rochebazon wealth, and the time had come for it to grasp its heritage. Yet now, at midnight, the great house was at last quiet; the monks prayed in silence in the room where the dead woman lay; the Suisse sat behind the high closed gates refreshing himself with the flask of yellow muscadine which the butler had brought him, and discussing with that functionary what _legs_ each were like to get; some women servants who had loved their dead mistress wept in their beds. All was still at last. Martin opened the packet in that silence--he had dismissed his own servant an hour before--and inspected its contents. They were not numerous--half a dozen letters and a lock of hair, golden, fair as the ripening cornfield, long, and with a curl to it. But, except that and the letters, nothing else. Whose hair it was that had thus been preserved in a piece of satin Martin never knew, yet perhaps could guess. The letters lay one above the other in the order they had been written. The first and uppermost had the upper portion of it torn away, possibly by accident, or perhaps, instead, by the recipient who, it may be, was not desirous that the place whence it was dated should be known. At least such, Martin Ashurst fancied, might be the case. The paper it was written on was yellow with age, the ink faded, yet the words still clear and distinct, the writing firm. Because the top of the sheet was torn away some of the first lines of the communication were themselves missing, therefore the letter ran thus: "... her fault upon me. _Soit!_ I bow to what you say. Yet, if disinheritance of all that should be mine is your determination, my place in the world you can never disinherit me from; I myself alone can renounce that. The pity is great that you have it not also in your power to deprive me of the qualities of mind and heart which you have transmitted to me. Yet I pray God that I may find in myself the strength to do so, to cast away from me the pride of race, the fierce cruelty of heart, the intolerance of all that is not within my own circle of vision. Also your power of hating another for the fault committed, not by himself, but an unhappy mother--a mother driven to sin by coldness from him who should have reverenced her; the victim of a gloomy, morose nature, of a self-esteem that would be absurd even in the king himself, of a pride that might rival the pride of Lucifer. "To reproach you, however, for sins which I may myself have inherited from you--since even you do not deny me as your son--would be useless. Therefore it is better for me to write at once that I do not oppose the disinheritance with which you threaten me. Nay, rather, I go hand in hand with you, only, also, I go to a greater extent. You tell me that if I embrace the Reformed Faith no sol or denier of the de Rochebazon wealth shall ever be mine, that I shall enjoy a barren title. This you can not force me to do. I will support no title whatever. Henceforth, neither de Rochebazon, nor d'Ançilly, nor Montrachet, nor Beauvilliers have aught to do with me. I cast them off. I forget that the house which bears those titles is one with which I have any connection. I go forth into the world alone, under a lowly name. The roof that covers me, the food for my mouth, the clothes to cover my nakedness, will be earned by my own hands. Moreover, so do I steel my heart that henceforth even my brother, Henri, will be lost to me forever. He becomes, therefore, your heir; may he find in you a better father than I have ever done. Consequently, for the last time on this earth, I sign myself, "CYPRIEN DE BEAUVILLIERS." Martin laid the paper down on the table before him and sat back musing in his chair. "A stern, fierce determination that," he muttered to himself, "arrived at by a man who would keep his word. Let us see for the next." As he read this next one it was easy to perceive what course the rupture between the father and son had taken; how the iron will of the one had beaten down that of the other. Already the elder had sued for reconciliation--and had failed. "What you now desire," the man wrote, who had once been Cyprien de Beauvilliers, "is impossible. First, on the ground of religion, and secondly, because of yourself. I am now of the Protestant faith, have embraced that faith in Holland, to which country you appear to have tracked my steps, I know not how. Yet that you shall never be able to do so in the future, I leave it at once, and from the time when I quit it I defy you to ever discover my whereabouts. Let me remind you that this change of faith alone is a bar to my ever reassuming my position as your successor; if it were not such bar I would proceed to even other extremes to deprive myself of the succession; would draw my sword against France if by doing so I could more utterly sever myself from you and all connected with you. "You ask me if I hate you? I reply that I hate the man who drove my mother to evil by his intolerant and contemptible pride, and, fallen as she became, I love and adore her memory. But my heart is not large enough to find space in it for aught else. Not large enough----" There was no more. The sheet of paper turned over at the word "enough," and no other succeeded to it. Again Martin lay back musing. "He was firm," he murmured. "Firm. The years which have rolled by and become forgotten since he wrote these lines, now so faded, prove that; otherwise _she_ would have known of his existence, his whereabouts. And--and--she was a just woman in spite of the deception of her life. If she had known that he was still alive she would never have consented to usurp all his rights. Nay, not though every priest in France bade her do so." As the word "priest" rose to his mind he started with a new thought. "Who were the others," he whispered, "she said who knew of it? Louis, the king! Almost it seems impossible. Then, next, the woman--his wife--Madame! Also La Chaise and Chamillart. La Chaise, a bigot--Chamillart, the man they speak of as _une fine lame!_ They all know it, and will keep the secret well. What was it she said? 'They will never tell.'" Once more from St. Eustache close at hand the hour rolled forth; almost it seemed as if the deep boom of the great bell echoed in his ears the words he had repeated to himself, "They will never tell." "Will they not?" he mused again. "Will they not? Neither Louis, nor his wife, nor the priest, nor the scheming politicians. Will never tell! Therefore all search must be unavailing. Yet--yet---we will see. Only, even though I should find him, even though I forced from one of them the acknowledgment that he still lived, was the true heir, would he himself consent to take what is his? The man who wrote that letter in bygone years will not have grown softer, more easily persuaded by now. Yet I will make some attempt." He sought his bed now, and once there, still lay awake for some time longer, musing and meditating on the secret which had been confided to him; wondering, too, if what he was doing was owing absolutely to a determination to right a great wrong, or, instead, was only the outcome of that strong, latterly-embraced Protestantism of his, which, through this embrace, now caused him to desire to outwit these scheming papists. Yet he might have found the answer by studying his own feelings, his own resolves, arrived at the moment he learned of the hidden secret of the great family to which he was allied. For if he held his tongue now it was easily enough to be supposed that all which he had inherited from the dead woman would at once be made over to him. If he spoke on the subject of the lawful inheritor, not one jot of the fortune that woman had left him would ever come his way. Only he did not so reflect, did not remember, or, remembering, did not hold that he was ruining himself in his determination not so much to outwit the Romish Church and its principal adherents as to set right the horrible wrong that had been committed--committed, in the first place, by the real de Rochebazon himself toward his children by the renunciation of all that he should have guarded for them; in the second place, by those who were only too willing to assist in depriving him, whom they doubtless termed the heretic, of what was his. He rose the next morning with his mind made up as to what should be his future course, as to what, from this very day, he would set about doing. Rose, calm and collected, knowing that he had undertaken a task that must deprive him of that inheritance which by his silence alone might easily be his; a task that might, in the state of autocratic government which prevailed in France, lead him to a violent end. Yet his mind was made up. He would not falter. Never. Even though he should find the last de Rochebazon still as firmly set in his determination as he had been in long-past years; even though when found, if ever, he should spurn him from his threshold with curses for having unearthed him, still he would do it. To right the wrong! To repay in some way all that he had already received from this family--his education, the luxury that had accompanied his earlier days, the profusion of ease and comfort showered on him by one who, in very truth, had no right to appropriate one crown or pistole of that family's wealth. He would do it! To right the wrong! "Where," he said, sending for the _maître d'hôtel_, who presented himself at once before him, already clothed in decorous black, "where, do you know, is Madame de Maintenon now?" "I know not, monsieur, unless it be at St. Cyr. She is much there now; almost altogether." "Can you ascertain?" "I will endeavour to do so, monsieur." "If you will." It was to her that, after the reflections of the night, he had determined to address himself. To her, knowing full well even as he did so, the little likelihood which existed of his obtaining any information. Had not the woman now lying dead upstairs said that she, among the others, would never tell? Only it was not altogether with the desire to obtain information that he was about to seek her. Instead, perhaps, to volunteer some, to tell her that he knew the secret of the manner in which the existence of Cyprien de Beauvilliers had been ignored for many years; to see if there was no possibility of moving her to help in the deed of justice. She was spoken of by some as God's chosen servant in France, as a woman who was rapidly bringing a corrupt king, a corrupt court, a corrupt land into a better path--a path that should lead to salvation. Surely, surely she would not be a partner in this monstrous act of injustice, a participator in this monstrous lie. CHAPTER VI. "LA FEMME, MALHEUREUSEMENT SI FAMEUSE, FUNESTE ET TERRIBLE."--ST. SIMON. Once past Versailles, and St. Cyr was almost reached, the horse which Martin Ashurst had ordered to be made ready for him that morning bearing its rider easily and pleasantly along. Almost reached, yet still a league off, wherefore the young man once more set about collecting his thoughts ere that distance should be compassed. Arranged once more in his own mind the manner in which he would approach "Madame," if she would consent to receive him. After much consideration, after remembering, or perhaps it should better be said never forgetting, that what he was about to do might so envelop him in perils that his life would not be worth a day's--nay, an hour's--purchase, he had decided that he would be frank and truthful--that was it, frank and truthful--before this woman who was now the king's wife, this woman who held the destinies of all in France in the hollow of her hand almost as much as they were held in the hand of Louis. He would plainly tell what he knew, or thought he knew; would seek confirmation of that knowledge from her into whose house, to whose presence, he was determined, if possible, to penetrate. If she would consent to receive him! Only--would she? He knew that, by all report, even by such gossip as penetrated as far as London, where she was much discussed in not only political but also general circles, an audience with her was as difficult to be obtained as with Le Dieudonné himself; that, with few exceptions, none outside the charmed circle of the royal children, her own creatures, and her own ecclesiastics, were ever able to penetrate to her presence. Nay, had he not even heard it said that those on whom she poured benefits could never even obtain a sight of her? that her especial favourites, the Duchesse du Maine, the brilliant Marshals Villars, Tallard, and d'Harcourt, could get audience of her only with difficulty? And these were her friends, and he was--she might well deem that he was--her enemy. All the same he was resolved to see her if it were possible. His dead kinswoman had been her friend, surely his passport was there--in that. He reached the outer gate of St. Cyr even as the clock set high above it struck one, and addressing himself to a soberly clad man servant, who was standing by the half-open gateway which led into a courtyard, he asked calmly if "Madame" was visible--if it was permissible for him to see her? Then, at first, he feared that he had indeed come upon a bootless errand, for the grave and decorous servitor showed in his face so deep an astonishment at the request, so blank an appearance of surprise, that he thought the answer about to issue from the man's lips could be none other than one of flat refusal. "Madame," he answered, in, however, a most respectful tone, "sees no one without an appointment. If monsieur has that she will doubtless receive him, or if he bears a message either from his Majesty or the Duc du Maine. Otherwise----" and he shrugged his shoulders expressively. "I have none such," Martin replied, "nor have I any appointment. Yet I earnestly desire to see Madame. I am the nephew of--of--the Princesse de Rochebazon, who died yesterday. She was Madame's friend. If I can be received upon that score I shall be grateful." At once he saw that, as it had been before--upon, for instance, his journey from the coast toward Paris--so it was now. That name, his connection with that great and illustrious family, opened barriers which might otherwise have been closed firmly against him, removed obstacle after obstacle as they presented themselves. The look upon the man's face became not more respectful, since that was impossible, but less hard, less inflexible; then he said: "If monsieur will give himself the trouble to dismount and enter the courtyard his name shall be forwarded to Madame. Whether she will receive monsieur it is impossible for me to say. Madame is now about to take her _déjeûner d'après midi_. But the name shall be sent." Therefore Martin Ashurst, feeling that at least he was one step nearer to what he desired, dismounted from his horse, and resigning it to a stableman who was summoned, entered the courtyard of the château, or institution, as it was more often termed, of St. Cyr. An institution where the strange woman who ruled over it brought up and educated, and sometimes dowered, the daughters of the nobility and gentry to whom she considered something was due from her. At first he thought this courtyard had been constructed in imitation of some tropical garden or hothouse, so oppressive was the heat caused in it by the total exclusion of all air--a heat so great that here rich exotics grew in tubs as they might have grown in the soil of those far distant lands, notably Siam, from which they had been brought by missionaries as presents to their all-powerful mistress. Then he remembered that among other things peculiar to this woman was her love of warmth and her hatred of fresh air--perhaps the only subject on which she was at variance with Louis. And sitting there in the warm, sickly atmosphere, waiting to know what reception, if any, might be accorded him, he wondered how the king, whose love of open windows and of the cool breezes which blew across the woods and forests of his various palaces and châteaux was proverbial, could ever contrive to pass as much of his life as he did in the confined and vaporous air which perpetually surrounded his wife. As thus he reflected there came toward him an elderly lady, preceded by the servitor who had received him--a woman dressed in total black, whom at first he thought might be Madame de Maintenon herself, would have felt sure that it was she had not the newcomer, bowed--nay, courtesied to him--as she drew; near, while she spoke in a tone of civil deference which he scarcely thought one so highly placed as the king's unacknowledged wife would have used. "Madame will receive monsieur," this lady said very quietly, in a soft, almost toneless voice, "if he will follow me. Also she will be pleased if he will join her at her _déjeûner_." "It is Mademoiselle Balbien," the servitor said, by way of introduction of this ancient dame, "Madame's most cherished attendant." Whereon Martin bowed to the other with a grace which she, "attendant" though she might be, returned with as much ease as though her life had been passed in courts from the days of her long-forgotten infancy. "Monsieur may have heard of me," the old lady chirped pleasantly as now she motioned Martin to follow her, smiling, too, while she spoke. "The Princesse de Rochebazon knew me very well indeed--alas, poor lady, and she is dead!" Yes, Martin had heard of her, and from his aunt, too, as well as others. Had heard of her deep devotion to the woman who now ruled not only France but France's king--had heard, in truth, that the De Maintenon might have been dead long years ago of starvation, of bitter, pinching want, had it not been for this faithful creature. Had heard his aunt tell, when inclined to gossip, of how Nanon Balbien had taken Scarron's widow to her garret after the death of the bankrupt and poverty-stricken poet; had shared her bed and her daily meal--generally a salted herring and some bread--with the woman now omnipotent in France; had preserved her life thereby and prevented her succumbing to cold and destitution and starvation. Knew, too, that there were those in France who said that in so doing Nanon Balbien had unwittingly perpetrated the greatest sin, the greatest evil, against the land that was possible. That it would have been better had she left the object of her charity to die in the gutters of the street than to preserve her life, and thereby raise up and nourish the snake which sucked the life blood from France and all within it. Still following this old woman, through corridors from which all air was as equally excluded as from the glass-roofed courtyard they had left--corridors, too, in which there stood in niches alabaster busts of saints, and one, with above it a sacred light, of the Figure itself--Martin Ashurst went on, until at last he and his conductor neared a huge ebony door the handle of which was of massive silver and representing an angel's head--a door outside which there stood four ladies in waiting, all dressed in black, none of them young, and one only passably good-looking, yet whom he divined to be women of the oldest and best blood in France, and divined rightly, too. Three of them were high-born noblemen's daughters, one the daughter of a prince--De Rohan. "Mademoiselle de Rochechouart," said Martin's guide, "this is the gentleman. Will you conduct him to Madame?" and she drew back now, resigning the visitor to the lady whom she addressed. "Come, monsieur," that lady said, her voice soft and low, "follow me." A moment later and he stood before the marvellous woman, the Protestant woman born in a prison, now a bigoted papist and a king's wife. Yet Martin remembered only at the moment the words of his dead kinswoman, "Madame knows it." Remembered, too, how she had said of her that she was one who would never tell. Almost he thought that she had but just risen from the _prie Dieu_ which stood beneath another figure of the Saviour that was placed in a niche here, as was its fellow in the corridor; that she had been engaged in prayer while awaiting the moment when he should be conducted to her presence. Thought so, yet doubted. For if she knew, if she divined upon what errand he had come, would she, even she, this reputed mask of duplicity, of self-righteous deceit, be praying on her knees at such a moment? Or, for so also he thought in that swift instant, was she seeking for guidance, beseeching her God to cleanse and purify her heart, to give her grace to speak and to reveal the truth? But now she stood there calm, erect, notwithstanding her sixty-five years of life, waiting for him to be brought to her, for his approach. Yet not defiantly or arrogantly--only waiting. The murmured words of Mademoiselle de Rochechouart served as introduction; the courtly bow of Martin Ashurst made acknowledgment of his presentation, then she spoke: "My tears, my prayers, my supplications for Aurore de Rochebazon," she said--and he marvelled that her voice was so low and sweet, he having imagined, he knew not why, that it should be harsh and bitter--"have been offered up many times since I have heard of her death. Monsieur, I accept as a favour at your hands that you have ridden from Paris to see me here. Doubtless you knew that I should be soothed to hear of the end she made. Is it not so, monsieur?" "It is so to some extent, madame. Yet, if you will be so gracious, there are other matters on which I shall crave leave to address you, if I have your permission." "You shall have full permission to speak as it may please you. Yet, first, you have ridden from Paris. Also it is my hour for the midday repast. Monsieur," and she put out her silk mittened hand, "your arm." And taking it she led him through a heavily-curtained door into an adjoining room. Within that room, sombrely furnished, dark, too, and somewhat dismal because of the ebony fittings and adornments, was a table with covers for two. Also upon it a silver gong. And, alone to relieve the gloom of all around, there stood upon it also a rich _épergne_, filled almost to overflowing with rich luscious fruit--peaches, choice grapes, and nectarines. At first Madame said nothing, or little, to Martin Ashurst beyond the ordinary speech of a courteous hostess to a stranger guest; also Mademoiselle de Rochechouart and a waiting maid were always present, the former standing behind the mistress's chair and directing the latter by a glance. But at last the _déjeûner_ drew to a conclusion, the meal of few but extremely choice _plats_ was finished, and two little handleless cups of coffee (which Madame de Maintenon never concluded any meal whatever without) were placed in front of hostess and guest. Then they were alone. "Now," she said, her deep eyes fixed upon Martin, "now tell me of the end which Aurore de Rochebazon made. Tell me all--all--her last words. They were those of one at peace, I pray." Her voice was sweet and low as she spoke, yet not more calm than that of the man who sat before her, as he answered: "Madame, it is to tell you of her last words that I have sought your presence. Yet, alas----" "Alas!" she repeated quickly. "Alas! Why do you say that? Alas--what?" "Her last words were scarce those of peace. Instead, the words of one whose end was not peaceful; of one who wandered--was distraught--or revealed in her dying moments a secret that should have been divulged long, years ago." The ivory of his listener's face did not become whiter as he spoke, neither to her cheeks did any blood mantle. There was no sign that in the mind of this, woman, marble alike in look and heart, was any knowledge of what the revealed secret was, or only one such sign. A duller glance from the deep sunken eyes, as though a film had risen before them and hidden them from him who gazed at her. Then she said: "Doubtless she wandered. Was distraught, as you say." "Nay, madame. For she left behind her proofs--letters--testifying----" "_What?_" "That my aunt was not the Princesse de Rochebazon. That, instead, she and her husband usurped a position which was never theirs. That a deep wrong had been done which must, which shall be, righted." "By whom?" "By me, with God's grace." * * * * * * * The night was falling as he rode back to Paris and entered the city by the western gate, making his way to the Rue Champfleury. Yet neither the challenge of the _guet_ at the barrier nor the noise inside it when once he was within the city, nor the crowd waiting outside a theatre to witness a revival of L'Écolier de Salamanque, which was the production of the poor decayed creature who had been the first husband of the inscrutable woman he had visited that day, had power to rouse him from his thoughts, nor to drive from out his memory her last words: "Even if all this were true you will never find him. Even though he lives you will never succeed." CHAPTER VII. THE HOUSE BY THE BRIDGE. "Come," said Martin to the trembling pastor, "come. We may do something, avert some awful calamity. You are of their faith. They will listen to you," and he arranged his _porte épée_ and motioned to the old man to follow him. "Not you! Not you!" the other whispered, shuddering. "Not you! You know not what will befall you if you take part in this." "Yes, I. I must go too. I am a Protestant as much as they. I tell you, Pastor Buscarlet, I will wear the mask no longer. Come. Hark! There is firing. Come. We can do nothing here. Help neither Huguenot nor Papist." "On my knees I beseech you to stop," the old man said, flinging himself upon them before Martin, "on my knees. You know not what you do. Think, think! If these men have risen it is at the worst but Frenchmen against Frenchmen. But with you--you are English. And we are at war again. Oh! I sicken with dread that it should be known." "It can never be known. I have the French as well as you, or they--better than they, for mine is the speech of Paris and theirs of the mountains. Hark! they sing of Judah once more--also there is firing. Come with me or let me go alone." And he tore himself from the hands of the other. Yet he did not go alone; even as he stepped into the garden the pastor went with him, running by his side to keep pace with his eager strides, whispering, entreating as he did so. "Promise me, promise me, Martin," he said, "that you will take no part in any fray that is happening, will not to-night proclaim yourself. Oh, promise me! Remember," and he sunk his quavering voice even still lower, "Cyprien de Beauvilliers." Recalled to himself by that name, recollecting the atonement of many years that had yet to be made, the wrong that had to be righted, as he himself had said, he too sunk his own voice, saying: "I promise. To-night I do nothing." Down the street they went, therefore, together, Buscarlet's hand in Martin's, both glancing at the closed windows of the thatched houses and seeing the lights in them, with white faces against the mica panes and dark eyes gleaming from behind curtains, yet with no head showing. The orders to keep within doors were being followed. In all the street (there was but one) no form was visible; if it had not been for the uproar at the end of it, where Le Tarn rolled under the three small bridges, and for the spits and tongues of flame that belched forth out of musketoons and carabines from the windows of the "house by the bridge," beneath the deeper, denser flames that rolled from under the eaves of that house, they might have deemed it was a deserted village or one peopled only with the dead. Yet again the solemn chant uprose as they drew close to that house, but mingled now with something deeper than itself--the hammering of great trees, or tree trunks, on doors, the rumbling of flames escaping from the burning house, the firing from the windows, the loud shrieks from within the house itself. "What are you?" cried a huge man as they entered the crowd, "Papist or Protestant? Child of God or Devil? Answer, or----" then ceased, seeing Buscarlet still holding Martin's hand; ceased and murmured, "Pardon, reverend; I did not see or know in the darkness. Yet begone; seek a safer place. The villain has his house full of De Broglie's fusileers to fire on us and help him. Oh, Lord of Hosts, wilt thou let them help such as he?" "What will you--they--do?" Martin asked. "Release the prisoners. If he resists, slay him. We have suffered too long." "Nay, nay," said Buscarlet, "that must not be. Murder must not be done; or, if done, not by our side. Let the shedding of blood be theirs----" "It has been for too long," the Cévenole answered sternly, his eyes glittering. "It has been. Now it is our turn. What saith the Scriptures? 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' So be it! The Papists have shed blood--our blood--like water; now let them look to themselves. You know, father, that the downtrodden have risen. At last!" "God help us all!" Buscarlet exclaimed, wringing his hands. "Ay, God help us all! Yet even he can not give us back our dead--those who have hung in chains on the bridges of Montpellier, Nîmes, Anduse, even here upon this bridge of Montvert. What balm is there for our daughters whipped to death through the streets, our sons sent to the galleys without trial, our pastors--your brethren--broken on the wheel, burnt at the stake? We have risen; it will not end here. That great evil king still sits in his great white palace, his reformed wanton by his side; she is old now, yet she shall not es----" He staggered as he spoke, flung out his arms, then fell heavily to the ground to the sound of a fresh discharge of musketry. The fusileers of De Broglie had fired another volley from the windows of the abbé's house, and a bullet had found the man's heart. "Come," said Martin, "come. We can do naught here. I may not draw my sword. No use to be mowed down here. Let us gain the bridge; there are no windows which give on that." Half supporting, wholly leading the unhappy old man, he made his way through the besiegers who remained outside the house, some still singing their psalms and hymns of praise, while amid them moved the inspired ones, the prophets--men who were crazed with religious fervour and maddened with persecution until they did, in truth, believe that they were appointed by Heaven to direct and guide the others. Also among this mass of infuriated peasants, some of whom fell or staggered away as fresh discharges came from the house, were three persons who had been brought from out of it. One, bent double from long confinement in the stocks, was Masip, of whom Buscarlet had spoken. The second was a girl not over sixteen, who screamed, "My back, my back, O God, my back!" if any touched her. She had been thrashed daily, because she would not be converted, by thongs steeped in pitch which had been allowed to harden ere the abbé used the whip. The third was an old man who could not stand, and with an arm broken. Gaining the bridge, Martin and Buscarlet saw a fresh sight of horror. The roof of the house was alight now. From between the walls and where the eaves of thatch hung over, bubbles and puffs of flame burst out and leaped toward the thatch itself, each tongue flickering higher until at last the ends of straw glowed and sparkled, then caught and began to burn. And on the sloping roof was a man crouching, his heels dug tight into the dried straw and reeds to prevent him from slipping down and over into the garden beneath, while with his hands he frantically twisted round a chimney stack a coil of white rope which another man, clinging himself to the roof, handed to him. It was the abbé and his valet. "Could we but save them," Buscarlet whispered, "but save them! Return evil with good, repay his persecutions with Christian charity and mercy. Oh, that we might!" "Nothing can save them," Martin replied, watching the men's actions in the gleam of the flames from below, and also in the light of the now fast-rising moon. "Nothing. They are doomed. If they stay there they must be burned to death; if they descend it is only to be caught; also if seen now, those below will shoot them like sparrows on the roof. All are lost who are in that house--all! The soldiers too!" He had judged right. Both men were doomed. Infuriated by still further fusillades from De Broglie's soldiers by which two more men were killed, maddened, too, by the sight of the abbé's victims, some of whom were lying on the ground from inability to stand, the rioters determined to make an end of their first act of revenge. From the chapel, therefore, in the vicinity--into which they had also broken by now--they fetched the benches on which the worshippers sat, as well as the altar-rails and the pulpit, and piled them up in the old square hall of the house, thereby to add fuel to the flames. And also from the living rooms in that house they took the furniture and flung it on too, not even forgetting the straw mattresses which the soldiers had brought with them when the abbé applied to Nîmes for a guard, saying that he feared an attack, and on which they slept nightly. The house was doomed. Paralyzed with fear, terror-stricken and horrified, Buscarlet could bear the sight no longer. His white hair streaming in the night breeze, he rushed into the midst of the Camisards, screaming to them to show mercy, begging them to desist, imploring them to forget their own sufferings in the past, and to save the abbé and all within the house. Yet his appeal touched not one single heart. "Away, old man," said one of the inspired prophets, "away to your bed and out of this. The hour for mercy is gone; the servants of the Lord have arisen. Go preach to women and babes; leave us, the priests of men, to deal with men," and as he spoke he dragged Buscarlet out of the crowd, telling Martin also to beware lest he interfered. The latter was nigh doing so now. Protestant as he was, with, in his heart, a hatred for the cruelties which he knew the Papists practised here in Languedoc--cruelties condemned, indeed, by many of their brother Roman Catholics, so terrible were they--he could yet scarce keep his hand from his sword hilt, scarce forbear rushing into that burning house and endeavouring to save Du Chaila's life. For now the end was very near. If the man was not saved soon his final hope was gone. The soldiers had fired their last shots, their powder-horns and cartouches were empty, they were endeavouring to escape, some leaping from the lower windows at which they, fortunately for themselves, had been stationed, and plunging into the little river and across it; some rushing out into the crowd of fierce Cévenoles, only to be cut down to the earth by reaping hooks and scythes, or, more happily, to escape with wounds alone. There were none left now in the burning house but the abbé and his man-servant. On the former all eyes were fixed, the crowd drawing farther back from the dwelling to get a fairer view of the roof on which they could see him still crouched, or moving on to the bridge, thereby the better to observe his fate. And they gloated over it--these miserable peasants who had turned at last, these human downtrodden worms who had not been allowed to practise their religion in peace in their own land, nor permitted to emigrate to others where they might do so; they fed themselves full with revenge on this the first night of their uprising. One, a marksman, raised his carabine and covered Du Chaila as he clung to the roof--maybe his heart was not yet entirely warped nor turned to the deepest tinge of cruelty, and he wished to end the wretch's sufferings--but it was knocked up by half a dozen strong arms. A dozen voices cried fiercely: "Help him not, assist him to no easy death. Remember our brothers' dooms, our fathers in the flames, our girls' backs raw and bleeding. Observe Fleurette lying there at your feet; let him expiate all. Then, after him, the others. There are more to suffer too. Baville--ho, Baville!--_le Roi de Languedoc_, as he is termed--the prior of St. Maurice--the priest of Frugéres--it is their turn to-morrow." And above the roar of the flames these louder roars of threatened vengeance rose; above all else their psalms were heard telling how Jehoshaphat exhorted the people, how Jahaziel prophesied, and how the God of Battles had delivered the enemy into their hands. The end was near. Du Chaila, the cruellest priest in the Cévennes--the man who, under the office of Inspector of Roman Catholic Missions in Languedoc, had for sixteen years perpetrated cruelties on the Protestants which, it was said in the district, he could have only learned while a missionary in Siam--was about to expiate his merciless rigour on others. Part of the eaves overhanging the garden had by now fallen away in great masses of charred straw. One of two things alone could happen soon: either he must perish in the flames when the roof fell in, as it would do in a few moments, or he must escape from that roof. It was the latter which he prepared to attempt, hoping perhaps that even now he might do so without his intentions being known. Slowly, therefore, he crept away from the spot where he had crouched so long. They could see his hands and feet thrust deep into the thatch at each move he made. He disappeared from their sight, yet for a moment only; for as he left the side of the house where the rioters were, so those rioters followed below in the road. Compactly, in a mass, all went together, and silently. Their voices, their hymns had ceased; but for their footfalls there was naught to tell of how they were tracking the man from beneath as he himself moved above. Like sleuth-hounds who make no noise as they follow their trail, yet follow it unerringly, these human sleuth-hounds followed him. They passed round the house, they stood upon the slope leading to the bridge. Between them and the house itself there ran a thick-set privet hedge, separating the latter from the road and shielding the lower rooms on that side from the dusts of summer and the snows of winter. Now, on this July night, convolvuli and roses and honeysuckle twined about it, dotting the deep green with many a delicate blossom and emitting sweet perfumes on the air. And above this hedge, between it and the roof, the doomed man was hanging at this time, clinging to a rope made of twisted bedclothes, wrenched, doubtless, from the beds of the upper rooms. None spoke in all that crowd, no hymn was sung. Save for the sobs of Buscarlet and the moans of Fleurette, who lay in her sister's arms, no sound broke the silence--none until, a second later, while all their eyes were turned up to that frantic figure and while the moon's rays glistened on their eyeballs, a piercing shriek broke the stillness and the abbé fell headlong some thirty feet into the hedge, bounding off from one of the stakes, that supported it at intervals, into the dusty road; then lay there groaning. The roughly and hastily constructed rope had given way, and in his fall, as was soon seen, his leg was broken. "Spare me!" he moaned--he who had never yet spared one, man, woman, or child--"spare me!" At first none answered him, none spoke. Then amid the silence, from the lips of Pierre Esprit, the chief of the three prophets, the words fell: "You are lost--your body in this world, your soul in the next." "Alas!" he wailed, "even though I have damned myself, will you too do the same thing by murdering me?" His words were the signal for his doom. They rushed at him as he lay there and plunged their knives into his body, one man exclaiming, "This for my mother, burned at Nîmes," another, "This for my father, broken at Anduse"; a third, "This for my brother, sent to the galley, '_Le Réquin_'"; a fourth, "This for my sister, Fleurette, lying here." When his nephew, Le Marquis du Chaila, afterward recovered his body from where they left it, it was pierced by fifty-two wounds, of which twenty-four were mortal. "The beginning has been made," Pierre Esprit exclaimed. "There must be no backsliding. Henceforth each man's hand to guard each man's life. Now for the prior of St. Maurice, next for the priest of Frugéres. While for those who have been rescued from that man's clutches, away with them to the mountains and safety. Come, let us sing unto the Lord." And up the slopes and pastures of the purple hills encircling the little village rose once more the chant of the army of Jehoshaphat. Soon none were left in the blood-stained road but the pastor, Buscarlet, lying where he had fainted, and Martin Ashurst, white to the lips and endeavouring to arrange the dead man's limbs into something resembling humanity. CHAPTER VIII. AN EXODUS. In the coming dawn, when the stars had paled and died away, and when far off, where the Basses Alpes lifted their heads eastward, the gray light turned into daffodil and told that the day was at hand, Martin carried the pastor back into his little house. "Rest," he said, "rest, and endeavour to sleep. I pray Heaven you may do so, after this night of horror." "Horror indeed!" Buscarlet said, sinking into the old leather-covered _fauteuil_ that for years he had sat in so calmly and happily, though solitary. "Horror undreamed of!" Then, a moment later, he went on: "I thought--nay, I knew--that they would rise at last and throw off the hideous yoke under which they bowed. Yet I deemed it would but be to release those of our religion who suffered, to prevent others from suffering too; to demand terms, even though only such terms as would permit us to seek peace in far-away lands; but never dreamed of such deeds as we have witnessed to-night. Where will it end? And how?" "There were those who muttered in that crowd," Martin replied, his face still of a deathly pallor, "that it might not end until they stood outside Louis' gates--were within them. And there were some who seemed to know of what they spoke. Some who have been long leagues away from this lonely valley shut in by these mountains--men who know that on all sides and on all her frontiers France is sore beset. Crippled by her fresh war with Spain, the attacks made on her on the Italian border, also by the Dutch on the Rhine. Fighting as well my own countrymen in Bavaria and the whole length of the Danube, even to the borders of Austria." The mention of his own countrymen by Martin Ashurst seemed to bring fresh trouble to the unhappy old man, to cause fresh terrors to spring into his mind; for at those words he started in his chair and regarded the younger one steadily, though with still upon his face the look of misery that the events of the last few hours had brought forth. "Your own countrymen!" he repeated, half-dazed. "Your own countrymen! Ay, ay, _les Anglais!_ Thank God, it is not known, and never will be known, that you are either English or Protestant. Baville would not spare you." "Baville need not perhaps know that I am an Englishman," Martin replied calmly. "But one thing he will most assuredly know ere long, when he begins to make inquiry into the doings of this past night--namely, that I am a Protestant." "Know it!" Buscarlet exclaimed, trembling even more than before, clasping his hands frenziedly as though overcome by a fresh fear. "How should he know it?" "I shall announce it. For a certainty, shall not disguise it." "Martin, Martin," the old man moaned, "are you mad? Do you value your life so little, desire so much the horrors of the wheel, the flames, to have your head upon this bridge as others' heads have been, that you will acknowledge this? Martin, for the love of God, pause. Think of what such an acknowledgment would mean to you." "I have thought all through the night, even while I watched that man's house burned beneath him as he hid on the roof; while I saw him done to death. And, thus thinking, became resolved. Henceforth no power on earth, no horror of awful death, of mutilation after death, can make me disguise, keep back the acknowledgment of the form of faith I belong to----" "Alas, alas! it _will_ bring death." "It may do so. If it does it must be borne. Yet, at the worst, I will not think it can come to that. I am a Protestant; here, in your own land, a Huguenot. Yet I am not one of those who slew the abbé. Shall never imbrue my hands in blood. Ask only to be left in peace." "Alas," Buscarlet exclaimed again, "that is all that we have asked--all! Yet you see the end. The woman who dominates Louis allows no free thought, no religion other than her own; has dragooned Huguenots into Roman Catholicism since the day the Revocation was pronounced, has hung and burned and broken those who refuse to change. How, then, can you hope to escape--you who were among the crowd that performed last night's work?" "I took no part in his murder. Would have saved him if I could----" "That will not save you. Martin, you must flee from here at once. Escape out of France. Be gone while there is yet time." "And de Rochebazon! His children's heritage! What of that?" Even as he uttered the words his determination to remain here at all costs and in deadly peril seemed to act upon the old man's mind, to clear his brain so clouded with the awful events of the past night, to bring back to him the power of speaking and reasoning clearly, for slowly yet weightily he answered: "As that heritage has done before, so it must do now. Must wait, remain in abeyance. This is no time to prosecute your search. No sense of justice on your part toward a distant kinsman can demand that you should sacrifice your own life, at the least your liberty. Moreover, remember, he or his descendants may not be here in Languedoc; may be leagues away, in remote lands, for aught you know; even in your own country, the home of the oppressed since James fell." "They said at Geneva it was beyond all doubt that he who was rightly the de Rochebazon came here." "Grant that," the old man replied, calm now in face of the argument he had to use, must use and drive home. "Grant that--that he came here. Well, it is nigh half a century ago. Where may he not have gone to in all that long passage of years? The Huguenots are everywhere--in England, Germany, Scotland, the Americas, Switzerland, some even on the far-off shores of the Cape of Good Hope. Why stay here seeking for what is no better than a shadow, and at the risk of your own life?" For a moment it seemed as if his argument was about to prevail. Into Martin Ashurst's face there came a look telling of deep reflection--reflection that brought with it an acknowledgment of the force of the other's words. And, observing, Buscarlet pressed his argument home. "If alive, de Rochebazon never intends to claim what is his. If dead, he has died and kept his secret well. While if living he knows not, possibly, that those who were deemed the Prince and Princess de Rochebazon have passed away, yet also he knew that for years they usurped, although unwillingly, the place that was his, the vast wealth. If you found him at last, even here, could you force him to take back the heritage he renounced so long ago?" Still the other answered not. What could he say? On his face was still the look of perplexity that had been there since first the pastor spoke. And again the latter went on: "Moreover, granting even that--that--for his children's sake he would return to the possession of his own, would emerge from the humble position he has so long occupied--in France all Huguenots are humble now, here in these mountains they are doubly so; few gentlemen of France acknowledge themselves as such; all fear the court too much; if you found him, if he consented, would he be allowed to return to what is his proper place and position? You know the Romish Church which now holds all in its hands that once was the de Rochebazon's. Will _that_ ever disgorge? Would De Maintenon allow it to do so? You have seen her? Answer." Even as Buscarlet mentioned that woman's name, Martin started. Yes, he had seen her, and seeing, knew to what adamant he was opposed. Also he recalled her words: "You may seek yet you will never find, or, finding whom you seek, will never prevail." Remembered, too, the look of confidence that had come into the livid face of the woman before him and, as he remembered, wavered. Was it imperative on him to do more than he had already done in voluntarily renouncing all the wealth his aunt had put aside for him during years of saving? Was he now to throw his life away in seeking for a shadow, a chimera? For it was not beyond possibility, it was indeed most probable, that to such a pass he might come. At present he had committed no act which even the ruthless Baville, of whom all in this portion of France spoke with bated breath--the Intendant of the Province--could seize upon as a pretext for hostilities to him. He had taken no part in the murder (or was it the execution?) of the Abbé du Chaila; on the contrary, he had longed to render help to the unfortunate wretch, though it had been beyond his power to do so. But--but--if he should remain in the Cévennes, still seeking for a man who, in sober truth, might for years have lain in his grave or might be, if still alive, at the other end of the world, was it certain that he would not perform some act which would place him in Baville's grasp? And as a Protestant, even though it was never known that he was an Englishman, and standing, consequently, in hideous peril in France, what chance would there be of his salvation? Almost, as he reflected thus, he began to think that, if only for a time and until these troubles had blown over, he must abandon his search for the last of the de Rochebazons. This tempest which had arisen could not last long, he thought; Louis could soon quell these turbulent mountaineers; then again he could take up his task. "Come," he said to Buscarlet, sitting before him watching his eyes and face to see what effect his words had on him, "come. At least I will do nothing without due thought. Will not be foolhardy. Now eat, drink something; it will restore you. Then after that some rest." Whereupon he pointed to the table on which were still the remains of the last night's little feast over which the poor old man had tried to make so merry. "Here is some of your famous trout left," he said, struggling to speak cheerfully, "and another bottle of the Crépi. Come, let us refresh ourselves." "I feel as though I shall never eat again," Buscarlet whispered. "Never after the doings of the night--never! Oh, the horror of it, the horror of it!" "Still cheer up," the other said, uttering words of hope which he knew could have but little likelihood of being verified, yet striving thereby to soften the old man's mental agony. "This may be the end, as it has been the beginning, on our--on the Protestant--side. When Baville, the persecutor, hears that the harryings and the burnings and the murders--for that was a murder we witnessed last night--are not to be on his part alone, he may pause. Nay, even Louis, beset in every way, at every frontier, his treasury drained, may himself give orders to stop these persecutions." But Buscarlet only shook his head significantly, doubtingly. "With that woman at his side, by his elbow, never!" he exclaimed. "Nay, nay, my son, he will not stop them. He is the Scourge of God; sweeps before him all who love God. He will never stop them. If he desired to do so, she would not let him." By now it was full daylight. Over the pastor's little garden with its quaint, old-time flowers, among them many a sweet Provence rose opening to the morning sun, that sun's rays streamed down. Also they knew that the villagers were awake, if they had slept at all. Already they were calling to each other, while some of them gathered in small groups and discussed the events of the past night. Also all asked what would be the end of it. "I can not sleep," Buscarlet said; "it is impossible. Let me go forth. They are my people. I must be among them. Give them counsel. Oh, God be thanked, there was not one of us in this hamlet who assisted in the work." And he went out feebly through the window, Martin making no attempt to prevent him, since he knew any such attempt must be futile. Instead, therefore, he walked by his side. "Whence," he asked, "since none in the village took part in the attack, did those men come? By their garb they are of the mountains--goatherds, shepherds. Is it there the persecutions have been most felt?" "It is there," the other answered, "that those who have been most persecuted have fled. We may not quit our unhappy country. Every port is barred, every frontier road guarded. Where, therefore, should those whose homes are desolate flee to, whose loved ones have been slaughtered, where but to the mountains? There none can follow them or, following, can not find. Those mountains are full of caverns made by Nature, God-given as a last resort of the outcast and wretched." They reached the open _place_ by the bridge as he finished speaking; they stood outside the still burning remains of what had been Du Chaila's house--the house seized by him from the man he had caused to be hanged on the bridge, in front of the window from which the widow and orphans looked daily until they too fled into the hills. Behind the hedge over which grew the honeysuckle and convolvuli in such rich profusion, the hedge on to which the doomed man had fallen, and on one of the stakes of which his leg had been broken by the fall, they saw his body lying. Near it also they observed other bodies which had been dragged from the smouldering ruins, one being that of his valet, another that of his man cook, a third that of an ecclesiastic named Roux who had acted as his secretary. Also they learned that two friends of the dead man, themselves missionaries back from Siam, had been allowed to depart after being found hidden under a cartload of straw. "Are all of those others gone?" Buscarlet asked, turning his eyes away from the sight behind the lodge. "All are gone, _mon père_," a man answered from the crowd. "_Pardie!_ it is best we all go too. By to-night the dragoons who have escaped will be back from Alais. It is but ten leagues, and he (Baville) is there. Be sure more soldiers will come with them; we shall be put to fire and sword. And for those who are not slain--that!" And the man pointed to the post on the apex of the bridge on which the night lamp hung still alight, since none had remembered this morning to put it out; on which, too, other things of a more fearful nature had hung in all their recollections. "You hear?" Buscarlet whispered to Martin. "You hear?" "Yes, I hear," the other replied, calmly as usual. Then asked, "Do you flee with them?" "Nay," the old man replied. "My place is here, by my church which I am no longer permitted to enter--the church whose keys have been taken from me after forty years. Yet I can not leave it." "Nor I you. I stay too." "God help us all!" the pastor said again, as he had said before, and once more he wrung his hands. That his flock were going it was impossible to doubt. They knew that henceforth Montvert was no abiding place for them; that if they would not be ridden down or burned in their beds, or hung as carrion on the bridge where when boys they had played, or taken to the jails of Alais and Nîmes and Uzès, they must go, and go at once. Later, perhaps, they might return, if it ever pleased God to soften the hearts of their persecutors. But now, after the doings of the night, this was no longer a home for them. History repeats itself; also events in one part of the world resemble those occurring in the other. Even as in the old times before them, the people of God had fled into the deserts of the East to escape the tyranny of Pharaoh and of Ahab, even as the Covenanters had fled into the Pentland Hills, so now the Protestants of the Cévennes fled into their mountains to escape the persecutions of him whom they called the Scourge of God. Peaceful, law-abiding men and women, asking only to be allowed to worship their Maker in their own way, or, failing that, to depart for other lands where they might do so unmolested, the refusal had turned them at last into rebels, if not against the king, at least against his local representatives--rebels who, having suffered long under the cruelties of their persecutors, had now become cruel themselves. For the torch of rebellion was lighted at last in all Languedoc, and ere long it flamed fiercely. The "Holy War" had begun. CHAPTER IX. "BAVILLE! UN MAGISTRAT DONT LES EPOUVANTABLES RIGUEURS DOIVENT ÊTRE SIGNALÉES À L'HORREUR DE LA POSTÉRITÉ."--SISMONDI. Night was near at hand again and all were gone--all except Martin Ashurst and the pastor, both of whom sat now upon the bridge of Montvert, their eyes fixed always on the crest of the hill which rose between the little town and the larger one of Alais. For it was from that situation that they expected to see at last the flash of sabres carried by the dragoons of de Broglie and the foot soldiers of de Peyre, Lieutenant General of the Province, to observe the rays of the setting sun flicker on their embrowned musketoon and fusil barrels, and to hear the ring of bridle chain and stirrup iron. That they would come on the instant that the intelligence reached Baville of what had been done in Montvert over night it was impossible to doubt. And then--well, then, possibly, since there were no human beings left to be destroyed except these two men waiting there, the village would itself be demolished, burned to the ground. Such vengeance had been taken only a week ago on a similarly deserted bourg from which the inhabitants had fled, though silently and without revolt. It might be expected that the same would happen here. All were gone, the men, the women and children; the old, the feeble, and the babes being carried by the stronger ones, or conveyed on the backs of mules and asses. Also the cattle were removed--they would be priceless in the mountain fastnesses; even the dogs had followed at their masters' heels; upon those masters' shoulders and upon the backs of the animals the household gods, the little gifts that had come to them on marriage days and feast days, on christenings and anniversaries, had been transported. The place was deserted except for those two men who sat there wondering what would be their lot. That vengeance would be taken on them neither deemed likely; but that both would be haled before Baville they both felt sure. Buscarlet was known to be one of the Protestant pastors who, from the day when the Revocation of Nantes was promulgated seventeen years before, had fought strongly against his congregation attending the Romish masses as the Government had ordered them to do. He was a man in evil odour, though against him until the present time no overt act could be charged. But now--now after the events of the past night, with those dead Things lying there behind the hedge, what might he not be accused of? "Yet," said Martin, as he leaned over the parapet of the bridge, glancing sometimes up at the ridge which rose between Montvert and Alais, expecting every moment to see the soldiers approaching, and sometimes watching the long weeds in the river as they bent beneath its swift flow, "yet of what can you be accused? You interceded for him," and he directed his eyes in the direction of the dead abbé, where he lay covered by a cloth, "besought them to show mercy, to return evil for good. Also those men, those _attroupés_, were not of this village nor of your flock. As well call you to account for the invasion of a hostile army or foreign levy." But again Buscarlet only shook his head, then answered: "No, not of this village, nor of my congregation, but of the same faith--Protestants! Therefore accursed in Baville's and his master's eyes. That is enough." As he spoke, from far up in the heights toward Alais they heard the blare of a trumpet ring loudly and clearly on the soft evening air; a moment later and, on the white road that ran like a thread through the green slopes, they saw the scarlet coats of the horsemen gleaming; saw, too, a _guidon_ blown out as its rider came forward against the wind; caught the muffled sound of innumerable horses' hoofs. Then, next, heard orders shouted, and a moment later saw a large body of dragoons winding down the hillside slowly, while behind them on foot came the _milices_ of the province. "You see?" Martin said as he watched them. "Be calm. They can do you no harm." And he leaned over the bridge again and continued to observe the oncomers. Ahead of the main body, consisting of some hundred of cavalry and an even larger number of Languedoc _milice_ or train bands, there rode three men abreast. In the middle was one clad in a sober riding dress of dark gray; the others on either side of him were rich in scarlet coats much guarded with galloon, the evening sun flickering on the lace and causing it to sparkle like burnished gold, and with large laced three-cornered hats in which also their gold cockades shone, while he on the left wore the rich _justaucorps à brevet_, a sure sign not of a soldier of France alone, but of a soldier of high social rank and standing. "He in the middle," said Buscarlet, "is Baville, the Scourge of the Scourge. Be sure that when he comes with the soldiery the worst is to be dreaded. That he deems his presence is necessary to insure fitting vengeance being taken." "Fear not," said Martin. "They can not execute us here to-night; afterward, inquiry will show that we have done nothing to deserve their vengeance. Be calm." Amid clouds of dust from the road on which no rain had fallen for many days the cavalcade came onward, reaching at last the farther end of the bridge from where these two men stood side by side; then the officer on the right gave the orders for all following to halt, and slowly he with the other two rode on to the bridge itself and up the slope to where Buscarlet and Martin stood. "It is the Lieutenant General, de Peyre," Buscarlet whispered. "The other is the Marquis du Chaila, the dead man's nephew. O God! what a sight for him to see!" "What has been done here?" said Baville, looking down at the two men on foot who stood close by where they had halted their horses, though not until he and his companions had turned their eyes to the burned house, from which little spiral wreaths of smoke rose vertically in the calm evening air. "What? And who, messieurs, are you?" The quiet tones of his full rich voice, the absence of all harshness in it, almost startled Martin Ashurst. Was this the man, he wondered--or could the pastor have been mistaken?--of whose cruelty to the Protestants as well as his fierce and overbearing nature not only all the province rang, but also other parts of the land far remote from here? The man whose name was known and mentioned with loathing by the refugees in Holland and Switzerland, in Canterbury and Spitalfields? "Who are you, messieurs?" he repeated quietly, "though I think I should know you, at least," and he directed his glance to the pastor. "Monsieur André Buscarlet, _prédicateur_ of the--the--so-called Reformed Religion, if I am not mistaken." "André Buscarlet," the old man replied, looking up at him; and now, Martin observed, he trembled no more, but answered fearlessly, "Protestant minister of Montvert and----" "Where," exclaimed the young Marquis du Chaila, "my uncle has been barbarously murdered by you and your brood. Oh, fear not, you shall pay dearly for it. Where, vagabond, is his body?" "Sir," said Martin, speaking for the first time, "your grief carries you into violent extremes. This gentleman whom you term 'vagabond' has had no part nor share in your uncle's murder. Neither has his flock. The deed was done by the refugees from the mountains. Monsieur Buscarlet attempted in vain to prevent it." "Bah!" exclaimed the marquis. "You are another Protestant, I should suppose. Valuable testimony! Who are you?" "One who at least is not answerable to you. Suffice it that no person in this village had any hand in the abbé's murder, that it was done by the men of whom the pastor speaks." "To me, monsieur, at least all persons are answerable," Baville interposed. "I am the king's Intendant. I must demand your name and standing." "My name is----" he began, yet ere he could tell it a shout from the foremost dragoons who had dismounted startled all on the bridge. Some of these men had been engaged in tethering their horses close by the hedge, several of the animals indeed had already begun to crop the dusty grass that grew beneath it, and they had found the bodies. "My God, my God!" the marquis almost shrieked as he bent over the abbé's form, the soldiers having led him to where it lay after he had hastily quitted the saddle. "Oh, my God! my father's brother slaughtered thus. Devils!" he exclaimed, turning round and glancing up the long street, imagining probably that the inhabitants were all within their houses. "Devils! was not his death enough, that you must glut your rage with such butchery as this? See, Baville--see, de Peyre, the wounds in his body. Enough to kill twenty men." Looking down from their saddles at the murdered man's form, which they could observe very plainly over the hedge from the elevation at which they were, the Intendant and the leader of the troops shuddered, the former turning white beneath the clear olive of his complexion. Yet, even as Martin observed him blench, he wondered why he should do so. Countless men and feeble women and children had gone to the gibbet, the fire, the wheel, and the rack, as well as to the galleys and the lash, at this man's orders, unless all Languedoc and every Huguenot tongue lied. Why should he pale now, except it was because this retaliation, this shifting of murder from the one side to the other, told of a day of reckoning that had begun, of a Nemesis that had been awakened? "Baville," the young man cried again, "Baville! Vengeance! Vengeance! He has died slaughtered at his post, as he knew he would die. But last week, at our house in Montpelier, he spoke of how he was doomed because he served God. Baville!--de Peyre! give the orders to fall on, to destroy all. Otherwise I make my way to the king of the north and cry on my knees for vengeance on these accursed heretics, these bloodthirsty _Protestants_, as they term themselves. Burn down their hovels, I say; slaughter them, exterminate." "Alas, unhappy man!" exclaimed Buscarlet, still firm in his speech now, and undaunted before the distracted marquis, who had already torn his sword from its scabbard and stood before them gesticulating like a madman in his grief and rage. "What use to destroy empty houses, barren walls? Besides ourselves there is no living soul left in all Montvert." "What!" the two other men exclaimed together in their surprise. "What! All gone? None left?" And now on the Intendant's face there came another look, also the return of his dark colour, as he said: "Gone, yet you proclaim their innocence. Tell us in one breath that they are guiltless, in another that they have fled. Do the innocent flee?" "They feared your cruelty. They knew that your Church spares not the innocent; that it punishes them alike with the guilty." "Blasphemer!" Baville exclaimed, though still his voice was low and calm, belying the terrible accusation which lay beneath this word. Terrible anywhere in France--now pious by law!--but doubly so in the Cévennes. "I blaspheme not," Buscarlet said, waxing even bolder. "Pause. Look back. Twenty-seven Protestants have been done to death by you in the past month----" "Silence!" the other ordered, still in his unruffled voice, yet uttering words enough to affright the boldest, "or I will have you gagged; if that suffices not, strung up there," and he pointed to the lamp. Then turning to the marquis, he said: "Be sure your uncle shall be avenged. Let them flee to the mountains, yet we will have them. Extirpate them like rats in a granary. Julien, the field marshal, has left Paris to assist in the holy work. Meanwhile, de Peyre, send your men into every house in the place; see if this abandonment is true. If not, if you find any, bring them before me. As for you, and you," directing a glance at the pastor and Martin, "you will sleep to-night in Alais. To-morrow a court will be held." Then he added, under his breath, as though talking to himself: "You must be bold men. Otherwise you would have decamped too." "Or innocent ones," Martin replied, hearing his words, low as they were. "You yourself have said it. Asked but now, 'Do the innocent flee?'" The Intendant bit his lips; the _riposte_ had gone fairly home. Then, while de Peyre gave his orders and told off some of the dragoons to enter and search every house in the village, and the marquis, who was in command of the _milices_, bade them take up the bodies carefully and cover them decently with their capes, Baville glanced down at Martin, saying: "Monsieur, I do not know you. You are not, I think, of this locality. Yet I observe you are of the better classes. Where is your property?" "In La Somme, department of the Ile de France. I am a proprietor; the property of Duplan La Rose is mine, such as it is." Had he not in truth been the owner of this property he would have scorned to shelter himself beneath a falsehood. Had he been asked his faith it was his fixed resolve to declare it, as, had it been possible for Baville to recognise that he was an Englishman--which, after his earliest years being spent in France, was not so--he had determined to avow his nationality, no matter what the consequences might be. But so far the truth alone was necessary. When his father waited long and eagerly for the time to come for the Stuart Restoration--as no follower of the Stuarts ever doubted it would come, sooner or later--he, hating Paris and all its garish dissipations under the then young and immoral king (the king now so old and self-righteous!), purchased this property from the Baron Duplan La Rose, a man himself broken and ruined by his participation in the outbreaks of the Fronde. Purchased it because all the Ile de France and the Pas de Calais were full of English refugees waiting like himself for happier days to come; also because, when the time did come, it would be near to England. And he dying, it became Martin's property. Baville touched his hat as an acknowledgment of Martin's explanation, perhaps also as an acknowledgment of his position, since he was a great believer in _les propriétaires_ as men who were almost always opposed to the murmurings and discontents of the _canaille_ and _les ordres bas_, such as the wretches belonged to who had massacred the abbé and the others. And as he did so he said: "Monsieur is therefore a visitor here only--to--perhaps"--and his eyes rested piercingly on Martin--"Monsieur Buscarlet?" "Monsieur is," Martin replied, "a visitor here seeking for a lost person. A connection by marriage. A man who has been wronged, has partly wronged himself. Monsieur has lodged with Monsieur Buscarlet before." "May I demand the name of the lost man?" "Alas, monsieur, I do not know it. He discarded his own over forty years ago. That which he has adopted I can not tell you. Also he may be dead and my quest in vain." "Would he be," and again his eyes stared fixedly into the eyes of the other man, "would he be, do you think, of--of--well--of Monsieur Buscarlet's religious faith?" "He would." "I hope you will find him, sir. If you do so, use your utmost endeavours to persuade him to abjure that faith. Otherwise the province of Languedoc will be no pleasant refuge for him henceforth, even though he has been here for the forty years you speak of. Now, sir," and he left this subject to speak of that which had brought him to Montvert, "I must beg you will accompany us to Alais. As a visitor to the neighbourhood and, as I suppose, a person not interested in our unhappy local troubles, you can give us much information as to how last night's murder was perpetrated. You are, I presume, willing to do so?" "I am willing to speak as truthfully as I can on the matter. To speak as I do now, when I tell you that neither Monsieur Buscarlet nor any of the inhabitants of this place had any hand whatever in last night's doings." "I shall--the Court will be--glad to be assured of that," Baville replied. CHAPTER X. THE LIGHTED TORCH. The night had come, and, with the exception of one troop of dragoons and one company of the _milices_, also with the exception of the Marquis du Chaila, who had remained behind with the intention of having his uncle's body properly interred, all were on their way to Alais. And behind Baville and de Peyre rode Martin and Buscarlet, the former on his own horse, the pastor on one which had belonged to the dead man. It was a night such as those who dwell in the south--in Languedoc, or Provence, or Dauphiné--in the height of its summer know well. A night when, up from the Mediterranean, but a few leagues away, there come the cool breezes that sunset invariably brings, and when, from the caps of the purple mountains, the soft evening air descends, passing over cornfields and meadows and woods after it has left the sterile and basaltic summits until, when it reaches the valleys, its breath is perfumed and odorous. Summer nights so calm and soft that here the nightingale remains later than is its wont in other spots and sings sometimes far into August and September, the throats of hundreds of birds making the whole valley musical. Now, however, their trills were drowned by the clank of sabres against the flanks of the horses bestridden by the dragoons, by the rattle of chain and bridle, the occasional neigh of the animals, and by various orders given as all went forward. Also by the hum of conversation as the men talked to one another. Suddenly upon the night air, however, there came now another sound, silencing and deadening all else--a sound that subdued and deadened even the clatter of harness and accoutrements, the voices of the men, the songs of the birds of night. The sound of the deep booming of a bell not far off which swelled and rose in the summer calm, as sometimes it rang violently and sometimes slowly and intermittently, sometimes ceased, too, and then began again, with sharp, hurried clangs, as though rung by some frightened, terror-stricken hand. "It is the tocsin," one hoarse-throated dragoon called out, who rode in the troop behind the leaders, "the tocsin from some village church. Is more murder being done? Are more abbés being slaughtered?" "The fellow speaks truly," de Peyre said, then roared himself at the top of his voice: "Who among you knows the locality? What village is near?" From twenty mouths the answer came at once: "It is Frugéres. The place is close at hand. The steeple is the highest for miles around." Even as these men spoke, their voices were in their turn silenced or drowned by still more numerous shouts from others in the cavalcade. "See, see!" those other voices yelled. "There is a fire--a church that burns. Behold!" "My God!" Martin heard Baville whisper to himself, though not so low but that the words were distinguishable. "The fanatics have attacked another priest, another church. This is no riot, but a rebellion." Then he turned at once to de Peyre and said hurriedly but authoritatively: "Order all forward. They are there. We may be in time to save some. Also to trap these mountain wolves. Forward, I say! Give the word of command." From de Peyre that word went forth, harsh and raucous as bellowed from the lips of the rough soldier who had fought at Senef and Ensisheim and had himself taken orders from Turenne and Condé. A moment later every man who was mounted was spurring toward the thin streak of flame that rose in the night air half a mile ahead, while the _milice_ followed on foot as fast as they were able. "Pray God, no more horrors are being perpetrated," Buscarlet muttered as he rode by Martin's side down the dusty road. Then murmured: "God forgive them. God forgive them. They are mad." "_He_ may forgive them," said Baville, who had caught his words, and paraphrasing unconsciously as he spoke the words of one by whose side he would have been accounted obscure and humble. "He may. I never will. Oh, that Julien arrives ere long! Then--then--then--they shall know what it is to outrage Languedoc thus." The flames grew more furious as all neared the tower whence they issued. It was the tower of the church at Frugéres; behind those flames rose the thick white smoke from the burning material below. Also great pieces of the copings were falling from the summit, and sometimes a pinnacle or gargoyle fell too. And once as they drew near there came a smothered clang, followed a moment later by a deep sonorous clash, and those approaching rapidly knew that the great bell had fallen from its beam, probably by now burned through, and had been hurled far down below. Upon the air as this happened there rose a psalm, a hymn of praise, telling how the false priests of Baal had been consumed by the flames of God's wrath in ages long since past, also the shouts and cries of many voices. Yet none of those shouts were derisive, none scornful or contemptuous. Instead, the shouts and cries of avengers who testified to justice being done on sinners; who approved of the justice, yet saw no reason for adding rejoicing to that approval. "See," cried Baville, "they are there. Behold! They move below the tower. We have them. De Peyre, give the order to charge. At them, among them, spare none." The belief in witchcraft was not yet dead in the world. People still believed in sorcery and enchantment. What wonder, then, that the dragoons thought there was some necromancy in the fact that, as they tore down the dusty road, their blades gleaming in the light cast by the flames, all against whom they rode vanished suddenly? Were there one moment, gone the next. It seemed incredible. Half a hundred men had been before them when they were five minutes' distance off; now that they had reached the burning church, not a living soul was to be seen. Truly it savoured of the miraculous. Yet, ere many months had passed--indeed, but a few weeks--these soldiers, and others too who were soon to join them, learned that no foe against whom they had ever been opposed possessed so thoroughly the art of sudden disappearance as did these fanatics, known later as the Camisards. For, trained in their mountain homes to every physical feat--to leaping great chasms, climbing dizzy heights unaided by aught but their strong and agile feet and hands, descending giddy precipices as easily as their own goats--they could disappear, disperse, as quickly and as thoroughly as the snow wreath under the spring sun. Could lure on bodies of their enemies to sports fraught with danger to all but themselves, into quagmires and morasses, lonely mountain passes and fatal hilltops, then themselves vanish and be no more seen. It was so now upon this second night of their uprising. As the dragoons charged down upon the paved, open _place_ outside the church of Frugéres they charged upon empty space alone, encountered nothing that offered resistance either to their onrush or their gleaming blades. Nothing but the dead body of a man, a priest, lying on those stones beneath the tower, the head broken in, the limbs twisted and contorted. "_Grand Dieu!_ what are we dealing with?" exclaimed the Lieutenant General, wiping the sweat from his face as his men pulled up around him, while some rushed into the church on foot, their long swords in their hands, ready to be thrust through any breast that they encountered, and others to the presbytery, thinking the _attroupés_ might be hiding there. "With human beings or devils?" "Nay," said Baville, "with the children of the desert and the mountains. Yet also the children of the devil. They escape but for a time, however. Even these jugglers can not disappear when they are surrounded. And," he added, striking one white-gloved hand into the palm of another, "they shall be surrounded by such a fast-closing circle that ere long not one shall escape. I swear it here before this murdered man." Easy to swear such an oath. More difficult to keep it. As, at last, Baville found. "Who is he?" Martin asked. Then added in a whisper to Buscarlet: "This is murder, not justice. Cruelty, not retribution. See, he is an old man." "You are right, sir," Baville replied, whose ears nothing ever escaped. "Yet be sure their time will come." Then, looking down at the dead priest, he also asked, "Who is he?" "It is the reverend curé," one of the dragoons said, regarding the old man and wiping from his face at the same time the beads of perspiration, even as his leader had done a moment before. "I know him well; am of the next parish. He has thrown himself from the tower. As well have staid for the flames as perished thus, broken all to pieces." All gazed down also as the man uttered these words, and as they did so, none speaking, they recognised that they were face to face with an awakened fury, with a vengeance that had slumbered but which now awoke even as the baited lion awakes and turns at last to rend its foes. For more than sixteen years the _affectés_, the New Religionists, the Heretics, had bowed their heads beneath the yoke of him whom they called the Scourge of God, as well as of the priests and the De Maintenon, the woman whom Louvois and La Chaise had once used as an instrument to work on her lover's intolerance, but who, since she had become that lover's wife, had herself carried on the system. Born a Protestant, she had seen that the king's mind became more sunken in superstition as he grew near his end, and that, to keep that mind under her subjection, the surest way was to persecute those whom she had deserted and whom she hated. Therefore she revelled in their suppression, therefore she boasted to her sister bigot, the Princesse des Ursins, that in twenty years, if Louis' life was spared, there would be no more Huguenots in France. Meanwhile her orders were carried out strenuously wherever Protestants harboured, especially so in the Midi. "_Saccagez ces chiens des Huguenots, saccagez les, c'est la volonté du roi_," her minister, Louvois, wrote. "Drive out _ce monstre de l'hérésie, ces chaires de pestilence, ces synagogues de Satan_," exclaimed the priest. And it was done. Swiftly to all the jails in the warm south, to the galleys waiting at Marseilles for their victims, to the lamp-posts on the town and village bridges, to the fuel in the market places, to the axe, the wheel and the rope, the Protestants were hurried. Also the dragonnades began. The dragoons, _les cravats_, were quartered in houses, sometimes in Protestant churches. Wives and daughters were so treated that, to hide the bitterness of their shame and to escape the horror of ever meeting their father's or brother's glances again, they took their own lives. They need not have feared those glances, for, the jails being soon full to overflowing, hundreds of male Protestants were huddled off in crazy brigs and tartans and snows to the Mississippi and New France generally, where, if they were not drowned on the way, they mostly perished from the effects of the climate or by the hands of the Natchez. For sixteen years it had gone on. By the end of that time the Protestant churches were all closed and the Protestant ministers forbidden to perform their services under pain of death; scores, indeed, had been executed for doing to, while still scores more, at the risk of death, performed those services and held Divine worship in the mountains and woods. Also none were allowed to quit the land who could be prevented from doing so, though a hundred thousand did manage to escape to other countries, high-born women and girls being disguised in most cases as muleteer's boys; high-born men of the oldest blood in France--such men as Ruvigny and Duquesne--driving pigs and asses toward the frontier, or disguised as pilgrim monks, or pushing handcarts full of fruit and vegetables or Nîmes serges, which they pretended they were desirous of selling. But these were people of wealth, people who left behind them in their flight the châteaux in which countless generations of their race had been born, left also their rich furniture and equipages and costly plate and silks and satins, and the woods and forests and vineyards to which they had been born the heirs and to the enjoyment of which they had looked forward for the rest of their lives. Or they were skilled mechanics and artisans who could gain a livelihood wherever they found themselves. But for the poorer sort there was no flight possible; if they left France they must die of hunger in other lands. They had no money, could speak no tongue but their own, often knew no trade by which they could earn their bread; understood nothing beyond the breeding of cattle and the arts of husbandry. Yet they, too, fled from persecution, though in a different manner. High up in the gloomy and, to strangers, inaccessible plateaux of the Cévennes--a region of sterile mountains on which for six months in the year the snow sometimes falls unceasingly, while for the other six the heat is almost the heat of the tropics--they sought a refuge. Here in this mountainous region, which covers an extent of one hundred and twenty miles, they found a home, here worshipped God in their own fashion and unmolested, which was all they asked, yet saw with horror, when disguised they ventured down into the plains, the misery that was still overwhelming those of their own faith. Also they knew that plans were being formed for their extermination; that from Paris was coming an army under Julien, a bloodthirsty soldier who had once been a Protestant like themselves, but who was now a convert possessing all the tigerish fury of the convert against those whom he had deserted; knew that Du Chaila was the most brutal of all priests as Baville was the most cruel of all rulers. No wonder that they groaned over the ferocities inflicted on any of their number who were caught below in the plains. The capture of the girl Fleurette and of the guide Masip ignited the flame of revenge which had long been smouldering. But even then, when they descended to Montvert, it was more with the desire of rescuing the victims than aught else. In their hearts there had been at first no intention of murdering either the abbé or the curé of Frugéres. Moreover, it was not against Louis that they rebelled but against his Church and the priests of that Church. But Du Chaila had caused the dragoons to fire on them, and the first shot from the soldiers' musketoons had roused their passion; also it brought about a conflict of horrible cruelty and bloodshed which the passage of years alone extinguished. For now that war of retaliation had commenced which two of Louis' field marshals were successively unable to quench, and which a third only succeeded in doing, more by diplomacy and tolerance than by steel or ball. * * * * * * * "What has he on his breast?" asked Baville, leaning over the dead priest and pointing to something white that gleamed in the light cast by the flames from the burning church. "A scrap of paper, Monsieur l'Intendant," the dragoon who had taken the most prominent part among his fellows replied, "with writing upon it. It is pinned to his vest." "Give it to me." Then he read aloud, not heeding, apparently, whether either Buscarlet or Martin heard the words: "This paper replaces another containing the names of a score of men to be denounced to the monster, Baville. The man has gone before his God. Baville will follow." "Will he?" the Intendant said to himself in a low, clear voice, which all heard. "Will he? Doubtless some day, but not now. For a surety not before these wolves have been tracked to their caves and exterminated--as they shall be--as they shall be." And all watching him in the lurid light cast from the burning tower, saw that the white-gloved hands were opened and clenched again twice, as though he had the throats of those wolves he spoke of within them. CHAPTER XI. "CONSORTING WITH HERETICS." It was midnight when all rode into Alais, and the iron shoes of the horses clattering on the cobble-stones of the street woke from their beds the few who were asleep. There were, indeed, not many who slept that night at this hour, since all knew that the fanatics, as they were invariably termed by those of the vicinity who were not of the Protestant religion, had descended from the mountains upon Montvert and had slain the abbé. Also all knew that, two hours before sunset, the dreaded Baville had gone forth escorted by de Peyre and his cavalry as well as by the _milice_ of the province--gone forth to inflict a terrible vengeance on the murderers. Had they done so? they asked each other feverishly now as the dragoons rode in, the rattle of hoofs and scabbards and bridle chains deadening the whispers they addressed to each other. Had they done so? Perhaps it was not strange that here, in this little town nestling in its rich valleys, the slopes of whose hills were covered with cornfields and vineyards and chestnut woods, the beauty of which was so extreme that in the language of the Cévenoles it was termed the _Hort Dieu_, or, in purer French, _Le Jardin de Dieu_, all should have whispered their imaginings, since it was in Alais particularly that religious opinion was much divided, the Reformed faith numbering nearly as many adherents as the Romish. Whispered their imaginings because each feared the hostile ears to which their uttered thoughts and ideas might penetrate, none knowing as yet which side was to prevail in the great struggle. For if Baville had destroyed the Camisards, retribution would be swift and strong on all who were Huguenots; if, on the contrary, he had failed, those of the older faith might expect to find themselves victims of an awful retaliation before another night had come. At first none could discover aught. The dragoons with their leaders and the two men--one old, the other young, who seemed like prisoners--swept onward to the Hôtel de Ville. Soon the streets became quiet again and all within the houses sought their beds, though, perhaps, with not much hope of obtaining any rest. If, however, they did so hope, they were doomed to disappointment. For scarce had the clatter of the men led by de Peyre died on their ears, scarce had the horses' hoofs ceased to ring down the streets, than another hubbub arose. More trampling of cavalry and the ringing of iron shoes upon the cobble-paved road was heard, more jangling of accoutrements and more shouts and calls; also the blare of trumpets and the deep, heavy roll of artillery over the stony streets. Whereon many who had but just laid down upon their beds sprang up again and, huddling on their garments, ran to their windows and doors, the Protestants asking if this were some fresh force arriving to add to their persecutions, the Catholics wondering if the fanatics had descended from the mountains again and were besieging the town? Yet soon the latter were assured that such could not be the case, while, to counterbalance the other's feeling of safety, the Protestants trembled more and more, not knowing what fresh horrors were preparing for them, for all saw at a glance these were no mountaineers clad in their white sheepskins, nor Camisards, but, instead, regular troops well equipped and armed and uniformed. Also all knew that the _attroupés_ had no artillery or horses. With different feelings, each watched, therefore, this new arrival of soldiers and saw go by the fierce dragoons of Joyeuse, the fusileers of Montluçon, the regiments of Saultz and Bearne, and one of light-horse from the far north--the chevaux-légers of Bapaume; saw, too, the artillery organized by St.-Hilaire, now dead. "God help us!" the Protestants said, trembling behind their blinds, "God help us! was this needed too?" while one old man, crouching behind the fountain in the market place, whispered to another, "Those great guns! those great guns! See! Are they to blow our houses down above our heads?" "Tush!" exclaimed a tall man standing by their side, a fellow bronzed and black from the winds of many wintry storms as well as from the scorching rays of the southern sun. "Tush! they are for the children of God, up there," and he turned a dark gleaming eye toward the dusky summits above the little town, over which by now there was stealing a cold gray that told of the coming of the summer morning. "Fear not for yourself, or them up there. Baville's roads are not yet made and never will be. Let us see that artillery mount into the Cévennes," and he laughed scornfully, some might have deemed cruelly. Shrinking away from his great form, half in fear, half with dawning intelligence, the old man said: "You speak thus, as though you were of the persecuted--yet--yet--you wear the garments of--of--the valleys, the clothes of townsmen." But the swarthy stranger only muttered: "Peace, old man, and be silent. Has not the quarry worn the garb of the hunter before now?" Then he moved away and was lost in the crowd which had gathered afresh. Ahead of all--of artillery, dragoons, chevaux-légers--there rode one who, but for the richness of his apparel his scarlet coat glistening with stars and traversed by a great ribbon, his hat laced and cockaded with galloon until none of the felt was visible, his gold-hilted and long quilloned sword, might, judging from his fierce looks, himself have been a refugee of the mountain plateaux and deserts above. A man with a great face in which were set fierce rolling eyes, a man from whose heavily moustached mouth there issued oaths whenever he opened it. This was Julien, one of Louis' field marshals, who, because of his having left the Protestant faith to embrace that of the king, was spoken of in all the lands where the Protestants sheltered themselves as "Julien the Apostate." Also he was spoken of by them with hatred and loathing since once no better soldier of Protestantism had ever existed or, under William of Orange, had done better service. But William, the great champion of Protestantism, was dead now, and Julien, whose love for wealth was unquenchable, had learned that Roman Catholicism was the most paying game. Thus it was that he came this night into his own part of the country, since he was of old family in the town of Orange itself, to lay waste and to slaughter all who held the faith which he himself had once held. He was a true pervert! With an oath he turned to the aide-de-camp who rode behind him and asked where this accursed Baville was, bidding him ride forward at once and see what preparations had been made for the reception of his forces. Bade him also ask if every Protestant house had been put under orders to accommodate them. "For," he said to himself, "they must pay for their contumacy _fasse Dieu!_ We should have good feeding here. The vagabonds are rich in all good things in this town. We must have our share." * * * * * * * The next day dawned bright and fair with still no speck in the blue sky toward which the great mountains lifted their heads, and with the bright sun over all--over vineyards full of their ripening grapes, over meadows in which the cattle stood under the shadows of the chestnut trees that dotted them at intervals--lighting up, too, the cool dark woods that clothed the slopes. Also it peered into old and dusty houses, shining in on the ancient furniture and vessels that generation after generation had prized and polished regularly and been proud of. It shone, too, into another spot--the principal chamber of the Hôtel de Ville, where on this bright July morning were assembled all the representatives of law and order in the province, Baville at their head. He was seated now in the presidential chair of this apartment, which served as the debating room for all things connected with the municipal affairs of the town; on either side of him sat his colleagues, the field marshal being on his left hand, the bishop of the diocese, which was a newly created one, on his right. Also the mayor was there and de Peyre, several Catholic priests, and half a dozen monks of various orders who had followed in Julien's train, they being sent down by the De Maintenon because of their gifts of preaching. For, true to her colours, the unproclaimed queen pretended on all occasions that the cruelties which were practised in the south were repugnant to her, and that it was by listening to the word of God alone, as expounded by eminent churchmen chosen by herself, that she trusted to witness the conversion of the heretics. Yet, if all written records on the subject are true, it was she who had first spurred on Louvois to give the order to "_saccagez les hérétiques_," and had, after his death, persuaded Chamillart, Bossuet, and Le Dieudonné himself to continue the Holy Crusade in the same manner. Whether it was because Baville meant upon this occasion that there should be no doubt in Julien's mind as to who was the absolute chief here and representative of the king, the field marshal having already on their meeting overnight uttered some very decided opinions upon what steps should at once be taken in Languedoc for the stamping out of heresy, or whether it was from his determination to make an altogether splendid figure among the ecclesiastics and handsomely apparelled officers, he himself presented a dazzling appearance on the occasion. His costume was now entirely of white satin, the gold lilies being stamped upon it at various intervals and in squares; his hat, which he wore upon his head as the king's Intendant, was also white and fringed with gold; his sword was gold-handled and sheathed. Also his satin gloves were tasselled with gold thread, while, above all, he wore the _justaucorps à brevet_, or nobles' close coat. Upon his face--a handsome one, showing no traces of the fierce determination of his character--there sat this morning an easy look such as he might have worn had he been assisting at the _fiançailles_ of some grand siegneur of Languedoc, instead of at a council of war, bloodshed, and extermination. He had long since learned that not only the face, but also the whole deportment of a diplomatist should be a mask and not a glass in which men could read. "Here," he said, taking up a paper as he spoke, and glancing his eye around upon all who sat near him, "is a report of what has been done of late by these _attroupés_ from the hills, dating from their first murmurings. It is best I recite them. You," and he looked at Julien, "will then know against what you have to contend." "_Splendeur de Dieu!_" the great swashbuckler exclaimed, using one of his most magnificent oaths, "let me but get at them and will make them sing something else than their accursed Calvinistic canticles, I warrant you. Read, your Excellency, read." The fringed glove of his Excellency flattened out the paper, the gloved finger was placed upon a line, and Baville began. "Three months ago Adolphe Canivet was hung upon the bridge at Florac. His crime was, that he, a heretic, has blasphemed the king, also Madame De Maintenon." Baville raised his hat as he mentioned these august personages. Then, having replaced it, he continued: "Four nights afterward, Canivet's body was removed from the lamp; the next morning in its place was found the body of a dog, hung by the neck. Around that dog's neck was a label, and on it written, 'Thus will the dog Baville hang.' You laugh, monseigneur," the Intendant said, glancing at Julien and looking, for him, a little ruffled. "You forget, perhaps, that the 'dog Baville' represents the king here." "I forget nothing," said Julien, "neither do I laugh. Go on. Later, I promise you, I will even remember the dog." "From that time the so-called Protestants braved us in every way," Baville continued. "In spite of all our care, they have left the country in great numbers, some getting across to Savoy, some escaping by the sea, many fleeing into the mountains. Also they refuse to enter the churches to hear Mass, preferring to hold meetings in the mountains and woods." At this the bishop groaned, but Baville, pretending not to hear him, went on: "Many have descended from the mountains at night and demanded alms and ammunition, having none themselves, from those who possessed them. The prior of St. Gervais had his house broken into and several musketoons taken, they having been left in his charge by some of De Broglie's soldiers." "_Malédiction!_" exclaimed Julien, "why left they their arms with a priest?" "They were scaling the mountains to find the outcasts," Baville answered. "Being good soldiers," and he looked severely at the other as he spoke, "they depended on their swords and pistols." "Humph!" muttered the marshal, "a soldier who parts with his weapons is a fool. He who leaves them with a priest is a double fool." "Treachery, too, is rife," the Intendant continued, still with his finger on the paper. "Some of these heretics who have refused conversion, yet were willing to swear fidelity to the king, were put on guard on the town walls here in Alais. Also at Nîmes and Anduse. In the morning their muskets were empty. They had not been fired, consequently the charges had been drawn. Needless to suggest where those charges went." "Also," put in the bishop, "many murders have been committed. Du Chaila and the curé of Frugéres within the last two days. What next? What next?" "Du Chaila," exclaimed Baville, "was my right hand. He feared naught, punished with justice, though with severity; would have assisted me to stamp out these rebels, I do believe, had he lived. Now he has been brutally murdered. Both he and the curé must be avenged." After which he proceeded to tell the whole story of the abbé's murder; from the beginning as it had been told to him; at the end, as he himself knew it. And he told them, too, how he had brought back with him to Alais the only person left in the village of Montvert when he reached it with de Peyre and the marquis. "At present," he went on, "I know not what to do with them. One is Buscarlet, who was the Protestant curé, but who has been suspended from his heretical worship for some years and has lived upon some small means he has, supplemented by gifts from those of his crew who are well to do. He is of the best among them, at least openly. Preaches submission openly to law and the Government; what he may do in secret I know not. But, unlike so many of his brethren, he has never fled. The other is a stranger to these parts and a gentleman. A proprietor in the north. Speaks too, I think, truthfully. If it pleases you they can be examined." "It would be best," the bishop said. Baville made a sign to the _greffier_ of the court who advanced toward him; then, after giving the man his instructions, he turned to the bishop and said: "Monsiegneur, they have been sent for. In a moment they will be before you. They are close at hand." They were so close at hand that they entered the court almost at once, escorted by the _greffier_, the pastor walking by the side of Martin and both returning the salutation of Baville, who, true to the outward bearing to which he had trained himself, bowed with civility. In his heart he had long since determined that Buscarlet was one of the most dangerous of the Protestant ministers with whom he would have to deal, for the simple reason that it was impossible to find any flaw in his conduct which would justify him in transporting him to the galleys or New France; and therefore, until that flaw was discovered, until the opening was given him, he did not betray his determination by outward rudeness. As for the stranger who was before him, he scarcely knew what his course of action should be. The story he told of himself might be true, in which case he had no possible authority for molesting him, while, even though it were false, he would have great difficulty in proving it to be so. Also, as happens frequently to those of the most astute minds, he had forgotten to put one leading question to this stranger: To ask him if he--who had been the lodger of this pestilential heretic, and who, by a strange chain of circumstances, was the only other witness of the abbé's murder who had remained behind in Montvert--was himself a heretic. Had forgotten it; though now it seemed to Martin, as he stood there looking round the room filled with men all bitterly hostile to the Protestant faith, that the question could no longer remain unasked. Would that bishop, sitting there calm and impassive, also omit to ask it? That field marshal omit it too, whose apostasy and fierce vindictive hatred of those he had deserted was known and talked of wherever half a dozen of the Reformed faith gathered together to discuss their persecutions and their persecutors? Also those priests and those six hooded monks who had followed in the soldiers' train? Scarcely could he deem it possible! Well, he was prepared with his answer. No denial would issue from his lips, no lie be told. Therefore he took the place to which the Intendant motioned him, and, sitting, down by Buscarlet's side, prepared calmly to await whatever might happen. Had he been able to see behind him he would have observed that which, even though it had carried him no consternation, must have astonished him; for on the face of one of those cowled monks, the man even throwing back the hood from off his forehead to stare more intently at him as he endeavoured to catch a second glance of Martin's features, he would have noticed a look of profound astonishment--the look of one who sees another in the last place of all where he would have expected so to see him, and who, while thus seeing, can scarcely force himself to believe his own eyes. "Monsieur Buscarlet," said Baville, quietly and with no accent either of impoliteness or reproof in his tones, "what happened at Montvert the other night amid some who were once your flock must be clearly told to all assembled here. From you I must demand an account, as I have the right to do. Later I shall ask this gentleman, Monsieur Martin, if he agrees with that account." As he said the words "Monsieur Martin" the _cordelier_ started. Then over his shaven face--a face unrelieved by either eyebrows or eyelashes, so that those who looked at him might doubt if indeed his cheeks were ever touched by razor and if their lack of hair was not due to a defect in Nature--there came that look of new-born recognition which all have seen spring into the countenances of others. "Martin!" he uttered, "Martin! Ay, that was the name. The name he was called by. It is he. What does he here? He of the house of de Rochebazon, and consorting with heretics!" CHAPTER XII. "I AM A PROTESTANT." An hour later the meeting in the Hôtel de Ville had broken up, yet not before Buscarlet had said words such as he had better have bitten out his tongue than have uttered; for, after he had told his tale truthfully (as nothing would have prevented him from telling it) and had described all that had taken place from the moment when, singing their psalms, the men of the mountains had passed down the village street, bidding all the inhabitants keep within doors--narrating, too, how he had besought them to spare the abbé and return good for evil--the Intendant had remarked almost angrily to him: "Yet, in spite of all you say, the rebellion against the king's authority, the murder, and all other violence has happened, as it always happens, in a place of strong heretical leanings. Oh, you Protestants, as you term yourselves; oh, you of the Reformed faith, as you blasphemously name yourselves--ever are you at the root of all rebellion, of all eruption, all attacks upon those who are God's anointed. Yet you can never triumph. Never--here in France." As he spoke he revealed to those around him what were his true feelings in regard to all that had taken place, though indeed some of them knew or suspected those feelings; revealed that it was the resistance to the king's power, the constituted authority, which he was determined to crush more than the resistance to the ancient and, in this place at least, cruel faith of the land. These were indeed his feelings, this his guiding motive. He was above all things a courtier, a king's man; and though for thirty-three years he never quitted Languedoc for a single day, he becoming its Intendant in 1685 and retiring from it in 1718, Versailles with its powerful master was the star on which his eyes were ever fixed. Nay, he himself had said that _Le roi était son Dieu_, and that to do him service was all he lived for. As for the outraged Romish faith, let Rome repay that outrage. His duty was to crush rebellion, and he did it well. When he finally left the province, he had caused twelve thousand Protestants to suffer either death, imprisonment, or transportation to the galleys. But now from Buscarlet there came a denial of Baville's charges against his creed. Rising from his seat by Martin's side he spoke, while all in the room gazed in astonishment at the old man, never expecting to hear the words he uttered. "Your Excellency," he said, "have you weighed well your words ere you uttered them? Scarcely, I think. All rebellion comes from us, the Protestants, you have said, all attack upon those who are God's anointed. Is this so? Pause, sir, and reflect. Who was it who first uttered the maxim that bad kings should be deposed? Who were those whom Henri of Valois saw force their way into his palace of the Louvre, carry off his furniture, reverse his arms, destroy his portrait, break his great seal, style him _Lâche_, _Hérétique_, _Tyran?_ Was it not the Sorbonne who declared the people absolved from their vow to him, erased his name from the prayers of the Romish Church? Who slew him at St. Cloud? Jacques Clement, the monk--was he a Protestant?" "Henri de Valois was himself a murderer," the bishop made answer. "Himself slew the Guises at Blois." "How many Protestants have been murdered by orders of our present king? Yet there is not one in France who would raise his hand against him," the pastor continued. Then, as though carried away by one of those ecstasies which caused men, especially men among the refugees of the mountains, to seem almost inspired, he continued: "Your Excellency has said we attack those who are God's anointed. Do we so? Who formed the rebel league to exclude Henry of Navarre from the succession? Who was it struck that great king to the heart in the Rue de la Ferronnerie? Ravillac! Was he of the Reformed faith? Who would have turned Louis off the throne he now sits securely on, have set up the Prince of Condé in his place? Who? Who? Not Protestants for sure! Name one who has slain a king or attempted to slay one in all our land." "Monsieur Buscarlet," Baville replied, still containing himself, "there is no accusation against those of your faith as to their desiring to slay King Louis. But they have revolted against all constituted authority, against all who here rule for the king, against his priests. Your statement as to what misguided men of our own faith have done helps you not. Two wrongs do not make one right. And because it is by the Protestants that the sacred soil of France is threatened, the Protestants must go. Nay, more: those who rebel must pay the penalty." * * * * * * * "Monsieur," said Baville, coming in two hours later to another room in which Martin sat, he and Buscarlet having been requested to leave the apartment in which the council were, after they had both testified to all that had happened at Montvert on the night when the abbé was slain, "Monsieur, I have heard strange news of you. I wonder you did not see fit to tell me with whom I had the honour of conversing." "With whom you had the honour of conversing!" Martin replied, looking at him in astonishment. "I think, sir, you forget. I told you my name, also where my property is--in France." "Pardon me, you did so tell me." And, even as he spoke, Martin observed, to his still further astonishment, that the Intendant's manner had become one of almost deference, certainly of increased courtesy, though he had never been in any way impolite to him since they had met at Montvert. "You did tell me that. What you omitted to inform me of, quite within your perfect right, doubtless, was that you were of the de Rochebazon family. Sir, permit me to congratulate you. There is no nobler house in all France, in Europe." "Your Excellency, I have not the honour to be of the house of de Rochebazon----" "Not?" "But, instead, a relative of the late Princesse de Rochebazon." And as he spoke he did not doubt, nay, he felt sure, that he had given himself into this man's power. If he knew so much of the de Rochebazons as he seemed to do, he must know that the late princess had been an Englishwoman. Baville would also be aware, therefore, what his nationality was. Yet, still strong in the honour which lay deep within his heart; strong, too, in his determination to profit by no evasion of the truth when the telling of it was absolutely necessary, he announced his kinsmanship with her, looking straight into the Intendant's eyes as he did so. In an instant he recognised that he stood in no peril at present. Whatever Baville might know of the family of de Rochebazon, it was evident he did not know that the princess was not a Frenchwoman. "Monsieur," Baville replied, "it is the same thing. And, sir, I welcome you to Languedoc, you, a member of a great family which has stood ever by the throne, the Church. I hope you will make my house--it is at Montpellier--your resting place while you remain in the Midi. You will be very welcome." "I thank your Excellency, but it is impossible I should accept. You will remember I told you I have a mission here--one that I can not put aside even amid the troublous times which have now arisen in the neighbourhood. I must prosecute my mission to the end." "To find the lost man you spoke of?" "To find him." "Is he a de Rochebazon? If so, he should be very near to a great inheritance--an inheritance which, the Franciscan tells me (the monk who recognised you as the gentleman who attended the last moments of Madame la Princesse), the Church has fallen heir to." "The monk! What monk? Yet--I remember. There were two at her bedside: one who watched continuously, another who came at the last moment. Which is he?" "I can not say. Yet I will bring you into intercourse with him if you desire it. He is here to assist in stamping out this accursed Protestantism, in helping to convert them to the true faith." "Your Excellency hates bitterly these Protestants." "I hate the king's enemies. And all Protestants are such." As the Intendant uttered these words Martin told himself the time had come. He must speak now or be henceforth a coward in his own esteem. It was for nothing that his father had cast off forever his allegiance to James, had openly acknowledged that henceforth he abjured the religion to which James belonged. Not for nothing, since by so doing he had stood his trial before Sir Francis Wytham and Sir Creswell Levinz, narrowly escaping Jeffreys himself. Not for nothing, since he had been fined and imprisoned, he who had followed the Stuarts into exile, almost ruined. Yet all would be for nothing--his father's tribulations, his own repudiation of the wealth his aunt had amassed for him--all would be worth nothing if now he stood here before this man and, hearing the cause reviled for which both father and son had sacrificed so much, held his peace like a coward. The time had come. "Your Excellency," he said quietly, "stigmatizes Protestants as accursed; also as the king's enemies. Well, as to being accursed I know not; it may be even as you say. But I do know that I am no enemy of King Louis. Yet--I am a Protestant." "You!" Baville exclaimed, taking a step back in sheer astonishment. "You! Yet a kinsman by marriage of the de Rochebazons. It is impossible." "Nevertheless it is true." Baville shrugged his shoulders, then suddenly turning round on him, he said: "Your sympathies, then, are with these rebels here. You approve, perhaps, of what you saw on the bridge at Montvert two nights ago. Are here, it may be, to foment further troubles." "You mistake. I utterly disapprove of what I saw. Would indeed have saved the priest had it been in my power. It is not by cruelty that wrongs are righted." "In Heaven's name, then, if these are your sentiments what makes you a Protestant?" "Conviction. As conviction made that de Rochebazon a Protestant whom I am here to find some traces of, alive or dead." They had remained standing face to face with one another since the Intendant had come into the room; they were face to face still as Martin told how the missing heir to the de Rochebazon name and wealth had himself changed his religion, and, being face to face, he saw a strange look, a shade of startled perplexity, come into the countenance of Baville. Also he noticed that he paled perceptibly. Then the latter said: "De Rochebazon, _the_ de Rochebazon, turned a Protestant! turned Protestant!--_c'est incroyable!_--and came here to Languedoc. When--how long ago?" "I do not know. Possibly forty years ago. Your Excellency," and now the clear blue eyes of the young man looked into the equally clear dark eyes of the ruler of the province, "do you know aught of him? Can you put me in the way of finding him?" "I--no. Why do you ask? I came not here till '85. And--and--alas! that it should be so. It is their own doing. The Protestants and I have been at enmity ever since. They have made my rule a bitter one. It is their own doing, I repeat. Their own fault." "They have not risen until now. Done no overt act!" Martin exclaimed. "Unfortunately, they have done many. You do not know. And they have resisted the king's ordinances." Then changing the subject swiftly, he said: "Monsieur Martin, you tell me you are here to seek this missing man; that you have no intention of aiding these rebels. I am glad to hear it. Yet, remember, if you remain here you do so at dire peril to yourself. If you take part in any act of rebellion, if you join in any way in their uprisings, proclaim yourself in the least as an opponent of the law and order which must be re-established at all costs here, then you too must be responsible for whatever may befall you. Do you think you can stay here and also remain neutral?" "Are there not others in France who, being of my faith, are doing so? Are there not still De Colignys, De Rohans, De la Trémoilles, De Sullys in France, surrounding the king's person? Yet they are loyal to him and he molests them not; accept their service; lets them worship God in their own way." "They are not in Languedoc," Baville said briefly yet very pertinently. "And the day will come when they will all return to their own faith. Otherwise France is not for them.[1] Nor will it be for you or yours." Martin shrugged his shoulders at the latter part of this speech, since no answer was possible. France was not for him under any circumstances when he had once carried out his dead kinswoman's request, had found and done justice to Cyprien de Beauvilliers or his children, if he had left any, or, failing to find them, had at last discontinued his search. "Meanwhile," continued Baville, "I would counsel you to reside at Montpellier. There, for the present at least, your co-religionists are not troublesome, and up to now I have not had to exercise the strong hand. Also," and now he bowed with the easy grace which had never forsaken him though he had been absent from Versailles for seventeen years, "if you will permit me, if you will accept of any courtesy at my hands--at the hands of Baville, the hated Intendant--I shall be pleased to be of service to you. As a connection of the house of de Rochebazon I may do that, while as a private gentleman, who does not obtrude his religious belief upon me, I shall be happy to assist you in your quest. Though I warn you I do not think you will succeed." "You think the man I seek for never came here, or, coming, is dead?" For a moment the other paused ere answering, his handsome face indicating that he was lost in thought, his clear eyes gazing searchingly into the eyes of the other. "I do not know. I can not say. It is most probable that if he ever came he is dead." "Leaving no children?" "How can I say? At least--if--if he is dead he must have died and left no trace or sign. Died without divulging who he was." Then Baville turned to the door as though to go; yet ere he did so he spoke again, repeating his words: "I should counsel you to make Montpellier your resting place. If aught is to be learned I may help you to learn it there." "I thank you. Doubtless it would be best. Yet there is one request I must make to you; it is to--to deal gently with Buscarlet. On my word of honour as a gentleman, he has had no hand in these recent troubles. He besought those mountaineers who descended on Montvert to spare the abbé." "There is nothing against Monsieur Buscarlet at present which calls for severity. Yet if he does not change his faith I know not what may be the end. If these Cévenoles do not desist, or are not stamped out, the retribution will be terrible." "On all?" "I fear on all. The Church never forgives. The Church will cry for vengeance against the Huguenots, and I, the ruler, must hear that cry." "And answer it?" "And answer it; for their resistance is rebellion, and rebellion must be crushed. Warn him, therefore, to be on his guard. To preach, above all, obedience to the king. Otherwise there is no hope. The prisons are already full of his brethren. Bid him beware, I say. They term Louis the 'Scourge of God,' and they speak truly. He will scourge the land of all who oppose him. And if not he--then his wife." CHAPTER XIII. URBAINE. From the Mediterranean the warm, luscious breezes of the south sweep up to where Montpellier stands ere they pass the city and waft to the summits of the Cévennes the perfume of the flowers and the odours of the rich fruits which grow upon the shores of the beauteous sea. And from Montpellier itself, from the old _Place de Peyrou_, may be obtained a view that is unsurpassed both in its beauty and in its power of recalling to the memory the loathsome cruelties which, perpetrated in the days of Louis the Great King, have smirched forever that beauty. Far away, too, where rise the tips of the mountains of Ventoux on the confines of fair Provence, the Alps begin to show--those Alps over which the weary feet of escaping Protestants had been dragged as their owners sought the sanctuary of a more free land. Below lies a beautiful valley watered on one side by the Loire and on another by the Rhône, watered once also by the blood and the tears of the heartbroken dwellers therein. A valley teeming once again with the fruits of the earth, and with now all signs erased of the devastation which he, whose statue stands in that _Place de Peyrou_, caused to be spread around; erased from human sight, but not from human recollection. Upon the other side lies Cette, of scant importance in these times as seacoast towns and harbours are reckoned, and dead and done with--lies there basking and smiling beneath the warm sun that shines alike in winter as in summer. Cette, the place which, in the minds of the forefathers of those who now dwell there, bore the blackest, most hated name of all the villages bordering the blue sea. For here the galleys harboured, here fathers and husbands, brothers and sons, were flung to horrors and miseries and the life of an earthly hell--a hell whose pangs knew no assuagement till death, most welcome, brought release. From where Baville sat in his open window Cette could be seen; the harbour in which half a dozen of those galleys lay waiting for their victims. On a table before him were papers for the sending of other victims to the prisons of the surrounding towns; also the sentences of death allotted to many rebels, death in hideous forms. Some to be hung upon the bridges of their own town, some to be broken on the wheel, some to be burned in market places, some to have their forefingers struck off (a form of punishment peculiar to the neighbourhood and to those who had been captured in the present uprisings), and afterward to be hanged. Also on tables at either side of him were orders to the colonels of local regiments to place themselves under direction of Julien; orders to others to provide forage and stabling for so many horses and accommodation for so many men; orders, too, for provisions and forage to be sent in to Montpellier and Nîmes for the victualling of the forces quartered there. And to all and every one of these he had already affixed his signature, "Baville"--a signature which here carried as much authority as if, instead, it had been "Louis." Yet it was not about these papers that Nicholas de Lamoignon de Baville, Comte de Launai-Courson, Seigneur de Bris, Vaugrigneuse, Chavagne, Lamothe-Chaudemier, Beuxes and other places, as well as Conseiller d'Etat, Intendant de Justice, polices et finances--to give him his full names and titles--was thinking on this bright morning, nor on them that his eyes rested. Instead, upon a far smaller thing--a thing on which one would scarcely have thought he would have wasted a moment's attention--a little plain cornelian seal which he was turning over and over in his hands and regarding carefully through a small magnifying glass. "Strange," he muttered to himself, "strange if, after all, after years of meditation and inquiry, I should thus have lit upon the clew! Strange, strange!" He struck, as thus he mused, upon a little bronze gong that stood by his side and ready to his hand, and a moment later the door was opened and a man of about his own age came into the room in answer to the summons; a man whose plain garb, made of the local Nîmes serge, and wig _à trois marteaux_, proclaimed almost with certainty that he was a clerk or secretary. "Casalis," the Intendant said, he having put the seal beneath some papers ere the other entered, "there is in the library a book entitled, _Devises et blasons de la Noblesse Française_, is there not?" "There is, your Excellency. Prepared a year ago by Monsieur le Comte----" "Precisely. Fetch it, if you please." The man retired, and, after being absent some few moments, came back, bearing in his hand a large, handsome volume bound in pale brown morocco, the back and sides covered with fine gold tooling and with Baville's crest stamped also on each side--a splendid book, if its contents corresponded with its exterior. "Shall I find any particular entry for your Excellency?" the man asked, pausing with the volume in his hand. "No, leave it. I may desire to look into it presently." Left alone, however, Baville looked into it at once, pausing at the names under "B" to regard with some complacency his own crest and arms beautifully reproduced in colours on vellum. Then he turned over a vast number of leaves in a mass, arriving at the letter "T," and re-turning back to "R," finding thereby the page which was headed "De Rochebazon." And emblazoned in the middle of the vellum in red, gold, and blue was the coat of arms of that great family; above it was the crest of the house, on a rock proper a hawk with wings elevated--the motto "Gare." "So," said Baville to himself, "he was of noble family, was a de Rochebazon. Had I looked at this book when the Comte de Paysac sent it to me, compared it with the seal, I should have known such was the case a year ago. Yet what use even if I had done so? What use? One can not recall--undo the past." And Baville--even Baville, the "tiger of Languedoc," as he had been termed--sighed. He took next the seal from the papers where he had pushed it and compared it with the Comte de Paysac's book, though even as he did so he knew there was no need for such comparison; the crest upon it was as familiar to him as his own. Then he muttered: "It is pity Monsieur le Comte did not make his work even more complete. Some information would be useful. As to whom he married, to wit, as to whom this young man may be, who is related to the late princess. Also as to the family of the princess--I should know that. I would the count were still alive." As thus he mused a shadow fell across the path that wound before his open window. From behind the orange tubs which formed a grove in front of that window there stepped out a girl who, seeing him there, smiled and said, "_Bon jour, mon père_." Then came on to the window and, leaning against the open frame, asked if she might come in, might bring him some flowers she had plucked to decorate his cabinet. "Always, Urbaine," he said, "always," and he put out his hand as though to draw her to him. "Come in, come in." Had this been a darkened room, a sombre cabinet into which no ray of sunlight ever stole, instead of being, in truth, a bright, gay apartment, the presence of the girl whom he addressed as Urbaine would have made it cheerful, have seemed to bring the needed sunlight to it; for, as she stood there, her long white dress giving fresh radiance to the room, her fair hair irradiated by the beams of light that glinted in through the dark-green leaves of the orange trees, she seemed to cast even more lustre around, making even the grave, serious face of the Intendant look less severe. In her hands she carried a mass of roses and ferns on which the dew sparkled, also some large white lilies. "Come, Urbaine," he said to her, "come, sit on your accustomed seat. When you are at Versailles you will have no father's knee to sit upon," and, caressingly, he drew her toward him, while she, sitting there, arranged the flowers into bunches. As he mentioned Versailles she sighed and turned her eyes on him, then said: "Why send me away, father? I do not wish to go. I desire to stay here by your side. By my mother's, too. Let me remain," and she bent forward and kissed his forehead. "Nay," he answered, "nay, Montpellier is no place for you now. You are best away from it. At present all is not well. Urbaine, these rebels are stronger than we thought. Julien has been here a month, and what has he done? Nothing, except sustain defeat. Now we must have more troops from Paris. Montrevel, they say, will come; yet ere he does so much may happen. Nîmes, even Montpellier, may fall into their hands. Urbaine, I will not have you here to--to--fall into their hands also." "Surely they will not hurt women. They say they attack none but soldiers--and--and priests; that, rough and fierce as they are, no woman has ever suffered at their hands. We of our side," and she sighed, "can scarcely say as much." "Who has told you this, child? Perhaps your new friend, Monsieur Martin. Nay, I see by your blush it is so. Urbaine, you must not believe all he says. Remember, he is a Huguenot too." "He has never spoken to me on such themes, or, speaking, has said nothing you could disapprove of. He says this uprising is wicked, unlawful; is not the way to gain their ends. Also he has told me that the murder of the Abbé Du Chaila was revolting to him; that he would have saved him had he not been powerless." "Where is he now?" Baville asked, without making any remark on what she told him as to Martin Ashurst's sentiments. "I have not seen him for some days." "I do not know," the girl said; "neither have I seen him. Yet he spoke of going to Alais to see his friend the pastor." "Urbaine," Baville said, "you must speak to him before you set out for Paris. He may listen to words from you which he will not hear from me. You must warn him to leave Languedoc, to return to the north." "To leave Languedoc! Return to the north!" she repeated. And it seemed to the sharp eyes of the Intendant as though her colour changed again. "Ay, child, he is in deadly peril here. Can you not understand?" "No," Urbaine replied, "no. What has he done?" "Actively, he has done nothing. Yet he is a doomed man, because of his religion. My dear one, ere long the king will be roused to awful fury by this rebellion; there will not be a _réformé_ left in France. And those who are passive will suffer the same as those who take up arms--in the Midi--here--at least. Even I shall not be able to shield him. Nay, more, how can I shield one and destroy all the rest?" "Can there be no peace?" "None! Peace! How can there be peace when none will make it? These Protestant rebels are the aggressors this time. Ask for no peace. It is war, a war which means extermination. A month ago I should have said extermination of them alone; now God knows who, which side, is to be exterminated. Louis is weakened by these attacks from without, from every side; all over Europe there is a coalition against France. And half her enemies are of the Reformed faith, as they term it. It is said that the old religion is to be destroyed, abolished. Yet Louis, France, will not fail without one effort; dying, we shall drag to destruction numberless foes. Urbaine, if we do not suppress these Camisards we have an internal foe to deal with as well. Do you think one Protestant will be spared?" "I may not see him again ere I set out for Versailles," the girl whispered, terrified at his words. "Then he must take his chance. At best he is but a quixotic fool." "Let me remain here; if there is danger let me share it." "Never!" Baville said. "The nobility are threatened, the 'Intendant' above all. Your place must be in safety. Oh, that your mother would go too! Yet," he added reflectively, "her place is by my side." "And mine is not? Do you say that?" And she touched his face caressingly with her hand. "Your place is where I can best shield you from the least threat of danger, my loved one; where danger can never come near you." And beneath his breath he added the word "again." Speaking thus to the girl upon his knee, a girl scarce better than a child, seeing she was now but seventeen years old, Baville--of whom the greatest of French diarists has said that _il en étoit la terreur er l'horreur de Languedoc_--was at his best. For if he loved any creature more than another on this earth--more than Madame l'Intendante, more even than his own son--that creature was Urbaine. She was not in truth his daughter, was of no blood relationship to him, yet he cared for her dearly and fondly and the love was returned. As the history of this girl was known to many in the province, so it shall be told here. Early in his Intendancy, when Baville (already known as an _esprit fort_ by the ministers round Louis) had been appointed to this distant Government, with, to console him, an absolute authority, he had returned one winter night from a raid that he had been making on a village in the Cévennes which, to use his own words, "reeked of Calvinism" and was full of persons who refused to comply with the new orders that were brought into force by the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. He was then but newly married to a sister of Gourville, the colonel of a local regiment of dragoons, and his wife's welcome to him was somewhat cooled by the announcement which he made to her that an intimate friend of his had perished in the raid, leaving behind a motherless child of whom he proposed to constitute himself the guardian. Apprised of the fact that Ducaire was the name of the intimate friend, Madame l'Intendante shrugged her shoulders and contented herself with saying that it was the first time she had ever heard of him. Later, after reflection, she laughed a little, quoted some words of M. de Voiture as to _les secrets de la comédie_ which were no secrets either to actors or audience, and, in the course of the next two or three days, uttered pointed remarks to the effect that if politics failed at any future time, doubtless M. l'Intendant might earn a pleasant livelihood as a weaver of romances and of plots for plays. "_En vérité_" she said, with her little laugh, "Jean de la Fontaine is old, also _Racine; profitez vous de l'occasion, mon ami. Profitez vous_." Then, because they were alone in Madame's boudoir, Baville rose and stood before his wife and, speaking seriously, bade her cease her badinage forever. And after the conversation which ensued, after, also, the story which Baville told her, Madame did cease her flippancy, and henceforth had no further qualms of jealousy. In truth, as the child grew up, she too came to love it, to pet it as much as her husband did, to--because she was an honest, tender-hearted woman who, beneath all her pride for Baville's great position, had still many feminine qualities in her breast--weep over it. "_Pauvrette!_" she would sometimes whisper to little Urbaine, long ere the child had come to understanding, "_pauvre petite_. Neither mother nor father either. Ah, well! Ah, well! they shall never be wanting while we live--say, Baville, shall they?" And the Intendant, the man of "horror and terror" to all around, looking down upon the babe as she slept in her little bed, would answer before God that they should never be wanting. Both kept their word. Urbaine Ducaire grew up, petted, caressed, beloved, the light of the Intendant's home, the flower, as he told her sometimes, of his life; a thing far, far more precious to him than the son, who, instead of being any comfort to them, was revelling in the impurities of Paris. CHAPTER XIV. THE ATTACK. Between where the mountains of the Cévennes rise in tumultuous confusion, with, towering above them all, the gigantic Lozère and La Manzerre whence springs the beauteous Loire; between this vast mountainous region, which gives to the mind of him who beholds it the idea of a world falling to ruin and perishing of its own worn-out antiquity, and the Rhône, the road to the north winds through a fertile valley--a valley where the meadows and the orchards and the vineyards run down to the river on which the rafts and boats float along until the stream empties itself into the Mediterranean at last; boats from which are wafted the perfume of the new-mown hay, or the fruits which they are conveying. A valley this in which are little houses set in among the pear trees and the chestnuts, and covered with bird-swarming ivy wherein the southern oriole builds its nest and rears its young; houses in front of which the fair roses of Provence grow in great clusters as they have grown there for centuries, and over which the pigeons whirl in their flight. Once, not twenty years before the period of this narrative, and before a reformed wanton had urged a superstitious king (already then growing old and shuddering at the phantoms that arose from his evil and unclean past, as well as from the fear of what his enemies--the whole world!--might wreak upon him in the shape of human vengeance) to wage what he termed a holy war, this valley had been one of a thousand in France where peace and contentment had reigned. Peace and contentment coupled, it is true, with, in most cases, a simple humble life, yet still a life free from care. An existence scarce disturbed by aught more serious than some trifling ailments of the children who ran about barefooted in the long lush grass, or plunged into the cool stream that watered the land, or by the sound of the passing bell telling at solemn intervals how one who had lived there all his days was going to his rest. A life spent in the open air all through the summer time, or by the blazing chestnut logs when the snows of winter kept all shut up in their cottages, carding, weaving, combing, earning their living thus as in the golden prime of July they earned it by gathering fruit, or cutting the corn and sheaving it, or rearing the cattle. Now all was changed, all but the beauty of the land. The red-roofed houses on whose tiles the topmost boughs of the pear trees rested, borne down with fruit, were closed; the wicker basket in which the thrushes and blackbirds had sung so joyously, not deeming their lives captivity, were empty; so, too, were the stalls where once the kine had lowed and the horses trampled as daybreak stole over the mountain tops. All were gone now. The old grandam who had looked after the children; the children themselves; the stalwart fathers; the dark-eyed, brown-bosomed women whose black tresses hung down their backs and served as ropes for their babes to tug at. Gone--but where? Half of the men to the galleys, to toil until their hearts burst and they died, worn to skeletons by belabourings and thrashings, starvation and ill usage; the other half to the mountains, there to meditate upon, and afterward to take, a hideous, black revenge on those who had driven them from their homes. The old women gone also, some to fester in the prison cellars of Nîmes, Uzès, Alais, Niort, and Montpellier. The black-haired mothers to do the same, to groan in the dungeons for water, even though it were but one drop to cool their tongues; to shriek to God to take their lives, even though they were sacrificed in the flames of the market place; to pray to their Creator to let them die and join their slaughtered babes once more; see again the husbands from whom the gibbet and the wheel had torn them forever in this world. Because they were Protestants, Reformés, Huguenots! That was their crime! The crime that had roused the woman in Paris--_la femme célèbre et fatale_--to urge on her husband the devastation of the Garden of France. Down this road now, which wound between the base of the Cévennes and the banks of the rapid Rhône, upon a sunny afternoon in September--when all the uncut corn (there being no one to gather it) was bending on its stalks upon which, later, it would rot, past a burned and ruined church, past, too, a wheel on which a dried, half-mummified body was bound and left to shrivel--there came a cortége. A cortége consisting first of a troop of dragoons of the regiment of Hérault, their sabres drawn and flashing in the sun, their musketoons slung ready at their backs, their glances wary and eager. Ahead of them rode their captain, a man tall and muscular, burned black almost from constant exposure to the sun and by taking part in many campaigns from his youth, commencing in Germany and Austria. This was Poul, a Carcassonnais, who, since the outbreak of the Cévennes rising, had been distinguished as one of the most determined opponents of the _attroupés_. Also he was a marked man, doomed to death by them, and he knew it. But over his midnight draughts of Hermitage he had sworn often that, ere his fate overtook him, many of the _canaille_ should also meet theirs. Behind his troop of dragoons, numbering thirty-five men, there came a travelling carriage, large, roomy, and much ornamented, and drawn by four horses. In it there sat Urbaine Ducaire on her way to Langogne, the first stage on the road to Paris. By her side was seated a middle-aged _gouvernante_ or companion, whom Baville had told off to accompany her until she reached Avignon, where she would be safe outside the troubles of Languedoc and where she was to continue her journey under the protection of the Duchess d'Uzès. Above the carriage was piled up her valises and portmanteaux; also upon it were three footmen armed with fusils, all of which were ready to their hands; also a waiting maid who was always in attendance upon Urbaine. To complete her guard, behind the great carriage marched a company of the fusileers of Barre and Pompidon, headed by a mounted officer. Passing the broken and mutilated corpse upon the wheel, Poul pointed to it with his glove and laughed; then, reining back his horse until the dragoons had gone by, he looked in at the great window and remarked to Urbaine: "Mademoiselle perceives the _canaille_ are not always triumphant. As it is with that crushed rat there, so it will be with all. Time! Time! Our vengeance will come." But the girl, after casting one horrified glance at the thing which was shrivelling in the broiling September sun, had shrunk back affrighted into the depths of the great travelling carriage and thrown up her hands before her eyes while the _gouvernante_, addressing Poul, said: "Monsieur le Capitaine, why call our attention to that? It is no pleasing sight even to a devout Catholic, moreover a bitter one when we remember the fearful retaliation that has been exacted. Have you forgotten the Abbé du Chaila, the curé of Frugéres?" "Forgotten!" exclaimed the rough Carcassonnais, "forgotten! _Ventre bleu!_ I have forgotten nothing. Else why am I here? Beautiful as is the freight of this carriage," and he made a rough bow "it needs no Capitaine Poul to command the dragoons who escort it in safety. Any _porte drapeau_, or unfledged lieutenant, could do that. Nay, it is in hopes that we may meet some of these singing, snivel-nosed Calvinists that I ride with you to-day. Oh, for the chance!" "Send him away," whispered Urbaine; "he terrifies me. Would that my father had chosen some other officer." Ere, however, her companion could do as she requested, Poul had turned his wrist and ridden again to the head of his troops, a fierce look of eagerness on his face, a gleam in his coal-black eyes. For from ahead of where the cavalcade had now arrived--a shady part of the road, on one side of which there rose precipitously some rocks crowned with bushes, while on the other was a meadow--he heard a sound which told him his wish was very likely to be granted. A sound of singing, of many voices in unison. Voices uttering words which reached the ears of all, causing the dragoons and fusileers to look to their arms and the women and footmen to turn white with apprehension. A sound of singing that rose and fell upon the soft afternoon air as though somewhere a conventicle was being held. And these the words they sung: Dieu! que Juda connait: Dieu! qu' Israel adore Salem est ta demeure et Sion ton autel! Ton bras de nos tyrans a rompu Tare sonore, La glaive qui dévore Et le combat mortel. "Ha!" called out Poul, his dark face now more suffused with rage than before, "they are near at hand. Swords out, _mes dragons, avancez--en double ligne de Colonne_; here is more garbage for the wheel. _En avance les fusiliers_--the carriage behind. _Tambours battants. En avant!_" And while the women screamed, Urbaine burying her fair head for a moment on the _gouvernante's_ shoulder, the dragoons fell into double line, and the fusileers of Barre and Pompidon, passing swiftly on on either side of the great carriage formed up behind them, their drums beating scornfully. At first they saw no enemy, scarce expected to see any, since all knew by now that these mountaineers fought on the system of those dreaded Indians whom some of this force had already encountered on the shores of the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi--namely, by sheltering themselves behind every available tree or rock, or even shrub, from which they fired on their foes with deadly effect. But they heard them. Heard again the solemn hymn they sang in the hour of battle, of death, and of vengeance: Aux éclairs de ta foudre, à sa fumante trombe Le c[oe]ur manque an vaillant, le bras échappé au fort Le char d'airain se brise, et le coursier succombe, Et le guerrier qui tombe S'assoupit dans la mort! Then a moment later they saw their foes, or some of them. Upon the summit of the rock sixty feet above their heads, amid the stunted trees and bushes that grew thereon, they saw appear a strange crowd. Men, tall and swarthy, some old, some almost boys, while there was one of the latter whose fantastic attire--a vest of bleached Holland garnished with silver buttons, _culottes_ of chamois leather, gold-gallooned, ivory-hilted sword, scarlet mantle and black felt hat, with long white ostrich feather--would better have become one of Luxembourg's dandy cavaliers than an _attroupé_ of the mountains. Also three men, venerable-looking, yet fierce and stern, two having beards that flowed over their chests, all of whom joined in the hymn that was being sung by a larger body that was ahead of the place where the Royalist troops were--ahead, yet advancing toward those who had been caught in the snare, advancing singing and firing. And by the side of these three, who were Prophets--_Inspirés_--there stood a girl, black and swarthy, too, a bracelet on her arm and in her hands a musketoon, which she raised and, aiming at the carriage below, fired. With a shriek the _gouvernante_ fell back on to the cushions dead; with another, Urbaine flung her arms about her, moaning, while now, from all around, the sound of firing was heard, and, pealing high, above all else, the voice of Poul, howling orders, yelling curses, laughing defiantly. Yet why he laughed none knew, for already the saddles of the dragoons were being emptied rapidly; the ground was strewn, too, with the bodies of the fusileers of Barre and Pompidon, those who still lived being driven back. Fear paralyzes sometimes; sometimes also inspires with a terrible and desperate courage. It was thus with Urbaine Ducaire at this moment. She screamed and moaned no more, let the poor dead woman's body lie back in the carriage, put out her hand to the door that was farthest away from the rock on which the visible portion of the enemy was, and endeavoured to turn the handle. Yet, ere she did so, she saw a sight that might well have unnerved her, have struck her dead with horror. Upon the rock-side of the vehicle she saw Poul fighting like a demon possessed, or, better, like a doomed brave man. She saw his sabre dart through one fanatic's throat, then through another's breast; she heard his hoarse, triumphant shouts and terrible oaths, also his words of bitter scorn and hatred of the _canaille_ as he thrust at them, then nearly fainted at what she saw next: A lad standing by the side of the girl armed with the musketoon, while still she fired as fast as she could load it--a lad who adjusted a huge stone in a sling, and then, watching his opportunity and whirling the latter round his head, discharged the missile, which crashed with fatal effect full on Poul's forehead. And as the brave, rough soldier, with a cry of hideous, awful agony, fell to the earth, the youth, shouting in his rough _patois_ that the soul of David had descended through countless ages to enter his body, leaped down the crags of the rock, fell upon the unhappy man, and, seizing his sword, began to hack his head off. "I can bear no more," Urbaine murmured, "no more! Pray God the next bullet fired enters my heart! Otherwise I must die of horror." And she sank to the bottom of the carriage, her head on the dead woman's knees, sank back and lay there in a stupor. Whereby she knew not that, even as she did so, across the meadow a man had ridden on a rawboned horse as fast as he could urge it, had gained the road, and, swiftly dismounting amid the rain of bullets and stones from above, had wrenched open the carriage door and lifted her out in his arms. Knew not that in his strength he had tossed her on to the neck of the horse and quickly remounted, having but one hand to use in doing so, and that, amid a storm of more bullets, he had carried her off from where the carnage still raged, while in his ears he heard more than once the cry-- "_Voilà ton Poul!_ He is well trussed. Eat him!" CHAPTER XV. SHELTER AND REFUGE. That night as darkness fell upon the earth, and while, high up in the heavens, the bonfires burned which the _attroupés_ lit regularly on the tops of the Cévennes in the hopes of thereby luring their enemies into their strongholds and fastnesses, Martin spoke to Urbaine, saying: "Mademoiselle, I know not what is to be done. Had the unfortunate horse not been slain by that last bullet we might have got back to safety. To Montpellier or, failing that, to Lunel at least. Now it seems hopeless. You can go no farther and--and I can not leave you alone while I seek assistance, which, even if I did, I should not obtain. There is no assistance for--for those who are not on their side." "I can not understand you, monsieur," Urbaine said quietly. "You are yourself a Protestant, my father told me--nay, did you not so inform me that morning in our garden at Montpellier--yet you trouble to save me from your fr----, those of your faith. I am deeply grateful to you, only I do not comprehend." For a moment his clear eyes rested on her. In the dusk that was now almost night she saw them plainly. Then he answered very quietly: "Is it not enough, mademoiselle, that you are a woman? Must I, because I am a Protestant, have no right to the attributes of a man?" "I--I ask your pardon; forgive me. I would not wound you--you who have saved me. And I thank you. Only, here, in Languedoc, we have learned in the last few weeks to expect no mercy from the Protestants." "Like all who have turned against injustice and cruelty, they are now themselves unjust and cruel. One may respect their turning, even their uprising, yet not their methods." Then for some moments there was silence between them. They were seated, on this warm September night--for six weeks had passed since the murder of the abbé--upon a bank outside a deserted cottage a league or so from where the ambuscade and slaughter of Poul and the soldiers under him had taken place. Above them, all around them, in the little garden, there grew the sweet flowering acacias which are at their best in the valleys that lie between the Loire and the Rhône; the air was thick with their perfume. Also the gourds lay golden on the ground, uncut and ripening to decay. The scarlet beans trailed in rich profusion of colour on their sticks, illuminated, too, by the fireflies that danced around. And from the distance of a pistol-shot off there came the murmur of the arrowy river as it dashed down between its banks to reach the sea. Yet all was desolation here, and death. Death typified by the poor merle that lay forgotten and starved in its wicker cage, left behind when those who once dwelt here had fled a fortnight ago to the mountains at the report that De Broglie's _chevaux-légers_ were devastating the land. They fled leaving behind them, too, the three-months-old calf, and the fowls, and all the simple household creatures, having no time to do aught but shift for themselves and bear away to safety those other harmless living things, the children. "What is to be done I know not," Martin went on. "At any moment they may come this way; they know we have escaped so far. Then--then--it may mean instant death; at best, captivity in the mountains." "For me," she answered, speaking low, "for me? I am Baville's adopted child--the child of his dear friend. But for you--you are of their----" Then she paused, leaving the last word unsaid as she saw again his calm, sad eyes fixed on her. Once more she pleaded for pardon. "Forgive, forgive me," she said. "I am vile, ungenerous to speak thus. Yet we must part at last. They have no charge against you." "We part," he replied, "when you--when both--are safe." They knew not why at such a time as this, when action should have been everything and no moment wasted, in spite of the girl's fatigue and prostration, silence should fall upon them; why they should sit there as though courting a fate that might come at any moment, for at any moment, above the hum of the near river, there might be heard the voices of the revolted Cévenoles. Beneath the branches of the acacias that o'erhung the dusty white road would perhaps be seen the unbrowned barrels of their guns or the scythes with which, since many of them had as yet no weapons, they were armed. A silence between these two broken only by the twitter of birds in the branches, or by a sigh that rose unchecked from the girl's breast as, in the starlit dark, she turned her eyes on the features of the man by her side. "Come," he said at last, rousing himself, "come. It is madness to remain here. We must move on even though we encounter death by doing so. It is not likely that all have returned to the mountains after their victory; they may pass by here at any moment. Can you proceed at all, mademoiselle?" "I can at least try. Yet to where? To where?" "I do not know the land very well," he answered, speaking in the slow, calm voice which had impressed her so much a month ago when the Intendant had, with strange indifference (as it seemed to both of them), presented Martin to Urbaine and left them to pass some hours in the orange garden of the Intendancy, he contenting himself with telling the girl that her new acquaintance was from the north and was not of their faith. "I do not know the land very well. Yet is there not a garrison near here? I think so. Called the--the château of--the fortress of--Servas." "Ah, yes!" Urbaine cried, clasping her hands, "the Château de Servas. Between Alais and Uzès; not far from here. If we could reach that we should be safe. The commandant is known to my father--to De Broglie. He would protect us." "We must attempt it," Martin replied. "It is our chance, mademoiselle," he exclaimed, breaking off as he heard a gasp from her lips, "What is it? What! What new terror?" "I forgot," she whispered, her voice unsteady, "I forgot. In this instance the case is reversed. They are all of my faith--you--you--would be sacrificed. They are infuriated with these rebels. Alas!" she almost wailed, "they would not spare you. It is not to be dreamed on. Anywhere but there." "Nay," he said, "nay. It must in truth be there. And for me fear not. I have saved the daughter of his Excellency for them. Even though they know I am this accursed thing in their eyes, a Protestant, they would scarcely repay me cruelly for that." "They must never know it. By silence you are safe. Oh, let us attempt to reach it. It is but two or, at most, three leagues. I have been there with my father. He will bless you, worship you for saving me." "Three leagues! three leagues!" he repeated, "three leagues! For me, nothing. Yet for you, a delicate woman!" "The very thought, the hope of safety, inspires me. I am strong again. Come, monsieur, come, I beseech you, for both our sakes. For yours, for you who have saved me, above all." "Not so," he said. "I am a man who has ventured into the tiger's jaws and must take my chance. I am of poor account." And now they prepared to set forth to reach this place of refuge, yet both knew what dangers might well be expected ere they got there, if ever. For during the time which had elapsed since the Camisards, as at this time they began to be called, had risen and commenced their resistance by the slaughter of the Abbé Du Chaila, all Languedoc had been overrun with them and was in a state of terror. Also the flight of the inhabitants had become entirely reversed. It was the Catholics and the Catholic priests who were rushing out of the province as fast as they could go, while from their mountain homes the revolted Protestants who had taken up arms were pouring down in hundreds. Already, too, the cities were in a state of siege and the inhabitants fortifying themselves within the walls. That very night, although neither Martin nor Urbaine knew of it, the ancient city of Nîmes, the Rome of France, expected to be besieged, put to sword ere dawn; for by the time that they were hoping to accomplish their night journey to the Château de Servas the few dragoons who had escaped the slaughter which had fallen on Poul's detachment, as well as the fusileers and another band of cavalry and infantry who had been routed close by while under the command of De Broglie, had ridden pell-mell into Nîmes, their weapons broken or lost, their heads covered with blood, themselves and their horses wounded. Rode in the bearers of awful tidings as to how the fanatics were led by two persons, one a lad of sixteen named Cavalier, the other a man a few years older named Roland; rode in and told how women fought on their side as the Amazons of old had fought; how men preached and encouraged them and sang canticles as they did so; of how they spared none; had beheaded Poul; had captured Baville's daughter and slain her, if not worse. Described also, with white quivering lips, how the tocsins were ringing from half a hundred churches in flames; told of priests flung across their own altars and done to death, of soldiers mutilated ere slain--all by bands of men who seemed to vanish into the air the moment after their deeds were accomplished. Meantime Baville's daughter and her rescuer were threading their course through the meadows and pastures that fringed the wayside, because thus her feet were more eased by the long, cool grass on which now the dews of night had fallen, or slowly finding a path through chestnut woods. Sometimes, too--leaving the river behind them and knowing they were going aright since its distant hum became fainter and fainter, and since, ever before them, yet afar off, the summits of _La Lozère_ and _Bouquet_ stood out more clear against the heavens--they passed vineyards on which the black grapes hung in clusters, when, pausing, they moistened their lips with the soft, luscious fruit. Yet went on and on, resting at intervals, and then forward again, the girl leaning on the arm of her companion--the arm of the man whose faith she had been taught to despise and execrate. But once they had to stop for another reason than her fatigue, to pause in a great chestnut wood where the grass which grew at the feet of the trees was as soft and silky as thistle-down, and where the deer stared at them with wide-open, startled eyes; to pause because they heard a hundred yards away the voices of a band of men which passed along the wide road. "It is they," she whispered, trembling. "It is they. Whom do they seek?" "Fear not," he replied, soothing her, while at the same time he drew her within the decayed trunk of an enormous chestnut tree over whose head more than one century must have rolled. "They proceed too rapidly along the road, too swiftly on their way, to be in search of us. More like they go to midnight murder, the destruction of some harmless village, the pillage of some helpless town." "Murder! Destruction! you deem it that? You!" she whispered, her soft, pure eyes glancing up at his. "I deem it that," he replied gravely, "retaliation though it be." The band went on, their voices coming back to them on the still night air, the refrain of one of their hymns borne back also--a hymn still breathing of revenge blessed by God, of vengeance ordained by him. "If you are rested again," he whispered, "we may proceed." Still helping her, assisting her as gently as though he had been her brother, he led her on until at last they left the shelter of the woods and stood upon a little knoll of ground, a spot from which they looked across a plain bordered on the farther side by slopes and hills that, rising one behind the other, lifted themselves finally to mountains whose ridges and summits stood out sharply against the starry sky. Yet saw, too, that now the stars grew whiter and began to pale, that all the heavens were turning to a soft primrose hue, while, far away to the east, was the warm suffusing of scarlet which told of the coming day. Afar off, also, observed other crimson streaks over which there hung dun-coloured palls of smoke that proceeded from burning towns and hamlets. Shuddering, Urbaine directed her glance to the latter, then said, looking toward the north: "There ahead of us is the Château de Servas. You see?" and as she spoke she pointed to where, above a low purple-crested hill, a white building hung. "I see," he answered. "Pray God we reach it. You can still go on?" "I must go on," she replied. "Once there we are safe. The château is well garrisoned." Even through this plain, vineyards ran along the side of the road which led to where the fortress stood; therefore they were not so open to observation as if it had been a flat, uncultivated expanse; and across this they passed, sheltered by the vines on either side. And now there arose a chance unhoped for--one which, had it happened earlier in their journey, might have brought them to the harbour of refuge they sought before the night had gone. Grazing at the side of the road was an old mule, a creature rough-coated and long neglected and uncared for, its hide thick and coarse. Perhaps its being so poor a thing was the reason why it had not been carried off into the mountains either by those who owned it or by those who would have appropriated it if owned by their foes. Yet it served now to ease Urbaine from further toil, since Martin, catching it and placing his coat across its back as a saddle-cloth, lifted the girl on to it at once. Then instantly they set off again, he walking by the patient creature's side and directing it. An hour later, when now the light had come and when the mountain tops were all gilded with the rays of the sun, while below on the plain the coolness of dawn was already receding before the genial warmth of a new day, they had reached their journey's end and were mounting the slope beneath the castle. And seeing the two cannon that stood on their cumbersome old carriages upon the walls, and the men-at-arms who were already regarding them curiously from those walls, Martin knew that he had saved the girl for a second time. Also she knew it well, yet such was her emotion, such her agitation at recognising that she had escaped an awful fate, that she was powerless to express herself in words; but not too powerless to testify her gratitude by her looks and by the touch which she laid upon his hand. A touch which he understood and answered also by a glance, and by the muttered words, "Thank God!" A moment later the wicket in the great iron-barred and studded gate opened, and a soldier came out and stood regarding them; then called down the slope: "Who are you and what do you seek?" "Shelter and refuge," Martin answered back, his voice clear and distinct in the morning air. "This lady is his Excellency's daughter." "His Excellency's daughter!" the man repeated, his whole tone one of astonishment. "His Excellency's daughter, and travelling thus on such a sorry beast!" "And travelling thus. Fortunate, indeed, to be travelling at all," while, as he spoke, he extended his hands and caught Urbaine as she swerved on the mule's back and fell fainting into his arms. CHAPTER XVI. SUCCOUR. Once more the day was drawing to a close. Already across the plain the sun's rays were slanting horizontally. Soon the sun itself would have dipped behind the mountains and be gone. Another night was at hand, and Martin, gazing on the country around from the castle walls on which he stood, thanked God that it would bring no terrors to the girl whom he had saved, such as the past one had brought. Since they had been received into the castle in the morning by the commandant, a man who had once fought in countless campaigns but who now passed his latter years as governor of this place, he had seen nothing of Urbaine. She had been escorted to a room in the west wing immediately on their admission, where, after having been given restoratives in the shape of wine and food, and after being attended to by two or three of the few women in the place--soldiers' wives--she had begged that she might be allowed to be alone and thus obtain some rest. In was sorely needed, Martin said, speaking to the old chatelaine, sorely needed. "And can be procured," the other replied, twisting up his great moustachios. "_Bon Dieu!_ we have a room here fit for the reception of a duchess. Madame de Servas--a pretty thing---_une femme de la vieille souche_ also--loves a soft nest; yet not one perched in an eyrie around which such storms blow as those that are now devastating Languedoc, the pest seize them and those who brew them!" "Is the lady here?" Martin asked, thinking that, if so, she would be a comfort to the girl until she could escape back to Montpellier under his care. "_Pouf! pouf! pouf!_" the old soldier said, "not she indeed. I tell you the tempest is too rough for her; she fears too much the vagabonds up there," whereupon he nodded toward where by now all the mountain tops of the Cévennes were gleaming in the morning sun. "Thereupon she is fled to Paris, the paradise of women; to Versailles--Marly. Well, she is safe there from these men," and again he nodded toward the mountains. "From other men, ho! ho!--of the court, _figurez vous_--danger may come, drawn by her bright eyes. However, there is the nest for mademoiselle. _Tant mieux!_" But by now, as the evening drew on, those mountains were suffused by the soft _couleur de rose_ that, in a near and less troubled land, was known as the Alpine glow. And Martin, himself refreshed after some hours' sleep during the day, was leaning over the castle wall looking down into the valley and the plain all flushed with the burning sunset of the golden autumn, with, far off and running through the latter, the silver thread that was the river Gardon hurrying on to join the Rhône. He was thinking now of many things, even as his eyes took in the beauties of all the fair department that lay around him--the distant woods whose leaves were scarce yet browned by the touch of autumn's fingers; the mill house on the Gardon's bank whose wheel was now still, since its owner had fled, perhaps forever; the gray convent that lay farther off and had been half destroyed by fire two nights ago; the crumbled ivy-clad tower a mile away, in which the king's father, Louis "The Just," had caused a score of Protestants to be burned alive--was thinking of many things as he regarded the fair scene. Whether he would ever see his own land once more, ever escape out of France, ever meet again in future years the pure fair girl whose life he had saved but a few hours ago--the girl whose faith and convictions were so bitterly hostile to his own, as every word she spoke, every thought she allowed utterance to, testified. Also he was wondering if the search he had undertaken for the lost de Rochebazon--the search he now deemed a foolish, Quixotic one--could result in aught but failure here in such a tempest-tossed spot as this. "Never," he muttered to himself, "never shall I find him. France's empty coffers must swallow up all the wealth that is his, the Church he renounced must profit by my own renunciation. Find him! How? Where? Hanging to some gibbet if he has lived till these days, or learn that years ago he perished on the wheel or at the stake; that his ashes were cast to the winds. I shall never find him." Then he turned, hearing a step upon the leads behind him, and observed the commandant approaching the spot where he stood. Already, when the old soldier had been by his side a few moments before, he had been made acquainted with all that had happened on the previous day, and of how it was only by God's mercy that Martin had arrived at the fortunate moment he did. "I was," he said, "on my way to Valence, to which some affairs led me, where I heard the sound of firing and the shouts of men engaged in fierce conflict. And I should have stood outside the fray, have taken no part in it, but that I saw the travelling coach and observed a serving woman screaming on the top of it; saw a face at the coach window--that of mademoiselle. I could not refrain from attempting her rescue. She was a helpless, defenceless girl. It was no place for her among those men fighting like tigers. Also we had met before at her father's residency." "_Ponz! ponz!_" said the commandant, "you did well. _Nonc d'un chien_, you did well for yourself and her. Baville will not forget. She is the apple of his eye, although no blood relation, yet the child of a loved friend, confided to him in death. Also his own child is a trouble to him. The Intendant spends all his heart on this girl. They say he worships her tenderly, fondly, because of her father. Ask Baville for aught you desire when you return to Montpellier and you will get it. He will repay you as fully as if--well!--as if, had you injured her, he would have cut you into twenty thousand atoms." "I shall ask him for nothing. One does not save a woman's life for a reward." "That I know," the commandant replied, a little ruffled by the rebuke. "Yet, having saved her life, as well let Baville show his gratitude. He is all-powerful here in the province; his interest, too, is great at Versailles." Then, changing the subject, the old man said: "If we had but enough men you and she should be sent to Montpellier to-morrow. Yet 'tis impossible. We have but sufficient here to garrison the place and to rush out and hurry any of those _scélérats_ whom we can catch in small bodies. I can not spare any men to form a guard. Meanwhile the Intendant probably deems her dead by this time. God help all who fall into his hands after this!" "How is it with her to-night?" Martin asked now, thinking that since the sun was set she must surely by this time have slept off much of her fatigue. "She is refreshed and rested, the woman tells me who has been placed in attendance on her. Yet, too, she is very sad. She thinks much on her father's and mother's grief if they knew, as they must, what has befallen her, which they doubtless deem death. Oh, that I could communicate with Baville! Yet 'tis impossible. I can not spare a man." "You can spare me," Martin answered gravely and with a seriousness that told he meant what he said. "Give me a horse better than the poor thing on which mademoiselle finished her journey here, and I will go; will undertake to reach Montpellier." "You?" the commandant exclaimed, his eyes lighting up at the suggestion. "You? So! 'tis well. Who better than he who saved her to carry the good news to her father? Yet, yet," he said in his next breath, his face falling, "'tis impossible. You would never reach the city. They are everywhere, _on dit_ two thousand strong already. And they spare none; above all, they will not spare the man who saved the Intendant's loved one." "I may avoid them. Even if I do not there may still be a chance of my escape," Martin added, remembering that he was of the same faith as these rash unhappy rebels, although not in sympathy with them. Certainly not in sympathy with their cruelties. "Escape? Yes, you may, even as by God's grace you escaped so far as to reach here. But such chances come not more than once together--who throws the ace twice! Moreover, if they know 'twas she who has slid out of their claws they will be over all the land, 'neath every bush, behind every stone, like painted snakes. There is no chance. You must remain here till some of Julien's or De Broglie's troops come to assist. Yet if you could have done it, have repeated your last night's valour, Baville would have worshipped you. Still, still you have done well. _Bon Dieu!_"--and the old man slapped the young one on the shoulder--"_vous êtes un homme fort_." Looking away toward where now the purple shadows of the September evening were resting over all the plain, glancing over to where the white dusty road that followed the course of the Gardon stood out plain and distinct in the clear pure air, Martin saw that which told him that no further opportunity for a repetition of last night's valour, as the commandant had termed it, was like to come to him. Already it seemed as if assistance was at hand. "See," he said, "see! Even now the succour you pray for is near. Behold some of the troops of those whom you name--De Broglie's or Julien's! Look! the last rays sparkle on gorget and fusil-barrel. Thank God! She will be restored to her father. Perhaps to-night. To-morrow at latest." It was as he said. Along that white dusty road which twined beside the river there came a body of cavalry, plain enough to be seen even by the age-worn eyes of the elder man. A troop numbering about thirty soldiers, on whose rich galloon, sword hilts, and bridle chains the last beams of the fast-sinking sun sparkled, it lighting up, too, the rich _bleu du roi_ worn by some and the gallant scarlet of the others. "_Pardie!_" exclaimed the commandant, "the slaughter could not have been as great as you imagined, my friend. Those men have at least escaped. Observe, the blue are the dragoons of De Broglie, the red are those of Hérault. Surely they were in the attack of yesterday," and he turned his eyes on Martin almost questioningly, as though wondering whether, for his own self-glorification, he had exaggerated his service to Urbaine. "'Tis strange," the other answered, "strange. None escaped, I do believe, who were escorting mademoiselle's carriage. There must have been another party of the king's troops who were set upon, and these have belonged to them." "May be," the commandant said, willing enough not to believe that this man (who had at least placed the existence of one of the most precious women in the province beyond danger) was a braggart. "May be, yet they have done more than escape, too. See, they bring prisoners. Fanatics. In chains, observe." Looking again, Martin did observe that he spoke truly. Ahead of the cloud of dust which the horses raised on the chalk-white road he saw a band of men on foot; could count six of them, all shackled together by the wrists and shambling along, one or another falling now and again and causing the cavalry thereby to halt until they were once more on their feet. No doubt Camisard prisoners. "Ha!" exclaimed the old man, leaning on the buttress by his side, his knotty hands placed above his eyes to shield them from the sun's last rays, and perhaps, also, to focus the advancing cavalcade, "they turn by the mill. Therefore they approach to succour us. Good! To-morrow mademoiselle will rejoin her father." Then they bade the sentry on the walls fire a salute from the old saker which had stood them since Ru de Servas had held the castle for Henry of Navarre. It was answered by a blast from a trumpet far down in the valley, after which the two men standing there, watching the oncoming relief, traced its progress until at last the band were on the slopes beneath the castle gateway. "You are welcome," the commandant called out to one who rode ahead of all the others, richly apparelled in the _bleu du roi_ coat, and wearing a well-powdered, deep wig _à la brigadier_ which hid all of his head except his features beneath the great felt hat that he wore above the peruke; "welcome in the name of the king for whom I stand here. Are you sent, monsieur, to increase our garrison or to escort mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety?" "Mademoiselle, his Excellency's daughter, to safety!" the young officer exclaimed, repeating the other's words in evident astonishment--an astonishment equally testified by all at his back. "His Excellency's daughter! Is she here?" "She is here. Did you not know it?" "Not I! or be very sure we would have been here before. Her safety is indeed precious." Then at once he commenced an explanation of their appearance at the château. "Monsieur," he said, "I am the nephew of M. de Broglie, and with these others have escaped the fate which has fallen on his followers. Also, by good chance, we have taken these six villainous _attroupés_ prisoners. Yet, since they delay our progress to Alais, we have come here to ask your permission to imprison them in your château. They will be safe with you." "Ha!" laughed the old commandant, "_mort de ma vie_ they will. Safe! Yes, till they stand with their backs against the wall of the courtyard and with a platoon of musketeers _en face_. Oh, yes, very safe! Bring them in, monsieur, the gates shall be open; also to yourselves. You must not proceed to-night ere you have supped and slept----" "It is impossible," the nephew of M. de Broglie answered. "It is impossible; we must journey on to Alais." "And I say it is impossible you can do so. What! refuse a bite and a sup, a bed with a comrade, also the acquaintance of Monsieur l'Intendant's daughter? Fie! Nay, more, you must turn back at dawn and escort the lady to Montpellier. Ho! 'twill not be long ere you find yourself brigadier after that service." Again the young officer protested, again said it was impossible. They must proceed even though they missed a sight of _les beaux yeux de mademoiselle_. Yet, even as he so protested, the commandant saw signs of his yielding and urged his plea still more. At last, however, he won upon the other. After still more refusals, M. de Broglie's nephew, having consulted with a second officer of the troop, yielded by degrees, saying finally that they would remain until daybreak; would so far forego their duty as to sup and sleep in the castle. And now the great gate of the château opened and all the dragoons of De Broglie and Hérault came in, the horses being tethered in the courtyard, while the wretched prisoners were told roughly by the second in command that they could throw themselves down there. Soon, he said, they would sleep well enough. Need neither pillow nor bolster! "Yet give us bread," one whispered, "bread and to drink, though only water. Kill us not before our time." "You shall have both," the commandant replied. "We do not starve those to death who are reserved for other things." They all turned away after this, leaving the prisoners amid the troopers and the horses, the commandant inviting the two officers to accompany him and Martin to the platform of the castle, there to await the supper and the pleasure of being presented to his Excellency's daughter, while, as they went, Martin, who had been regarding M. de Broglie's nephew from the first moment when the troop had appeared under the castle, could not resist saying to him: "Monsieur, I can not but think we have met before. Your face is familiar to me." "Possibly, monsieur," the other replied with a courteous bow, though one that, Martin thought, scarcely savoured of that ease and grace which a member of the De Broglie family should possess, a great house whose scions were almost always of a certainty trained to all the courtlinesses of Versailles and St. Germain. "Possibly, monsieur. I am much about in various places. Can monsieur, _par hazard_, recall where we may have met?" "Nay, nay," Martin said, "nay. And 'tis but a light fancy. Doubtless I am mistaken." CHAPTER XVII. THE RUSE. Nevertheless he was convinced that he was not mistaken. Yet where--where had he seen this nephew of De Broglie before? As one racks his brain to call up some circumstance or surrounding in connection with a face that puzzles him, to recollect some action associated with that face which shall assist the struggle of memory to assert itself, he racked his brain now. Yet all was of no avail, even though he brought before his mind every scene he could recollect since first he had returned to France. Of no avail! The full deep wig _à la brigadier_, the laced blue coat, the ivory-hilted sword of the young aristocrat, helped him not in the least; refused rather to assimilate themselves in his memory with the features which teased his recollection so. Yet, even as he meditated thus, while these four men--himself, the commandant, the man who perplexed him, and the officer under him--sat at supper in the old banqueting room used by generations of the De Servas, he found himself repeating those very words which had risen to his mind, "the young aristocrat." Young aristocrat! Well, if so, a strange one, and surely not possessing the marks of breeding which a De Broglie should be the owner of! He ate roughly, coarsely, almost it seemed greedily; also he drank as a peasant drinks, in great copious draughts; laughed noisily and loudly. Moreover, from out of the ruffles of Valenciennes there protruded hands that scarcely proclaimed him a member of a well-born family. Hands broad and with ill-shapen fingers, the nails of which were flat and broken and none too clean; not the hands of one in whose veins ran the blood of countless well-born men and women! "Pity 'tis," this scion of _la vieille roche_ muttered to the commandant, "that mademoiselle does not honour us to-night. Tired, you say, after the fatigue of her escape from those base fanatics? Ha, _sans doute!_ May she always escape as easily! 'Twill be well for her." As he spoke, Martin, removing his eyes from his face, saw a sight that startled him--a sight that told him something terrible was in the air. Far down, at the end of the old room, there was a small door, it not being the main one; and at that door, which was open about half a foot, he saw the face of Urbaine Ducaire, with, on it, an awful look of horror--a horror which had brought to her face a whiteness such as that which is upon the countenance of a corpse within its shroud; in her eyes a glare such as is in the eyes of those who have seen a sight to blast them. A glare, a look of agony, piteous to see. At first he knew not what to do, yet even as he hesitated, undecided, he felt sure he must not draw the attention of those at the table to her, unless indeed he could attract the attention of the commandant alone, for it dawned on him, though he could not have explained why, that she, standing there behind the door, showing only that white face and those terror-haunted eyes, had been endeavouring to make the old man see her without being observed by the others. What did it mean? What portend? The conversation was eager between the remaining three at the table, the commandant advancing a plan for trapping the Camisards in their mountain fastnesses which Julien had a week or so before propounded, the nephew of De Broglie and his companion listening, it seemed scornfully, certainly deriding such plan. "It will never succeed," the first of these two said; "never, never," and he laughed. "We, we of the king's forces, shall be driven back by these vile fanatics, or led into a snare, or _guet-apens_ up in the mountains. And then woe, woe to all! Not one will return to the valleys, to the towns, to tell the tale." Yet as he spoke, uttered such predictions of disaster, it seemed almost as though he gloated over the picture he drew. And still Martin saw ever before him the terrified face of Urbaine Ducaire peering from behind the far-off door, the eyes glaring into the room like the eyes of one who knows that behind her comes some awful thing. With, in them, too, as it seemed to him, a piteous glance, a glance of agony that she could not attract the gaze of the man she sought--the commandant. He could bear it no longer. Somehow he must reach her, communicate with her, know what it was that has struck such fear into her soul. An excuse for him to leave the table seemed easy. The room had grown very hot. Already the nephew of De Broglie had protested he must remove his great wig. The commandant had said they must have air. "I will go and open the door," Martin said, rising from his place. To open the windows would have been impossible since they were set high up in the walls, as was the case in most châteaux of the day, and could not be reached without a ladder. "The one at the farther end." And as he went toward it he prayed Heaven none would follow him. Also he saw that the girl's face was withdrawn as he rose from his chair, the door closed-to gently. Then, a moment later, he reached it. Setting it open, he glanced into the narrow passage that ran outside, the farthest wall of this corridor having several low windows in it which gave on to the courtyard; and, turning his eyes into its dimness, he perceived Urbaine standing there, her back against the wall, her arms extended droopingly against it too, as though thereby to prevent herself from falling. "Mademoiselle," he said, in a low voice, advancing toward her, "mademoiselle, what has distressed, terrified you thus? I fear that----" Was she gone mad, he wondered! As he spoke she put both her hands out in front of her, removing them from the wall and extending them from her body as though to ward him off, to defend herself from him. Also she pressed her body back against that wall as if thereby she might shrink into it--away from him. "Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, amazed. "Mademoiselle----" but paused again, for still she drew herself away from him as from some unclean, loathsome thing. Then her white lips moved; he heard the words that issued from them. "Traitor!" she said. "Perfidious traitor! Come not near me!" and with her hands she drew her travelling robe close round her as though to prevent even that from being contaminated by him. "Are you distraught, mademoiselle?" he asked. "Are----?" yet stopped once more in his speech, for now, in the dusk of the night, he saw those staring eyes, which he had deemed so lovely but a few hours ago, glancing out through the passage window to the courtyard below; saw them rivetted upon something beneath in that courtyard; saw, too, that she shuddered as she gazed. Then he too looked forth into it. Upon the stones where the six _attroupés_ had been flung down in their chains he saw those men standing now, free and unbound, in their hands naked weapons. The light of a newly lit flambeau flickering on one of their blades showed that it was deeply stained red. Also he saw that they too were now clad in scarlet and blue, their own rude mountain clothes discarded, flung in a heap in a corner. And more he saw! Some were lying dead, or dying, in that courtyard; men who had but a few hours ago formed part of the garrison; the men whose clothes the others had already donned. Like the lightning's flash there came to his mind what had happened; he understood all. The ruse was successful. The Camisards, disguised in the uniforms and trappings of the defeated soldiers of the day before, had surprised and captured the château; the trick of transporting those false prisoners had been a perfect one. Also he knew now where he had seen M. de Broglie's nephew. The deep powdered wig, the rich costume, served as disguises no longer. He recalled him! Recalled him as one who, young as he was, had taken a leading part in the massacre of the Abbé du Chaila, in the attack on Poul's convoy. He understood, too, Urbaine's bitter words now. He was of these men's faith; she deemed him one of them! Also that he had brought her here only to betray her later into their hands. Bitter words that had sunk into his heart perhaps forever, yet she should see. He drew his sword, advanced a step nearer to her, then retreated. "I ask your pardon," he said, speaking very low, "that I have come near to you again. That I must address you. Yet, 'traitor' as I am, my place is still by your side. I interfered to save you yesterday. I must go on with what I have begun. One moment to warn the commandant--if--they have not slain him--then--then--mademoiselle--to save you from these men of my own faith." But now she spoke no more, only--her eyes were fixed upon him with a strange look--he could have sworn that in the almost absolute darkness of the night which was upon them he saw her bosom heave pitiably. Then from her lips he heard beyond all doubt a gasp come. "Fear not," he said, "they will not murder a woman. Can not, at least, murder you while I still live. Remain behind the door while I re-enter the room." Whereon, leaving her, he pushed open the door and advanced within, his sword in his hand. As he did so he saw he had no chance; believed that he was doomed. The room was full of men, of the mock soldiers--the Camisards disguised in the uniforms of De Broglie and of Hérault; doubtless they had entered by the main door while he had been in the passage. Also there were lights in it--two flambeaus placed in old sockets in the walls, and white-wax candles in a great lustre on the table. In front of him was the "nephew of M. de Broglie," his powdered wig off now and his head showing a mass of long fair hair, while in his hand he too held his drawn sword. At the table, his face fallen forward upon it and his arms outstretched, was the old man, the commandant, done to death. "You craven hound!" hissed Martin, and as he spoke his rapier darted full at the other. "You craven hound, you eat of that old man's dish, drink of his cup, and murder him! Defend yourself, assassin!" And, forgetful of any wrong that this man's (his own) faith might have suffered at the hands of those of the commandant's creed, remembering only that he was a gentleman face to face with one whom in his heart he deemed the _canaille_, remembering, too, that he was a murderer, he lunged full at him. "_Malédiction!_" the Camisard exclaimed, driven back by the skill of the other (skill acquired in many a _cours d'escrime_ in Paris, and the fence school of the Guards at Kensington gravel-pits), and knowing too, himself, but little of sword play except the rough cut-and-thrust which he had practised in the mountains. "_Malédiction!_ You shall pay dearly for this! _Au sécours mes frères_." He called for succour none too soon. In another moment Martin's blade would have been through his breast. None too soon! Fortunately for him it was at hand. Like tigers rushing on their prey, half a dozen of the disguised Camisards hurled themselves upon Martin; two threw themselves on him behind, one knocked up his sword arm, two more secured him. He was disarmed, captured, at their mercy. "Shall we knock him on the head or cut his throat, brother Cavalier?" one asked, while as he did so Martin knew that he stood before one of the two chiefs of the Cévenoles, a man whose name was a terror by now to all Languedoc, and, two centuries afterward, is still remembered. "No," Jean Cavalier replied, "he is a bold man, of the tyrants' side though he be. Most of them will be ours now we have risen. We will spare him, for the present at least." Then he turned to Martin, who stood there calm and contemptuous (remembering that the fellow before him had been a baker's apprentice a year or two back, as he had heard--the latter almost felt degraded at having his life spared by such a man as this), and said with an attempt at ease which he invariably adopted, and with, also, the fury he had shown gone: "Monsieur, it is the fortune of war which puts you in our power. You must abide by it. What parish do you belong to?" "None you ever heard of. One in the north of France. I am a stranger here." "A stranger!" Cavalier repeated incredulously, "a stranger!" And as he did so Martin saw all the followers of the Camisards' chief gazing astonishedly at him. "A stranger! If so, what are you doing here? What have the affairs of this unhappy province to do with you? Also, why in this château?" What answer Martin might have made to his questions, if any, was not given, since at this moment three of the men who had left the room returned, bringing with them Urbaine Ducaire. They had found her outside the door listening tremblingly to all that had happened within, rooted to the spot, almost insensible. Yet now, as she advanced between those men, something had given her courage, had nerved her to strength. She trembled no more and, although very white and with still a strange gleam in her eyes, she walked erect; almost, to Martin observing her, it seemed defiantly. What, he wondered, had stung her to this courage? Perhaps the contempt that she too felt for her captors. With a bow, Cavalier welcomed her, then asked: "Have I the honour to stand face to face with the daughter of his Excellency the Intendant?" "I am the adopted daughter of the Comte de Baville," she answered calmly. "When do you intend to slay me, as you have slain the others?" and her eyes stole to where the commandant's body lay stretched over the table. For a moment Cavalier looked at her with a strange glance, surprised, perhaps, at her calmness; it may be, stung by her absolute indifference to his power. Then he said: "Mademoiselle mistakes those whom she addresses. Doubtless, in these surroundings, thinks she has fallen into the hands of papists or those of similar faith. People who slay women burn them on the _grandes places_, belabour their bare backs. I would not be discourteous, yet mademoiselle will pardon me if I remind her that we are not of the same religion as herself, or monsieur by her side." Or monsieur by her side! Unanswering her captor, scarcely regarding him, she stood there, a look impenetrable to Cavalier upon her face, yet with her mind full of wonderment. Or monsieur by her side! They did not know then that he was one of them, in faith and belief at least--that--that---- "God!" she whispered to herself, still gazing beyond--through--the Camisard chief, yet with no thought of him in her mind. "God! what awful wrong have I done him again to-night, how misjudged him? To be by my side as a protection still, to share my fate, he does not avow himself a Protestant; consents to be deemed their enemy--a Catholic. And he is not a woman. There is naught to save him." Even as she so thought her eyes stole round and rested on him standing there calmly near her side, avowing, denying nothing. CHAPTER XVIII. LA DIVINÉRESSE. The violets and the primroses grow in the chestnut woods that fringe the base of La Lozère, yet disappear as the roads wind up to the summit, giving place to the wild foxglove and heather which, in their turn, disappear as still the ascent continues. Also, the chestnuts themselves become more sparse and infrequent, until at last the woods cease altogether, and the mountaineer trends only on the soft, crisp brown grass that, lying warm beneath the winter's snows, springs but into existence to be consumed later by the fierce southern sun that beats on it. Finally, with far beneath his feet the valleys basking in the warm sun, the wanderer stands upon a dreary upland with, around him, the mountain tops of the Cévennes huddled in wild confusion, as though thrown down from the palm of some great giant. A confusion of barren crags in some places, of, in others, great hills clothed with forests or upland pasturages, or, in a few cases, plots of cereals--a confusion over which in summer sweeps, without warning, a torrent of hail, or amidst which rise fogs that envelope all; that in winter is buried in snow over which the tempests howl. Here, too, wherever the eye turns, torrents are seen that, when Spring unlocks their floods and turns the frozen snow to water, leap down and hurl themselves over boulders and, in some cases, precipices until at last they reach the rivers beneath. Here also are bare walls of rock in which are the caverns that sheltered the Camisards whom Louis and Louvois, Chamillart and De Maintenon had driven forth into the mountain deserts. Yet not only Louis, le Dieudonné and his myrmidons, but, before him, that other Louis, his father, surnamed "The Just," who had, under the sword of the brutal Marshal de Thémines, also driven countless Huguenots to take refuge in these wild, stony citadels, and had forced them to fortify their mountains against their persecutors. To close their caverns with bronze doors secretly conveyed to them by Jeanne d'Albret, Protestant Queen of Navarre. It was in one of these vast caves, a week after the Château de Servas had been burnt to the ground by the orders of Jean Cavalier (of how the garrison was put to death, none being spared, the peasants still tell nightly to all who care to hear), that there was gathered a vast company of men and women. A company assembled to sit in judgment on another man and woman who were in their power, to say whether the hour had come for the death of those captives or was still to be postponed. Postponed, not abandoned! For they were Catholics, persecutors. And, therefore, doomed, sooner or later. But first the prophets and the prophetesses had to speak. On them depended much; a swift doom that night or one that might be reserved for another day. "You understand, mademoiselle?" the man said to his companion, seated by his side; "you understand? Our sentence depends on those gathered together round Cavalier. After they have spoken we shall know whether 'tis now or later." "I understand," Urbaine Ducaire answered, the cold tone in which he spoke causing more grief to her heart than the awful import of his words. "I understand." Then her eyes sought his, met them, and were swiftly withdrawn. They had been here a week, being treated well, allowed to roam about the vast caverns unmolested, yet never once allowed to form the most illusory hopes that there could be but one end to their captivity. The knowledge had been conveyed to them by now and then a word from one or from another, by a look from a third, by even a glance from Cavalier himself or from Roland, that for some of the Protestant men and women slaughtered by the Papists they were to furnish an expiation--a retaliation--as many other Catholics had already done who had fallen into their captors' hands. Yet it was not the crowds of fierce Camisards who now surrounded them in this great cavern, lit by torches at its farthest end, and by the rays of the October sun which streamed in from where the great antique bronze doors, placed there a hundred years ago, stood at the hither end; nor the unpitying, cruel glances cast by the prophetesses at the girl, which caused the grief she felt. That came from another cause; from the cold disdain of the man by her side--the man to whom she owed it that she had not been slain in the attack made upon her escort. Disdain for the words she had uttered against him that night in the passage outside the banqueting hall of the Château St. Servas, for the manner in which she had misjudged him. Misjudged him as she had recognised well from that night itself, from the moment when, being himself a Protestant, he had refused to profit by the fact, but, instead, had remained silent when accused of being one of their captors' enemies. And his reason for doing so was certain; not to be doubted. So that he might still be by her side, still near to protect her, still near, if any chance should arise, to aid her escape. And now the time was at hand when their doom was to be determined, and yet he continued to hold his peace, would be ready to share her fate, and, she told herself, to despise her to the end. "You are very noble," she had said to him that morning when they had been brought into the great cavern from the cells which each had had assigned to them, "and I, oh, God, how base! I wish the world had ended on that night, ere I uttered the words I did." "It matters not," he said; "is worth no thought. You misjudged me, that is all." She bowed her head before him, meaning thereby to acknowledge how utterly she had indeed misjudged him. Then she said, her eyes fixed on his: "Yet--yet you will not let them continue in their ignorance of what you are? If--if they decide to slay, you will announce your fellowship with them? Is it not so?" But to this he would make no answer, turning away his head from her. "It needs but one word," she continued, "and you are free--free to go in peace." He knew as well as she that it needed but one word; nay, he knew more. It needed but another word--the statement that he was an Englishman--to make him something more than free, to cause him to be received with acclamation by their captors, welcomed as a friend. For England was Louis' bitterest foe and the most powerful; a force slowly crushing the life out of France and her king, as she had been doing since first she shattered his great fleet at Barfleur and La Hogue. Also she was the home of every outlawed refugee and Huguenot; her people supplied them with help and succour; even to this remote spot money and arms were often secretly sent. And, further, 'twas whispered among the Protestants that an attack was to be made ere long on France's Mediterranean coast by one of England's admirals, after which there would not remain one frontier or border of the land that did not bristle with Protestant enemies. It did indeed need but the words "I am an Englishman" for his safety to be assured. Yet he had sworn to himself that he would die at his captors' hands ere he uttered them or made the statement that he was of their faith, ere he would go forth and leave this girl here, alone and doomed. "I do not desire," he said, "to earn my release by proclaiming myself a Protestant. I pity them for what they have suffered; yet--yet I am not in sympathy with their retaliation. I shall not proclaim myself." But now the hum of voices from the crowd near them became hushed; from their midst one of the prophets, or, as they called them, "_Les Extasés_," was speaking. "Mes Frères," they heard him say, "the God of Battles fights on our side, even as once he fought upon the side of Joshua. Also he has inspired me to read the future. I see," he went on, extending his hands, "the time approaching when over all the land of France the Huguenots shall worship in peace in the way that most befits them; when no longer a tyrannous king, his married mistress by his side, shall send forth armies to crush them. Nay, more, I see the time at hand, ay, even in that king's lifetime, when he, reaping the fruits of his errors, shall find us the allies of his bitterest foes. I see our brother, Cavalier, leading his troops to victory against France, against France's own children in a distant land. I see a plain strewed with their bodies, crimson with their blood shed against France. But not yet, not yet."[2] "Ay! not yet. And, my brother, tell us what of the present your holy visions disclose," Cavalier exclaimed. "I too can forecast the future when inspired by God. Speak, therefore, my brother; let us see if God has revealed to both of us alike." Whereupon, again, the seer took up his strain. "Languedoc shall be free at last," he said. "I see in the far distant future the altars overturned at which the children of the Devil worship, the priests of Baal slain, the gibbets empty, the flames burned out. Yet blood must be shed--the blood of all who bow to false gods, idols of wood and stone, cruel gods who have spared none of our faith, as now we will spare none of theirs. 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for tooth.' It is the Mosaic law; let it be carried out. Spare none." And even as he spoke his own eyes lighted on the man and woman sitting there awaiting their doom. Then, lifting up his voice, he sang, all joining in his song who stood around him, all holding up their hands to heaven: Seigneur, entend ma plainte, écoute ma prière, Ne detourne pas ta paupière De ma détresse, Ô Dieu vivant. Je pleure, je gémis, j'erre dans les ténebras Comme aux fentes des tours les hulottes funèbres Et les oiseaux du Désert. And as he spoke, in truth he wept, then flung himself upon his knees and prayed in silence. Yet looked up at last, and, pointing to Urbaine and Martin, while down his cheeks the tears rolled, exclaimed: "They are of Baal. They must die." "You hear?" Martin whispered to his companion, "you hear? There is no hope; be brave." "Save yourself," she whispered back. "Save yourself, or," and now her eyes sought his boldly, "I proclaim you--save you." "You dare not, I forbid you: command you to hold your peace. If you proclaim me one of them, I will deny it. Be silent." It seemed as if there would be no time for her to do as she threatened; their doom was at hand. Down the long cavern the Camisards advanced slowly. Ahead of them strode Cavalier; yet even as he came he turned to those behind him and said some words as though endeavouring to calm them, to at least retard the hour of their vengeance; yet also, as it seemed by his face, with little hope of being able to do so. Ahead of all came the women. One, who limped as she walked, Martin recognised as the girl Fleurette who had been dragged moaning from the Abbé du Chaila's house; another was the girl whom Urbaine had seen fire the shot which slew her companion, the _gouvernante_. Also there were others, some old, some middle-aged, some almost children. And, perhaps to nerve themselves to what they were about to do, one told of how her babe had been cast into the flames at Nîmes "by order of Baville--her father," pointing as she spoke to Urbaine; another of how her boy had hung upon a lamp post at Anduse "by order of Baville--her father"; a third of how her old mother, gray and infirm, had also been consigned to the flames "by order of Baville--her father." She, standing there, did not flinch as they approached; stood, indeed, calmly awaiting whatever they might be about to do to her--she who had shrieked as the shot was fired at Poul's escort, who had seemed as one blasted to death by what she had discovered in the Château de Servas. Neither flinched nor blanched, indeed smiled once into Martin's eyes as he, close by her side, took her hand gently in his; glanced swiftly up into his eyes as though asking if, at this supreme moment, he forgave. "We die together," he said. "Remember, be brave." "Thus," she whispered, "I fear nothing." Then murmured, even lower, "My God! how great, how noble you are!" Suddenly, while now the Camisards were all around them and while Cavalier's voice rang out through the vaulted cavern, bidding them halt until they had decided what form of death should be meted out to the prisoners, a woman's voice rose high above all the others, commanding them to harken to her words, listen to the spirit of prophecy that was upon her. "It is the Grande Marie," they said, "La Grande Marie. Hear her, hear her!" and stood still as they spoke, glancing at her. _Grande_ she was in stature, big and gaunt, with wild, misty eyes that seemed to glare into vacancy; her hair iron-gray and dishevelled, her voice rich and full as it rang down the cavern, silencing all other voices. "The skies whirl round in starry circles," she said. "The voices of whispering angels are in my ears, the heavenly host are telling me strange things. Also the voice of God speaks to me; asks me a question. Asks me who it is we are about to slay? My brethren, answer for me." "Who?" they shouted, "who?" Cavalier alone standing silent, his eyes upon the Grande Marie in wonderment. "Who? A stranger, who is of the persecutors' faith. A woman also of the devil--the child of Baville--the persecutor--the murderer." The misty eyes roamed over all around her as they spoke. Then suddenly she moved toward them, her hand extended, one finger pointing. And with that finger she touched Cavalier on the arm, then the Camisard next to him, then another; then a woman, and another woman. "All," she whispered, while a great hush was now upon those in the cavern, "all are God's children, all servitors of the Cross--all, all, all." Again she went on, passing slowly by those in the cave, her finger touching each and every one, missing none. Peering, too, into their faces with those wild clouded eyes, penetrating them with her glances. And now the silence was extreme. She had touched, had looked into the face of every one there except Martin and Urbaine. Again she moved and approached him, standing tall, erect and calm, yet not defiantly, before his captor. Her fingers advanced and touched his breast beneath where the lace of his cravat fell. With every eye upon them, she brought her face close to his, and for one minute seemed as if through her own eyes she would see deep into his brain. Then moved a step farther and stood before Urbaine Ducaire. The girl, standing herself motionless, her hand clasped in Martin's, divined rather than felt that the finger of the prophetess was on her breast; saw that, as she opened her lids which she had closed when that wild form drew near her, the eyes of the seer were looking into hers. Then shuddered as they were removed. "Away!" La Grande Marie exclaimed, as now there were no more to touch, no more to penetrate with those terrible glances, "away to your work in the valleys and the towns, to devastate, to destroy, when the moon which is the sun of the outcast is on high. Away, I say, to destroy, to devastate. Your work is not here. Our God has blinded you, led you astray. In this, our refuge, there is no child of the devil, no Papist. You are deceived. Those whom you would slay are of our faith!" CHAPTER XIX. LEX TALIONIS. Over all Languedoc there was an awful terror at this time--the terror that is born of successful rebellion, and that rebellion the outcome of a religious strife. An awful terror which filled now the breasts of those who had erstwhile been the persecutors, even as, not long before, it had filled the breasts of those whom they had persecuted. In truth there were none in all that fair province, none--from those who dwelt on its southern borders washed by the sapphire-hued waters of the Mediterranean, to those who, on its northern boundary, gazed toward the fertile provinces of Linois and Auvergne, or, looking west, saw the rich rolling lands of golden Guienne stretched out before them--but felt, and feeling, dreaded, the threatening horror that at any moment might engulf them. For now no longer were the dungeons of the cities filled with Protestants moaning for water, food, or air; no longer did Huguenot women offer their jailers the few miserable coins they had about them so that their babes might taste a drop of milk; no longer did men of the Reformed Faith offer their little bags of secreted livres and tournois to their warders, so that thereby they might be allowed to sleep one hour--only one little hour!--without disturbance; without horns being blown at their dungeon doors to awaken them, or blank charges fired from musketoons and fusils with a like intent; without their bodies being pricked and stirred up by point of lance or sword at the moment that a heartbroken slumber fell upon them. A change had come! Some of the jails were emptied now; in the smaller towns and villages they existed no longer. Some of those towns and villages were themselves erased from off the face of the earth. Down from their mountain homes the Camisards had stolen, creeping like phantoms through the night, like panthers on the trail of those whom they track to their doom, like adders gliding through the grass. One by one these men of vengeance mustered outside doomed bourgs or hamlets till all were assembled in a compact mass, sometimes to lay violent and open siege to the places, sometimes to be admitted silently at dead of night, or in early dawn, by those who, disguised, had already stolen in. Then the massacre took place, the jails gave up their victims who were not already dead, the hateful gibbets and the iron-bound wheels helped to light the fires that consumed the villages, and in the morning there was no sign left either of avenger or of victim. Of the former, all had stolen back into their impenetrable fastnesses; of the latter, nothing remained but burning houses and crumbling walls, a church destroyed, an altar shattered, and at its base a slaughtered priest. Even in the greater cities--in Montpellier and Nîmes, Alais and Uzès--the haunting fear, the terror, the horror was there, even though those cities were fortified and garrisoned, full of soldiers and _milices_. Yet of what use were these? Of what use dragoons who had fought in close ranks and knee to knee against William of Orange's own English and Dutch troopers? Of what use infantry who had stood a solid phalanx of steel under Bouflers and Luxembourg? Of what use a homely militia, when the enemy was unseen and intangible--an enemy which crept in man by man through gates and barriers, disguised as peasant and farmer bringing in produce, or sometimes, in bitter mockery of their foes, as Catholic priest or Catholic seigneur? It was not strange that against such a foe as this all Baville's plans were unavailing, all Julien's military knowledge helpless. And the question which every man asked his neighbour was, Would Montrevel, the new field marshal now on his way from Paris with an enormous army, be able to succeed against such crafty and resolute enemies any better than his predecessors had done? Baville asked himself the same question now, as he sat where he had sat a month or two before, on that morning when across the room had fallen the shadow of Urbaine as she came in from the garden, her hands full of freshly gathered, dew-sprinkled flowers--his loved Urbaine. Yet he told himself, even as thus he meditated and doubted, that if force could do it, it should be done. Upon his face as he sat alone in his cabinet there was a look which none could perhaps have interpreted, yet which none could have failed to observe; a look that had brought an appearance of age to his face which his fifty years of life should not have placed there; also a look of deep, fierce determination which, cruel as he had ever been, had not hitherto been perceptible upon his handsome features. On the table before him there lay a great chart of the whole Cévennes district; attached to the chart by a silken string was a paper referring to it; on the back of that chart was written in a bold, sprawling hand, the words, "Mon plan pour la grande battue des attroupés que je projete," and signed "Julien." "Bah," Baville exclaimed, after throwing down these papers angrily, "_sa grande battue! Son plan!_ What will come of it? What? Nothing. These dogs are as slippery as snakes. No battue will surround, entrap them. And--and--even though they, though this swashbuckler, who thinks more of the bouquet of his Celestin or the aroma of his white Frontignan than of our province's safety, should prevail, it will not bring her back to me." And Baville, on whose soul there lay heavy the slaughter of countless innocent women--their only fault their faith--buried his face in his hands and moaned. "Urbaine, Urbaine," he whispered, "_Ma mignonne, ma petite rose blanche_, to think of you in their hands, you whom we have nurtured so soft and warm, you who, I swore to your father, should be my life's charge, the star of my existence! Fool! fool! fool! to ever let you go thus. Though God he knows," he whispered still, "I did it for the best; did it, knowing the dangers that threatened, that were surely coming, that must above all else strike at Baville and his. Deemed I could save you, send you away to peace and safety." And still he sat on there, his head in his hands, while from between his fingers the tears trickled as he muttered still, "Urbaine, Urbaine!" "She is dead," he said after a pause. "She must be dead. Of all, they would not spare her--my lamb. That is enough--to belong to me! O God!" he cried, springing from his chair and clasping his hands above his head, "nothing can give her back to me. Yet one thing thou canst give me: Vengeance! vengeance! vengeance! On him, above all, on that treacherous Huguenot, that viper who, when there was still a chance left, dragged her from the carriage, gave her up to his accursed brethren. Give me that! Place him but once in my hands and I ask no more. Urbaine can never come back, but at least she shall lie in her grave--where is it?"--and he shuddered--"lie in her grave avenged. Why did I ever trust him--kinsman of the de Rochebazons as he is--why not execute him that night at Montvert?" After the rout of Poul's escort and of De Broglie's soldiers in an adjacent place by the Camisards, some half dozen of the dragoons of Hérault had managed to escape from the former slaughter, as well as many more from the latter. As has been said, they fled to Nîmes, where Baville was at the time, bringing with them the full account of what had happened to both detachments, and in their dismay and confusion making the disaster none the less in the telling. Now, among those who had thus escaped was one, a young _porte-guidon_, or cornet, who had by chance ridden also with De Peyre's detachment to Montvert when in attendance on Baville and the abbé's nephew. And there this lad had seen Martin upon the bridge with Buscarlet, had heard something of the conversation which ensued; knew, too, that he had returned to Alais with them. Therefore he was acquainted with Martin's appearance so well that, when the distracted Intendant had demanded from those who had escaped where his child was, he was very well able to inform him. "My God!" Baville exclaimed, sitting in his rooms in the old Roman city, with the lad before him and surrounded by half the councillors of the place, sitting there white to the lips, "you saw it, saw him drag her out of the carriage, ride away with her." "I saw it, your Excellency, beyond all doubt. And had it not been that I dared not take my eyes off these Camisards who were attacking me--one of the villains was armed with a reaping hook--I would have made a stroke to save mademoiselle; have hamstrung his horse, run him through. But, your Excellency sees," and he pointed to his hand, a mass of rags and bandages, "two fingers are gone; cut off as I wrested the brutal weapon from the man." "Which road did he take?--yet, why ask?" Baville had said. "Which road would he go but one--that toward their accursed mountain dens? And he--he was of their faith." A moment later he interrogated the young dragoon again. "Can you by no chance be mistaken about this man? Think, I beseech you! Of all, she could have fallen into no worse hands than his." "It is impossible, your Excellency. It is the man who sat on the bridge with the curé when we rode into Montvert--the man who returned to Alais with us. Also, I have spoken with him in Montpellier when your Excellency made him welcome at the Intendancy." Beneath his lips Baville muttered a bitter imprecation as the young officer recalled this fact. It was, he saw now, a fatal error to have committed. Yet--yet he had done it of set purpose, for a reason. No, he would dwell no more on that. And now weeks had passed since Urbaine's disappearance. She must be dead, he and his wife had told each other a thousand times by night and day. "Every hope is gone," he said to her more than once, "every hope. She was mine--known to a hundred mountain refugees from Montpellier to be ours. They would not spare her. There is nothing left but vengeance, if he, that kinsman of the de Rochebazons, ever falls into our hands, as he must, as he must. They can not triumph forever. Can not win in the end." Madame l'Intendante came in to him now as he sat in his room, a gentle, handsome woman on whose face the grief she felt within was very plainly apparent; came in, and, touching his forehead softly with her hand, sat down by his side. "Nicole," she said, "a thought has come to me that--that--my God that I should have to say it!--if Urbaine is still alive, might lead to her rescue." "A thought!" he exclaimed, his face brightening. "A thought! What thought? Yet what can a thousand thoughts avail? She is Baville's. That dooms her." "_Mon mari_, suppose--only suppose--they have not slain her--nay, deny me not," as her husband made an impatient movement, "suppose they have not slain her yet. Remember, she would be a great hostage, and they, these rebels, boast they seek not warfare, but only peace--concessions; offer to lay down their arms if--if--all they ask for their unhappy, mistaken religion is granted." "Well," Baville replied, yet looking eagerly at her, "well, what then?" "To bring about a truce, obtain those concessions. They may have spared her life, if only for a time, if only for a time," she repeated, sobbing now. "Even though they have done so," her husband replied, "concessions are impossible, though I myself desired them. Julien is maddened at his total failure; he will grant none. Montrevel comes full of pride at gaining his long-desired _bâton_. It is not to make peace, grant concessions, that he is on his way. Rather to cause more slaughter, extermination. And for _her_--there," and his eyes wandered toward the direction where, hundreds of leagues away, Paris and the great white palace of Versailles lay, "will she grant any?" Madame l'Intendante knew well enough to whom he referred--to _la femme funeste et terrible_--and shook her head sadly, while Baville continued: "She bars all, blocks all, Alice," and he lowered his voice instinctively. "Alice, it is she who has lit this torch of rebellion through all Languedoc. Chamillart writes me that Louis has known nothing until now of what has been happening. She has kept him in ignorance until forced by my demand for a great army and the services of Montrevel to tell him." "My God! What duplicity!" "It is true. She holds him in the hollow of her hand, winds him round her finger as a child winds a silken thread. Will she grant concessions, do you think?" "But, Nicole, listen. If she, Urbaine, lives, there may be still time. Montrevel is not yet here. His great army moves slowly. Time, still." "For what?" "Have you forgotten? Her real father--that friend of yours--Monsieur Ducaire--have you not often told me he was himself of their faith--a Huguenot?" "Mon Dieu!" Baville exclaimed, "it is so. He was. Yet, again, what then?" "If--if she does still live, and it could be communicated to them, they would perhaps spare her. Surely, among the old of those refugees--even among those who are now but elderly--there may be some who would remember her father, could recall this Monsieur Ducaire----" She paused, alarmed at the strange effect of her words, for Baville's face had turned an ashen hue as she spoke. Almost it seemed to his wife as though his handsome features were convulsed with pain as he, repeating those words, whispered: "Recall Ducaire? Remember her father? Oh! Dieu des Dieux, if they should do that, if there should be one among those who surround her, if she still lives, who could do so! If there is but one who should tell her----" "What, Baville?" "No, no, no!" he whispered. "No, no! If so--yet it can not be!--but if it is, if there is any still living to tell her that, then better she be dead. Better dead than bear it." "Husband," Madame l'Intendante said, "I know now, something tells me--alas! alas! ever have I suspected it, feared it," and she wrung her hands; "you have deceived me, trifled with me from the first. Baville, is it you? Are you in solemn truth her father? Is Ducaire another name, known once in the far-off past, for Baville? Would she be better dead than alive to learn that? Answer me." "No," he said, "no; you do not understand, can not understand; must not know yet. But I am innocent of that wrong to you. I swear it. And Alice, my wife," he continued as he bent over her and kissed her brow, "Alice, my love, if you knew all you would pity me. Alice, I swear it to you--swear that it is not what you think." Then, as again he kissed her, he murmured the old French proverb: "Tout savoir c'est tout pardonner," adding, "Oh, believe in me, counsel me, my wife." CHAPTER XX. WHAT IS THIS MYSTERY? The swallows were gone--a month earlier in this mountainous region than in the rest of the golden south of France. Below, the corn had fallen ungathered from its stalks, since of those who remained in the valleys, and faithful to the iron rule of Baville, none dared reap it, for fear that, while doing so, from its midst might spring up a body of the dreaded Camisards. Already, too, high up in the mountains, the first flurries of snow had sprinkled the ground; autumn had come. And still Baville was no nearer to finding Urbaine, or to gathering news of whether she was alive or dead, than he had been before. Neither did he know what had become of the man who, he deemed, had betrayed her into his enemies' hands; who, he believed, had sent her to her death. Meanwhile, Montrevel had arrived. Montrevel, the general and newly created field marshal, second only to Tallard, who next year lost Blenheim, and to Villars, who was ordained later to bring peace to the distracted land. Montrevel, of whom it was said that he fought like a Paladin of old, made love like a Troubadour, and had the air of a hero of the stage or the leader of a chorus in the newly invented operas. With him came a vast army--one which, to any other rebels but the all-triumphant Protestants, harbouring defiantly in the mountain deserts on high and in the inaccessible caverns, would have brought fear and terror. To them, however, this army brought none. "_Nous sommes les rochers que les vents combattants en vaine_," they cried, and even as they so taunted their late persecutors they stole down by night and by unknown paths, sacked a fresh village, provided themselves with fresh food, more arms and more ammunition, seized on costly uniforms and laces, and, when possible, horses and cattle, while once more like phantoms they vanished quietly afterward from human sight. Vanished as the crawling Indians whom some of their adversaries had encountered on the Mississippee or the St. Lawrence; vanished, after devastating lonely settlements and townships; disappeared as disappears the snowflake which falls on the bosom of the ocean, is seen a moment, and then is gone forever. In that army, sent to destroy the men whose retaliation of half a century's persecution was now so terrible, came soldiers who had never yet known defeat. From Italy the Marquis de Firmacon brought back the men of a regiment of cuirassiers who had fought like victorious tigers at Cremona and had even driven back the fiery Eugene and his soldiers before their rush; in that army also were the guards of Tarnaud, De Saulx, and Royal Comtois; marines who had faced Russel's and Shovel's squadrons; dragoons of Saint-Sernin who had seen Marlborough ride all along the line giving orders to the great English force to advance, and had observed, but a year or two before, the consumptive invalid, William of England and Holland, stand undismayed beneath a hailstorm of bullets while superintending the siege of some great fortress in the Netherlands. Also there came the brigade of Lajonquiére which had followed Turenne in victory and defeat, and that of Marsilly which had stood shoulder to shoulder awaiting the orders of Condé to charge. And still there were others who might have struck more terror to any mountain rebels than these trained battalions; a regiment of men, themselves mountaineers, whose fierceness and brutality were a byword through all the South. These were the Miquelets, a body of six hundred Pyrenean soldiers under the command of a rough one-armed free lance named De Palmerolles. From sunny Roussillon and Foix these men came, their faces burned black, their bodies half clad in red shirts and trousers, resembling sailors' slops in vastness, _espardillos_, or shoes of twisted cord, upon their feet, in their belts two pistols on one side, a scimitar dagger on the other, while in their hands they bore the long-barrelled _gyspe_ peculiar to the Pyrenean. Also, to render greater Montrevel's chance of defeating those who were termed rebels to the king, he brought with him twenty large brass cannons, five thousand bullets, four thousand muskets, and fifty thousand pounds of powder--enough, in truth, to defeat all the rebels in the Cévennes, if they could only be got at. From far up on the height of La Lozère, sheltered in a small copse of wind-swept firs, Jean Cavalier, looking down on the road which wound from Genoillac to Alais, laughed lightly as he turned to the companions by his side--his comrade, Roland, and his prisoner, Martin Ashurst. "In truth," he said, "'tis a brave array of men. Yet what will they do against us? They can never get up here in spite of Baville's recently constructed roads, while as for us we can get down and back again as we choose." Then, turning to Martin, he said politely, and with that attempt at gracious ease and condescension which he never forgot to assume: "Monsieur, I know we are safe with you. When you and your charge, Mademoiselle Ducaire, have left us you will betray no secrets." "No more," replied Martin, "than I should betray any of Monsieur Baville's to you. You know now that, though I am of your religion, I am no partisan of either side. I pray God the day may come when all of our faith may be free, happy." "We pray so, too," both chiefs answered, while Cavalier continued: "'Tis what we seek. Peace--peace above all! And we are no rebels to the king. Let him but give us leave to worship in our own way and unmolested, earn our bread undisturbed, pay no taxes that go to support his own Romish church--the other taxes we will willingly pay--and he will find he has no more loyal subjects than the Cévenoles. Nay, have we not offered our services to him against his enemies, offered to furnish a Protestant regiment to aid him in Spain against the Austrian claimant, to fight against all his foes except the English, our brother Protestants? Yet he will not consent that it shall be so, or, rather, those who dominate him in his old age will not let him listen to us." "Therefore," said Roland, "let him look to himself. See--hearken to those Miquelets who tread the plains now, shrieking their barbaric songs. Do you know what their war-cry is? 'Tis 'war to the knife.' So be it; 'tis ours too. And ere we cease to shout it Louis will have given in to us. While one Protestant remains in these mountains we shall never yield. The king may conquer Europe, drive back all his enemies; us he will never conquer." * * * * * * * After La Grande Marie had uttered these words of hers, "Those whom you would slay are of our faith," there had fallen a great silence on all within the vast vaulted cavern--a silence begotten of wonderment, yet a wonderment which had in it no element of disbelief; for of all the prophetesses, she it was who was most believed in by the Camisards, her inspiration the one which they had never yet known to be at fault. She had advised the descent to Montvert, fortelling how, on that night, the abbé should atone for his crimes at their avenging hands in spite of their not seeking his death. She also it was who had bidden them attack the convoy of Urbaine under the hated command of Poul, and the detachment under the equally hated command of De Broglie. Had prophesied, too, that in that convoy should be found one whose capture and death would wring the heartstrings of the tyrant Baville as nothing else could wring them, would beat him down to misery, might even force him in his despair to abandon all further cruelties toward those of his creed. And what she had prophesied had all come to pass. Baville's daughter, as most of them supposed Urbaine to be, was in their hands, her death assured. Therefore now, also, they believed her prophetic visions and utterances, though, in believing, a victim thereby escaped them. Even the women--whose bitterness, born of the horrors practised on their own helpless babes and their old back-bowed mothers and fathers, as well as on themselves, was more intense than that of the men who, in their hearts, felt for the white delicate girl who stood a prisoner before them--even the women paused, wondering, amazed. "Of our faith," they muttered, "of our faith. Yet the wolf's own cub, the persecutor's own blood. Marie, sister, think again of what you say. Pause and reflect." "I know what I say," La Grande Marie murmured, the misty eyes still fixed upon the girl before her, her hand half raised. "God has entered my heart, given me the power of divination. She and he, this man by her side, are of our faith. Is it not so, little one?" and she leaned forward to a child near her upon whom also the gift of prophecy was reported to have fallen. "It is so, Marie," the child lisped.[3] "What is the mystery?" Cavalier asked, standing before Urbaine, his voice expressing the surprise he felt at the turn matters had assumed, expressing also his awe, for he, too, was sometimes visited with the impulse of prophecy. "In God's name explain, mademoiselle." "There is no explanation to offer. Your prophetess is wrong. Since my father adopted me I have known no faith but the true one." "Adopted you!" he repeated, while all round them stood listening eagerly. "Ah! yes, I have heard; remember you said such was the case at the Château de Servas, yet had forgotten. Mademoiselle, what is your name since it can not be Baville?" "Urbaine Ducaire." "Ducaire?" he repeated, "Ducaire? There is no name such as that in the lists of our unhappy brethren. Mademoiselle, _was_ your father of our religion?" "I know not," the girl replied, while in her manner, in her eyes, too, was the haughty indifference to her captor which had surprised Cavalier from the first. "I know not. Yet, since he was M. de Baville's friend, it scarce seems possible he should have been." "Listen," cried the Camisard chief, addressing all those who stood around, "listen, my brethren. Among you are many no longer young, many who can cast their memories back to the years ere this--this demoiselle--could have been born. Some, too, who come from far and wide, from where the waters of the sea lap our southern shores; from where, also, Guienne on one side, Dauphiné on the other, touch our border. Heard ever any of you of a Huguenot named Ducaire?" and as he spoke he cast his eyes around all within the cavern. But there came no affirmative answer. Only the repetition of that name and the shaking of heads, and glances from eyes to eyes as each looked interrogatively at the other. "There must be some who, at least, have heard this name if--if La Grande Marie divines truly--if this lady is in truth of our faith. Yet--yet--the gift may have failed her now, have misled her." "Test that gift, Cavalier," La Grande Marie exclaimed from where she stood now among the others, and speaking in a clear voice, while her filmy eyes, which seemed ordinarily to be peering into far-off space, rested on him. "Test that gift. The woman is not the only one named as being of our faith. Ask of the man." As she spoke the eyes of Urbaine and Martin met, the minds of each filled with the same thought. The knowledge that whereas hitherto to have declared himself of their captors' faith would have led to his being set free and no longer able to share her doom, his doing so now would almost beyond all doubt prevent that doom from falling on her. The acknowledgment that La Grande Marie had divined justly in his case would cause them to believe that she had also done so in Urbaine's. And knowing this--as she too, he felt, must know it--he did not hesitate. "She has pronounced justly," he said. "I am of the Reformed faith. A Protestant." Amid the murmurs that arose from all who surrounded those two prisoners, amid their cries, in some cases exultant ones, that La Grande Marie had never yet been mistaken and was not, could not be so now; amid, too, their strongly expressed opinion that, since she had been right as regards the man, therefore also she must be so as regards the woman, Cavalier exclaimed: "In heaven's name why not say so before? Also why risk your life as you have done at the Château de Servas and here?" "She was alone and defenceless," Martin exclaimed. "I desired to protect her." "Knowing that she too is a Protestant, by birth at least?" "Nay, knowing only that she was a woman." "Yet Baville's cherished ward?" "Yes, his cherished ward." Cavalier shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Perhaps the bitter sufferings of all of his, of their, faith were too present to his mind to make that mind, young as it was--he being not twenty--capable of understanding such magnanimity. Also he did not know that the man before him belonged to a land where, for now nearly fifteen years, none had suffered for their religious opinions as over all France they suffered horribly and were to suffer for still some years to come, and that, consequently, he could not feel as strongly as they themselves felt. Whatever Cavalier might think, however, of the motives which had prompted a man who avowed himself a Protestant to protect the worshipped idol of the Protestant's greatest persecutor in the most persecuted part of France, one thing was very certain: neither would be put to death--the one because he was undoubtedly of their faith, the other because, not being the actual child of Baville, she might in truth have been born a Huguenot, as La Grande Marie had had revealed to her. La Grande Marie! in whose auguries and predictions they believed for the simple reason that, until now, all that she had foretold, all that she had uttered as prophetic inspiration, had come to pass. They were safe so far! CHAPTER XXI. "YOU WILL NEVER FIND HIM." "When you and your charge, Mademoiselle Ducaire, have left us you will betray no secrets," Cavalier had said to Martin, as they stood side by side watching the army of Montrevel on its way through the province? Yet some weeks passed, and still they remained in the hands of the Camisards, well treated, yet still there. For their accommodation two large caverns had been prepared as sleeping rooms; prepared, too, in such a manner as would indeed have astonished the Camisards' enemies, the dwellers in the valleys below, had they been able to observe them. To observe that Urbaine's chamber--if such a name could be given to the vault in which she slept--was furnished not only with comfort, but indeed luxury, her bed, which had been constructed expressly for her by one of the _attroupés_ who was a carpenter, being covered with fine white linen and made soft with skins and rugs. Also the sides of the vault were hung with tapestry and brocade; the ewer from which she poured water was solid silver; the floor on which she trod was covered with carpets made at Aubusson. Yet the girl shuddered as, nightly, daily, she glanced round this luxuriously furnished cavern, knowing full well, or at least being perfectly able to divine, whence all these things came; for none who had ever knelt, as Urbaine had done since her earliest recollection, at the altar of any church of the Ancient Faith could doubt that that silver jug had been torn from some such altar which had been devastated with the edifice itself; none who had seen the luxurious fittings and adornments of the _noblesse_ of Languedoc could doubt that the tapestries and hangings and rich fine linen had once adorned the château of Catholic noblemen or gentlemen. Everything which surrounded her, all--even to the choice plate off which they both ate their meals, and the crystal glass from which they drank the Ginestoux and Lunel placed before them--told the same story; the story of robbery and pillage, of an awakened vengeance that spared nothing and hesitated at nothing. Both, too, were free now, free to wander on the mountain slopes, no parole being demanded, since escape was impossible through those closely guarded paths and defiles, a little mule being at the girl's service when she chose to use it, an animal which had been captured from Julien's forces during a defeat sustained by him and while bearing on its back two mountain guns. Now those guns guarded, with other captured cannon, one of the approaches from the valley, and the mule was given over entirely to her service. Yet she rarely rode it, preferring, indeed, to sit upon a high promontory whence, at sunset, she could see the spires of distant cathedrals or churches sparkling far down in the valley, sometimes with Martin by her side, sometimes alone. "Monsieur," she said to him now one crisp, sunny October afternoon as together they strolled toward this promontory to watch the sunset, "monsieur, why do you not go away, return to your own land? You will have the chance soon to escape out of France forever. You heard what the chief said last night, that an English agent was at Nîmes endeavouring to discover what chance the fleet in the Mediterranean will have of invading us there." "You forget, mademoiselle. I am in their power; you forget that----" "Nay," she exclaimed, "why speak thus? I know that you are free to go to-morrow, to-night; that you might have gone long since had you chosen. That you remain here only because you will not leave me alone in their power. I know, I understand," and the soft, clear eyes stole a glance into his. "I saved you once, by God's mercy," he said. "I shall not leave you now. Not until I return you to your father's arms. And take heart! It will not be long. Whether Montrevel or my countrymen effect a landing from the sea, you will be soon free. If the former happens, it will be a rescue; if the latter, you will be detained no longer, since they deem you beyond all doubt a Protestant." "The woman was mistaken," she answered. "It is impossible." "Yet Cavalier thinks he has confirmation of the fact. You know that he has been in the valleys lately, even in Montpellier, disguised. He has met one, an old woman, who knew Monsieur Ducaire, your real father. You know that?" "She has said so, yet I deem it impossible. Who is this woman?" "She will not say. But he seems confident. And--and--even though my religion is so hateful to you--think, think, I beseech you, of what advantage to you it is to be deemed here one of our faith. Mademoiselle, if that strange seer, that prophetess whose knowledge astounds, mystifies me, had not proclaimed you one of them and a Protestant, you would have been dead by now," and he shuddered as he spoke. "You wrong me," she said, "when you say that the Protestant--that your--faith is hateful to me. It is only that I have been taught from my earliest days to believe so strongly in my own, to regard nothing as true but that. Also," she continued, "because it is yours, the religion of you who have saved me, it could never be hateful to me." And as she spoke the soft rose-blush came to her cheek and her eyes fell. To her, and to Cavalier, Martin Ashurst had given a full account of himself, concealing nothing, and at last not even hesitating to avow himself an Englishman, a fact which, if known in any other part of Louis' dominions but this Protestant and rebel stronghold, would have led to his instant destruction. For England was pressing France sorely now, trampling her under the iron heel of the vast armies headed by Marlborough, attacking her on every coast she possessed, even now sending a fleet under Sir Cloudesley Shovel to attempt a landing at Cette and Toulon to succour and aid the Huguenots. Also it was to her principally that France's cruelly-used subjects had been fleeing for years, by her that they had been warmly welcomed and humanely treated. What hopes of anything short of a swift and awful death could an Englishman hope for at this time if caught in France? Yet that he was safe in telling Urbaine Ducaire who and what he was he never doubted, even though she, in her turn, should tell Baville; for, since he meant himself to restore her to Baville's arms, it was not too much to suppose that this restoration would cancel the awful crime, in the eyes of the man who cherished this girl so, of being a British subject. Also he had told both of what had brought him to Languedoc--his quest for the last of the de Rochebazons--and of how that quest had failed up to now, must fail entirely, since it was impossible that any investigations could be carried on in the distracted state of the province at the present time. Nor did Cavalier, whose mind would have better become a man of forty than one of twenty, give him any encouragement to hope that he would ever find the man he sought. "For, _figurez vous_," he remarked, "this land, this sweet, fair Languedoc, has been a prey to dissension, slaughter, upon one side only up till now" (and he laughed grimly as he spoke, perhaps at the change which had come about), "to misery and awful wrongs for how long? Long before this present king--this _Dieudonné_, this _Roi Soleil_--came to the throne, and when his father _Le Juste_ was harrying our fathers. _Le Juste!_" he repeated with bitter scorn, "_Le Juste!_ A man who had a hundred virtues that became a valet--witness his love for shaving his courtiers, for larding his own fillets of veal, for combing his _mignon's_ wigs--and not one that became a master, a king, except dissimulation! My God! he had that royal gift, at least. You know what he and that devil incarnate, Richelieu, did here in the south, did at Rochelle?" "I know," Martin replied. "Alas! all the world knows. Yet it must have been after his time that Cyprien de Beauvilliers, as he then was, came here." "If he came," said Cavalier, "he came under another guise, a mask; under another name. And it is long ago; you will never find him." "I fear not." "Moreover, even should you do so, of what avail to you, to him? Will Louis disgorge the de Rochebazon wealth, will the Church of Rome release one dernier of what she has clutched? Monsieur, you have flung your fortune away for a shadow, a chimera, since you yourself will never get it now. Better have taken it, have got back to your own land, have enjoyed it in peace." "It would have been treachery to the dead--to her who believed in me and died deeming that I was a true child of her own faith. And," he added, "she was a good woman in spite of that faith." Cavalier glanced at him, then shrugged his shoulders. Yet as he turned away he muttered: "I begin to understand why your country is so great, so prosperous. Understand! if all Englishmen are like you." That conversation was not to end thus, however, with a delicate compliment to Martin's honour, since, ere Cavalier had strode many paces from him, he came back and, taking a seat by his side in the great cavern where they then were, began to talk to him about the future hopes of the Protestant cause, in Languedoc especially. "We shall win," he said, "we shall win! What we want, which after all is not much for Louis to grant, we must have: Freedom to worship as we choose, freedom from paying taxes for a Church we have revolted from, freedom to come and go out of France as we desire. Let Louis grant that and I will place at his disposal so fine a regiment that none of his dragoons or _chevaux-légers_ shall be our superiors. None! He shall say to me what he said to Jean Bart, the sailor." "What did he say to him?" "He sent for Jean Bart one day at Versailles, received him among all his grinning, shoulder-shrugging courtiers, and, looking on Jean and his rough, simple comrades, said, 'Bart, _mon ami_, you have done more for me than all my admirals.' And I love Bart for his reply when, casting his eyes round on all the admirals and captains who stood in the throng, he answered, '_Mon Dieu! je crois bien_. Without doubt! That is, if these _petits crevés_ are your admirals and captains.'" Martin smiled at the little story, then he said: "I would to God your cause, my own faith, could prosper here. We have gone through much stress ourselves to make it secure and safe in England. Discarded our king, who was of the family more dearly loved in England than any that have ever sat on her throne, yet we were forced to do it. But the Protestants of England can make a stronger boast than those of your land, Monsieur Cavalier. They alone have suffered; they never retaliated as you have done." "As we were forced to retaliate," he exclaimed, striking the table in his excitement. "My God! think of what we have suffered. And not our men alone, but our wives, our sisters, our old mothers. Have you ever seen a gray-haired woman stripped and beaten in a market place? Have you ever seen a young innocent girl stretched naked on a wheel, the shame of her exposure even more frightful than the blows of _la massue?_ Have you ever stood on board a galley laden with Protestant slaves or smelled the burning flesh of old men at the stake? We have, we of these mountain deserts, and--and--my God!" while even as he spoke he wept, brushing the tears from his eyes fiercely, "I wonder that that girl, Urbaine Ducaire, is still alive, Protestant though she be. Wonder she is spared, since she is the loved treasure of that tiger, Baville." "Protestant though she be!" Martin repeated. "You know that? From some surer source than the divinations, the revelations of La Grande Marie?" "I know it," Cavalier said, facing round suddenly on him, "I know it now for certain. Ducaire was a Protestant living at Mont Joyre. I have discovered all. And I curse the discovery! For otherwise we would have repaid Baville a thousandfold for all his crimes, wrung his heartstrings as he has wrung ours for years, slaughtered his pet lamb as he has slaughtered hundreds of ours. But she is a Protestant, therefore safe." "When will you release her, let her return to him?" "Ho! _la, la!_" the other replied. "That must be thought upon. Even now she is a great hostage in our hands, a card that may win the trick. And--and--you and she are very intimate; yet can I tell you something without fear of its being repeated to her?" "I will respect any confidence you place in me so long as it thrusts not against her welfare." "It will not do that. Yet listen. Ere she leaves us there is something to be told her as regards Baville's friendship for her father, Ducaire. And, when she has heard that, it may be she will never wish to return to him, to set eyes on her beloved Intendant again." "My God! What is to become of her then?" For reply Cavalier only laughed. Then he said: "There is always a home for any Protestant here, and she can not complain of how we have treated her. I think myself she will elect to stay with us, unless----" "Unless?" "Something more tempting offers," and again he laughed. "She might, monsieur will understand, fall in love. With--say--some hero." For a moment Martin wondered if Cavalier alluded to himself; in another he _knew_ that he did so. There was no mistaking the glance in the Camisard's eyes. But he gave him no opportunity of saying anything further on the subject, asking instead if he might be confided in with regard to the strange story which, when told to Urbaine, was to quench every spark of love and affection in her heart for Baville, the man who, with all his faults, had cherished and loved her so fondly. "No, monsieur," Cavalier replied. "That can not be--as yet. Later you will doubtless know all, know the reason why Urbaine Ducaire should change her love for him to an undying hate. Meanwhile I have to ask a favour of you." "A favour? What is there in my power to do?" "This: The power to help us end this war--you, a Protestant, an Englishman." "I can not understand. God knows I desire nothing better." "_Soit!_ Then aid us. Thus: The English agent is at Nîmes, disguised. He passes under the name of Flottard, and has plans for the use of your admiral, who will bring his fleet to Cette or Toulon when the time is ripe. Unfortunately, however, this man, this _soi-disant_ Flottard, has not the French very clearly. As for us--poor weavers, carders, husbandmen--what should we know of other tongues? We can not speak a word of your language. Monsieur Martin, you are a Protestant, an Englishman. Before God I think you English the greatest of all. Help us, help us to be free without more bloodshed, to worship the Almighty as we see fit, to bow our necks no more before the Scourge of God. Help us! Help us!" he repeated, "us of your own faith." Stirred to the heart's core by the man's appeal, though he scarce needed such impulse, every fibre in him, every drop of blood in his veins, tingling for those of his own faith, of his own loved religion, he answered quietly, saying again: "What I can do I will," and adding, also quietly, "or die in the attempt." CHAPTER XXII. I LOVE YOU. Urbaine and Martin sat together on that night which followed the sunny afternoon when they had been alone together on the promontory, in one of the smaller caverns that opened out of the large one--a cavern which, of late, Cavalier had used as that in which they ate their meals--Roland, who shared with him the position of chief of the Camisards (and indeed claimed to be the absolute chief), being rarely in this part of the mountains. To-night, however, Cavalier was absent too, he having gone on one of those terribly dangerous visits to the valleys which he periodically made, sometimes to spy into what the following of Baville were doing, or what the king's troops; or to head some sanguinary raid upon a place where arms or ammunition, food or clothes, were likely to be obtained. But to-night he had gone forth on a different mission: to precede Martin on his way to Nîmes, to see if all the mountain passes were free of their enemies and, should such be the case, to conduct him into the city, there to have an interview with the English agent. Therefore Urbaine and Martin were alone together, save for the Camisard woman who waited upon them at their meal, and who did not obtrude herself more than was necessary into the cavern they were in. As with the larger one and with those which each of them used as their sleeping apartment, its furnishing and surroundings would have created intense astonishment to any of the outside world who should have been able to observe it. Hung with skins in some places, with rich and costly tapestry and arras in others, all of which were the results of successful forays upon châteaux and _manoirs_ which, a few hours after the raids, were nothing but smoking ruins, the onlooker might well have believed that, instead of a natural vault originally fashioned by Nature's own hands, he stood within the hall of some ancient feudal castle, such as the De Rohans or the Ruvignys had once possessed in the vicinity. Also he might have thought that the table at which those two sat was one prepared for the reception of guests at Versailles. A table covered with the whitest napery, on which sparkled many pieces of the prized _vaisselles_ of the _noblesse_ and the _haut-monde_, so prized, indeed, that laws and edicts had been passed preventing the sale of such things or their transposition from one family to another; adorned as well with _verres-fins_, and with silver-handled knives and silver forks. Also for provisions there were upon this table a _poularde_ and the remains of a choice ham, a bottle of Ginestoux and another of Lunel, a silver basketful of delicate, white chipped bread, and a crystal bowl of mountain fruit. Yet the glass and the silver bore no two crests alike. The arms that were broidered on the napery represented still a third family. All was spoil torn from half a dozen ruined and sacked mansions. "I pray God, mademoiselle," Martin said, after having in vain pressed his companion to eat more than the shred of _poularde_ she had trifled with, and to drink at least one glass of the Ginestoux, "that this task on which I go may end all your grief. You know that Cavalier promises on my return, our object accomplished, to allow me to take you away from here, to return you in safety to your father's--to M. Baville's arms." "Yes," she answered, looking up at him, "yes, to return me to my father's arms." "You will pray, therefore, for my success? It means all you can most desire, all that you can hope for till these troubles are past. Once back in his house, no further harm can come near you; you are safe with him. Nay, even though he were in danger through any further success of theirs, you are still safe. They deem you one of themselves." "I will pray," she said, "for your success, your prosperity, now and forever--for all that you may undertake. Yet--yet--do you know?--I have almost ceased to pray at all now." "Oh, oh, God forbid!" he exclaimed, his heart wrung by her words. "To whom am I to pray? What am I, how am I to approach Him? If I am a Protestant I must pray for his, my father's, downfall; if a Catholic, for the destruction of what I----" She did not finish her sentence, but added instead: "Best never utter prayer at all; forget that from my childhood I have been taught to worship humbly and to never know a petition unheard. Oh," she said, thrusting her hands through the great coils of golden hair that adorned her head, "oh, that I had died on the day you saved my life, that the bullet which pierced my poor _gouvernante's_ breast had found mine instead!" Profoundly touched, moved to the deepest pity and sympathy by her words--the words of one so young and fair, yet, alas! so distraught--he moved nearer to her and, unaware even, perhaps, of his action, took her hand. "Why," he said, speaking very low, yet with a voice that seemed as music in her ears, "why feel thus, suffer thus? In spite of all the dissensions between our faiths--grant even that you are no Protestant--we worship the same God though we see him with different eyes. Urbaine," he whispered, forgetting as he spoke that he had broken down the barrier of formality which had been between them until now, "if you can not pray for me to-night, can not pray that my efforts may meet with success, how can I depart and leave you here? How go, knowing that your heart is not with me?" "Not with you?" she whispered in her turn. "Not with you? Alas----" and again broke off, saying no more. "Urbaine," he continued, emboldened now to repeat softly her name, and perhaps not understanding her repetition of his words, deeming, it may be, that the repetition confirmed them, "Urbaine, your heart, your wishes must go with me, with the cause I undertake. It is the cause of peace and reconciliation, of strengthening your king's hands by winning back his subjects to him. For if this fleet can but get a foothold for its men on shore, Louis must make terms with all who are now beating him down; not only in this fair Languedoc, but over all Europe a lasting peace may ensue. A peace," he continued, still gently yet impressively, "between your land and mine. Yours and mine," he repeated, dwelling, it seemed to her, pleasantly on the coupling of their interests together--"yours and mine." For answer she only sighed, then she said a moment later: "Yet to go on this mission may mean death to you. If Montrevel or Julien caught you--O God! it sickens me to think of your peril. They might not know, might not even believe, all that you have done for me. The end would be awful." "Yet remember also that they would not know, can not know, that I am a Protestant--worse than all else within their eyes, an Englishman. And, not knowing, nothing would be suspected." "Still I fear," she answered. "Am overcome with horror and anxiety. Oh!" she exclaimed again, "oh! if your reward for your noble chivalry to me should be nothing but disaster. If--if we should never meet again." "Fear not," he said. "We shall meet again. I know it; it is borne in upon me. We shall meet again. I shall restore you to your father's arms." Yet, even as he spoke, he remembered the words that Cavalier had uttered under the seal of confidence, the words: "When she has heard what is to be told, it may be she will never seek to return to him, to set eyes on her beloved Intendant again." Remembered them and wondered what they might portend. As he did so there came into the cavern one of the Camisards, a man who had been deputed to lead him at a given time to where Cavalier was to await his coming. A guide who said briefly that the horses were prepared and ready to set forth at monsieur's pleasure, then went outside to wait for him. "Farewell, Urbaine," Martin said. "Adieu. Nay, do not weep. All will, all must be, well with you, otherwise I would not leave you. And, remember, once my task is accomplished you are free. It is for that, as for other things, in other hopes, that I go. Bid me Godspeed." It seemed, however, as if she could not let him depart. Weeping, she clung to his arm, her cheeks bedashed with the tears that ran down them, her hands clasping his. And then, overmastered by her misery, he said that to her which he had never meant to say until, at least, happier days had dawned for both--if, as he sometimes thought, he should ever dare to say it. "Urbaine," he whispered, "Urbaine, be brave; take heart; pray for me. Listen, hear my last words ere I go. I love you--have loved you since that night we sat beneath the acacias after I had saved you. I shall love you ever--till I die." * * * * * * * The moon shone out through deep inky clouds that scurried swiftly beneath her face as Martin and the guide set forth to descend to the spot where Cavalier was to await them. Up here there were no precautions necessary to be taken, since to the higher portions of the Cévennes it was impossible that any enemy could have penetrated from below. The paths that led up to the caves which formed the barracks and dwelling places of the two thousand men who now kept all Languedoc in dread and two of Louis' armies at check were of so narrow and impassable a nature that Thermopylæ itself might have acknowledged them as worthy rivals; and, even had they been less close and tortuous, were so guarded at intervals by pickets of Camisards that none could have surmounted them. Also in many places the route had been made to pass specially over terrible chasms and ravines, since, by so doing, it enabled the defenders of the passes to construct drawbridges which could be lowered or raised at their own pleasure, or, in case of necessity, destroyed altogether. Yet one precaution had been taken for their journey--a precaution never neglected by those dwellers of the mountains, in case they were forced to take to flight and desired to leave no trace behind them--their animals were shod _backward_ on their fore feet, a method which, in conjunction with the usual shoeing of the hind feet, was almost certain to baffle those who should endeavour to follow their tracks. Beneath that moon which shone fitfully from the deep masses of rain-charged clouds the two men paced in Indian file down the narrow passes, seeing as they went that which, for now many weeks, had been visible to all eyes in the province--namely, the flames of villages on fire at different points of the compass; hearing, too, as they were borne on the winds, the distant ringing of alarm bells and tocsins from many a beleaguered church and monastery. For not only did those flames spring from edifices wherein the old faith was still maintained, but also from the villages and hamlets where some Protestants continued to dwell and worship in their own manner, hoping ever for better, happier days. Already it was calculated that more than forty Romish churches had been destroyed, with, in many cases, the bourgs in which they stood; ere all was over the number was doubled. And already, also, more than that number of Protestant places of worship, with the villages around them, had been pillaged, sacked, and burned by Montrevel and Julien, while, in their case, ere all was over the number was almost trebled. Thinking of his newly declared love for Urbaine, thinking, too, of how, in whispered words, she had declared her love for him in return, of how in their last hasty embrace, which had been also their first, they had sworn deathless fidelity to each other, Martin took but little heed of those midnight sights telling of happy homes ruined forever which he had now been forced so often to gaze upon from the heights where the Camisards dwelt. He had grown accustomed to these beacons of horror, in spite of the unhappiness they caused him. But now he saw a new phase of stern justice and punishment at which he could not fail to shudder. High up upon three gibbets at the wayside by which they passed--gibbets so placed that, when their ghastly burdens should rot from the chains which held them now, they would fall down and down until they reached the bottom of the ravine a thousand feet below--there hung three corpses; swung waving to the mountain air, while ever and anon upon their white but blood-stained faces the moon glinted now and again, making those faces look as though they perspired in her rays, were clammy with sweat. And two grinned hideously in those rays, a bullet wound which had shattered the mouth of one giving to his face the appearance of a man convulsed with laughter, while the smirk of the other face was, in truth, the last grimace of the death agony. The features of the third told naught, since, from a wound in his forehead, there had run out the blood which was now caked and hardened to a mask, hiding all below. "My God!" exclaimed Martin, with a shiver, "who are they? Men caught here and executed as spys, troopers made prisoners and done to death by the avengers?" "Nay," replied the man, while he made a contemptuous gesture at the loathsome things that at the moment executed a weird fantastic movement in unison as a fresh gust of wind swept down from the mountains above, making them sway and dance to its cold breath, "nay, vagabonds, _marauds_. Murderers these, not soldiers. Those men are of our number--were of our number--Protestants--ourselves." "What, traitors?" "Ay, traitors--to humanity. Listen! They caught one, a good woman, Madame de Miramand, a Papist, yet a kindly creature who succoured all alike. Also she was young, not twenty, and beautiful. She was _en voyage_"--again Martin shuddered, thinking of another woman young and beautiful who had also been _en voyage_, and almost caught--"had with her her jewels, also her _vaisselles_. Well they slew her even as she knelt before them, stabbed her, left her to die, left her thus as she prayed God to pardon them." "Go on," Martin said, seeing that he paused. "God may pardon them," the guide said. "One, however, would not. Cavalier! We caught them, tried them; you see the sentence. It is not women _we_ war upon." As he finished, again the loathsome figures swung to the breeze, again they danced and pirouetted in their chains, while from behind a rock Cavalier himself strode forward. It was the spot that had been the meeting place appointed with the guide. "It is true," he said. "We war not with women. Let Montrevel or Julien do that. Or their master--Louis!" CHAPTER XXIII. "LOVE HER! BEYOND ALL THOUGHT! AND SHE IS THERE." With the rapidity of wildfire the news had run over all Languedoc at this time--was known, too, and shared by Catholics as well as Protestants--that the English, who once they drew the sword never sheathed it until its work was done, meditated an attack on France in a fresh place, that place being her Mediterranean seaboard, the one spot still free from their assaults up to now, also a spot more vulnerable, since there were scarce any troops to defend it, the armies of Montrevel and Julien being sufficiently occupied in endeavouring, without success, to prevent the terrible reprisals the Camisards were at last making. And now indeed the desolation of Languedoc was supreme; now, like a torch that flareth in the night, was visible an awful terror upon all of the old faith, as well as the adherents of Louis, who dwelt therein. Men of that old faith barricaded themselves in their houses, refusing to either quit them or let any of their families do so, or to receive bread into those houses in any other way than by baskets raised by cords, either for fear that they should be stabbed to the heart on their doorsteps or that they should add one more body to the many that hung upon the branches of the trees by the wayside--bodies having affixed to their dead breasts the label bearing the words, "_Tous qui tomberont entre les mains des vengeurs seront traités ainsi_." Verily, Languedoc was, as its greatest churchman, Fléchier, said, but one vast gaping wound! Yet not only was it the avengers who caused the wound. Maddened by defeat, by merciless retaliation on their enemies' part, by their fierce determination to never give or ask for quarter, Baville, Montrevel, and Julien enacted more awful cruelties than had ever yet been practised upon those of the Reformed faith. Again the dungeons of the prisons, the vaults of the cathedrals, which living prisoners shared with the coffined dead, re-echoed with the groans of the former; _les places publiques_ were foul with the odour of burning flesh and of corpses that rotted on wheels; the very roofs were laden with carrion birds waiting their opportunity to swoop down and plunge their beaks into the dying; even mothers slew the babes in their arms sooner than see them perish slowly before their eyes from the pangs of thirst and hunger. But still the war went on, if such oppression, such retaliation, could be dignified by the name of war. Went on because from Paris the word still came that none should worship God in their own way, or in any other method than the priests of Rome directed--priests who declared with their lips that the God they served was one of love and mercy, yet sowed with full hands the seeds of violence and trouble, of blood and death. And now to add to all the terrors that the papists felt at last, to all the fierce joys that the Protestants had begun to thrill with, it was rumoured through the country that some great admiral of the accursed English race, backed up by the Duke of Savoy, was about to land an army at one of the ports with the full intention of assisting the Protestants, and of, so those papists said, establishing Protestantism over all the land. No wonder, therefore, that the priests fled from their churches, that the archbishop said (forgetting how he and his had outraged God for years) that "God had deserted them." Clad like muleteers in some cases, in others like travelling weavers, and in still others like husbandmen and horse-dealers, some scores of Camisards were making their ways by ones and twos at this period toward Cette, avoiding Montpellier and leaving it to the east of them, and threading the low lands that lay between that diocese and the sister one of D'Agde, for _they_ knew where the landing was to be attempted; knew likewise when the English assistance was to be expected. Also--though few were aware of it, and Baville alone, on his side, suspected that such was the case--from Holland, from Geneva, from the villages of the Vaud and Valais, from Canterbury and Spitalfields were coming refugees, some making their way by foot and some on horses. They had been summoned from the lands they had fled to, summoned to return and take part in what was now to be done. Amid a small band which at this moment drew near to Frontignan there rode Martin Ashurst, his companions being some of the noblest Protestant blood of the province. Also by his side there rode the English agent known as Flottard, a Huguenot whose father had escaped long since into England and who spoke that language better than his own, or rather than the _langue d'oc_ which had been his father's. "And now, _mes frères_," said one of these companions, Ulson de la Valette, who as a boy had been forced to stand before the scaffold of Greonble holding his fainting mother's hand while they witnessed the decapitation of his elder brother _pour cause d'hérésie_, "we must separate, to meet again by Heaven's grace as followers of the English admiral. Monsieur, read the route to our friends," and he turned to a man clad as a monk. He had in truth been one who had but recently been unfrocked at Rome on suspicion of heretic principles, and had now openly avowed Protestantism, while still retaining the gown as a disguise. "This is the route," the monk answered, producing from his breast a paper which, in the clear light of the dawn, he read from. "You, De la Valette, and you, Fontanes, will pass straight on to Frontignan. You, _messieurs les Anglais_," and he glanced at Martin and Flottard, "will proceed through La Susc; the rest must distribute themselves and travel through the villages of Sainte Bréze, Collanze, and Le Test. Yet, remember, Baville has warned every _aguet_, every watchman, every village consul and river guard. Capture and discovery mean death." "The meeting-place," said Ulson de la Valette, "of all of us is the plain of Frontignan, 'twixt that and the great port. The signal will be the landing of the first English troops, the entry of the first ship of war. The password is 'God and his children.' My friends, farewell; yet, as you ride, forget not to pray for success. If God is on our side now we are avenged and Louis beaten down under our feet. We shall triumph." A moment later all had parted, dispersing quietly after a hand-shake round, and each going alone, Martin and Flottard remaining behind for some little while so as not to follow too hurriedly upon the footsteps of the others. "Yet," said Flottard in English, which he spoke like a native, "we must part too, Monsieur Martin. I have to enter Bouziques if I can; 'tis full of disguised Savoyards and some of your--our--land. You will, I should suppose, join Sir Cloudesley Shovel?" "As agent," Martin replied, "not combatant. My mission is to lead his troops if possible to Montpellier and Nîmes, to act as guide." "It will not save your neck if you are caught," Flottard said with a laugh. "There is no thought of that," Martin answered, hurt and annoyed that the man should suppose this was his consideration. "But--but--I have other things to do. To me are to be confided the arms, ammunition, and money which the English fleet brings. Also, with the exception of you and me, there is no one who can speak English." "And," repeated Flottard, "there is no one the French will punish as ferociously as they will punish us--for I am English too now--if we are caught." "They can do no worse by us than by their own," Martin replied quietly. Afterward, when they had parted, Flottard taking his way to Bouzique while Martin rode on quietly toward Cette, he, musing deeply on all which might be the outcome of the proposed attack by the English admiral, told himself that, even were it possible for his punishment to be made five thousand times worse than anything which had ever been dealt out to the Protestants, nothing should stop him now but death. He loved Urbaine Ducaire; had loved her, as he had said, since first he saved her life, since they had sat together beneath the sweet-scented blossoms of the acacia trees on that soft summer night amid the desolation of the land; he should love her till the end. And--and Cavalier had promised that, if he helped their cause now, on his return he should lead Urbaine forth a free woman; should return her safe and unharmed to Baville's arms, even though Baville was the most hated name the Camisards knew. Cavalier would keep his word. That he never doubted. Only there was the future to be thought upon--the afterward. His love for her and hers for him. How was that love ever to be brought to a happy fruition? How? How? How? Would Baville give her to him, a Protestant, even though it were proved, as Cavalier had said it could now be proved beyond all doubt, that Urbaine was herself born in that faith? Give her to him, an Englishman, a native of the land which had wrought much disaster on France through innumerable centuries, that was even now closing its grasp of steel upon France and crushing the very life-blood out of all its pores? Would Baville, the Tiger of Languedoc, ever consent to such a union as they projected, the fulfilment of the troth which they had plighted? One hope there was, he reflected: a hope that at least the question of faith might not prove an insurmountable object. For though Baville was of the old faith, though in the name of that faith and at the instigation of its chiefs he had wrought innumerable cruelties, had broken countless hearts and driven thousands to despair, religion had been but a war cry with him, a banner under which to march. As a papist he was but an indifferent one. He had said, had owned as much more than once, that it was duty which led him to be severe, to crush down rebellion, to exalt the King's authority. He would have acted in precisely the same manner as he had recently acted had France been Protestant and had the _attroupés_ been papists. "_Il est plus royaliste que le Roi!_" Urbaine had said of him once in speaking to Martin; "and to him the soil of France and the power of Louis are the most sacred things he knows, except one other, his duty. The King made him governor of Languedoc; in his mind Languedoc exists for the King alone. Forgive him all for his loyalty, his obedience to duty." As he reflected on this, trying to pierce the future, endeavouring to see one glimmering ray of hope amid all the darkness which enveloped that future, he drew near to where the port of Cette was; in the warm autumn air with which these southern plains were suffused, it seemed almost as if he scented the breezes of the great blue sea beyond. Also it seemed as if already the balm of the myriad flowers which adorn its shores was surrounding him, as if, with the bright rays of the sun, a promise was heralded of peace and happiness at last. It behooved him to be careful how he progressed, for all the countryside was in a state of alarm. The English fleet had been seen out at sea two days before! Also it was known to all the King's followers that a descent was intended, while a regiment of dragoons marching swiftly to the coast had given the information that, from the towers of the cathedral at Montpellier, that fleet had been seen approaching Maqualone. While even a worse cause for alarm was the rumour that Cavalier with six hundred Camisards had passed by a circuitous route toward Cette, and was now waiting on the beach to welcome the English invaders. Yet, furnished with papers which Flottard had caused to be procured from Paris, not only Martin but most of the refugees who had of late returned to the south of France managed to reach the coast ere night fell, to reach the shore, there to await the coming of those who were to land and succour them--a shore upon which were those Camisards who, setting out with Cavalier long after Martin had departed, had by a forced march contrived to reach Cette ere he and his companions were able to do so, owing to the _détours_ they had made; a sandy, shingly beach, from which, as now the warm night closed in on them, all gazed upon what they saw before them. Two large ships of war (their names were afterward known to be the Pembroke and the Tartar) which through that night made signals frequently that, none understanding, remained unanswered. Signals arranged by the Earl of Nottingham (who, after many compunctions against assisting rebels in arms, even though in arms against a king hostile to England, had consented to Shovel making the attack), the key to which he had forwarded to Peytaud, a Protestant but recently returned from Holland. But Peytaud had been caught that morning ere he could reach Cette; the signals had been found upon him, and, at the time that the Pembroke and the Tartar were showing their masthead lights, the unfortunate man's body was lying broken all to pieces on a wheel in the crossroads outside Aiguësmortes. And there were no duplicates! The signals remained unanswered. Later on Cavalier said that he did not know these were the ships of war, but in the darkness took them to be fishermen's boats. Had he known, he averred that he would have swam out to them rather than have missed so great a chance. In the morning when day broke the topsails of these vessels were seen to fill. Soon they were gone. The hoped-for chance was lost, and lost forever. The tide no longer served; nothing could have been then landed from the English ships, nor could they have remained where they were. Already the galleys armed to the teeth had put out in dozens to attack them. On the horizon there rose the topmasts of a great French fleet coming swiftly from Toulon. And by Martin's side upon the desolate shore stood Cavalier, the picture of despair. "The opportunity is gone," he said; "gone also our last chance for making peace. It is war now to the end. Yet had your countrymen but got ashore the struggle would have been over; hampered on all sides, Louis must have yielded, have made terms. God help us all!" and he turned away to bid his followers disperse and make their way back by the routes and by-paths which they knew of to the mountains. As he did so there came through the crowd of Camisards one whom Martin had seen before, a gaunt, haggard man, with an arm missing--an arm which, it was said, had withered under the cruelties the Abbé du Chaila had practised on this Cévenole while he had him in his power at Montvert, so that, when at last the man was freed, it had to be removed. "Cavalier," he said, "Cavalier, friend and leader, bid them also hasten on their way; lose no time. You have heard the news?" "No! What?" "Montrevel and Julien have forced the passes, taking advantage of our absence. Roland, too, is away. The caverns are besieged. All in them are lost." "Lost! Pshaw! They will stand a siege of all Louis' armies." "Ay, they will. But it is not for siege that the _battue_ is arranged. Those in the caverns are caught in a _blocus_; they can make no _sortie_. Outside, fires have been made. Hurry! or you will find nothing but smoke-dried corpses when you return." As he spoke there fell upon his ears a heartbroken gasp. Turning his eyes, they lighted upon Martin--Martin who, white to the lips and palsied with horror, could only mutter, "Urbaine! Urbaine. And she is there!" "Ay!" said Cavalier fiercely, "she is there. The blow falls as heavily on Baville as on us----" Then paused in his speech. Paused to say in an altered, gentle tone a moment later to Martin, "I see! See all! You love her?" "Love her! My God," Martin replied, "beyond all thought! And she is there!" CHAPTER XXIV. "AN ERRAND OF LIFE OR DEATH." Through the fair, sweet land known as the _Département Hérault_ Martin rode north, toward where the mountains lay, in the darkness of the autumn night, like purple shadows hovering over the earth; rode recklessly, as though caring little whether he or the horse he bestrode found death at the next step. Recklessly, as it seemed to the startled shepherds guarding their flocks of Narbonne sheep in their huts of reeds and clay, and peering out as the horseman dashed by, the moon illuminating his pale face so that, but for the clatter of the creature's hoofs, they would scarcely have known whether 'twas a spectre or a living thing which flew past. Recklessly, too, as it seemed to peasants sleeping in their cottages, and aroused by that clatter only to turn on their beds and sleep again. Recklessly, threateningly, as perhaps it may have seemed to startled fawns and timorous hares and rabbits, fleeing helter-skelter into vineyards where grew the luscious Lunel and Genistoux grapes, or into underbush where lurked the famed and dreaded viper of the south. But reckless as that hurried course might seem, wild and furious as the ride of Gary from London to Edinburgh, to tell James that the great Queen was dead and he was King of England as well as of Scotland, it was not so in truth, and, though swift and unhalting, was neither foolhardy nor rashly impetuous. He was too good a horseman, also too kindly-hearted a man, to spur a willing beast above its best endeavours. Yet he knew well enough that beyond breathing spells in cool copses, where the moon flung down on to the thick grass the shadowy lacery of leaves which quivered in the night breezes, and beyond halts at trickling rivulets so that the panting creature might drink and be refreshed, there must be no delay. None if he would reach Montrevel or Julien ere the worst had fallen; if he would be in time to tell them that, amid those whom they sought to murder and burn in the caves they had surrounded, was the fairest woman in all Languedoc, the child of Baville's heart, Urbaine Ducaire. Also he knew the dangers that lurked in his path; knew how, all along the road he went, were countless soldiers out seeking for _attroupés_; men who, not knowing what his mission was and perceiving that he bore no signs about him of royal scarlet, or lace, or accoutrements, would send a dozen bullets at his back, any one of which would hurl him from his saddle to the ground a corpse. Nay, once such had almost been the case. Refusing to halt at the village of St. Jean le Bon, from a tavern had come a shower of such missiles, which, by God's mercy, had only hissed harmlessly past, though by the shock he felt beneath him he knew that his saddle had been struck. The dawn was nigh as at last he neared Lunel. He knew it by the deeper chill of the air, by the changing lividness of the summits of the distant mountains, and by the vanishing of the purple darkness from their caps and spurs and ridges. If the horse he rode could reach that town he might get a change of animal and so ride on and on, and on again, until he was within the outlines of Montrevel and Julien. "Away!" Cavalier had said to him as, after weary waiting, the evening fell over Cette and he was free at last to commence his journey. All day he had fretted and stormed at having to remain until the night came, though forced to do so, since to have started on that wild ride by daylight would have been, in the state of the locality, simply to invite destruction. "Away! God grant you may be in time! If they spare her they must spare the others, as, if they slay them, they must slay her. And--and--we shall be close behind you. If Montrevel and Julien have got into our mountains, may the devil, their master, help them! They will never get out again; we have them in a trap." And he laughed bitterly while repeating aloud the word "Away!" Also he added, "If you can but induce them to hold their hands for twenty-four hours we will do the rest." Lunel came nearer and nearer now. He thanked God again and again that still the horse beneath him did not falter, still swept on in an even, easy stride. Already he could see in the morning air, now clear and bright, the great wooden spire of its church, which up to now had escaped destruction. And he remembered how Cavalier had told him to have no fear in entering it, since neither papists nor Protestants had made any attack upon it because it was principally inhabited by Jews from Marseilles, who, from the days of Philip of Valois, had been permitted to dwell within it, they taking, as was natural, no share in the troubles with which the province was torn. Nearer and nearer, close now, its one peaked, _calotte_-roofed tower, which faced to the south, standing up like an arrow pointing to the sky in the cool light of the swift advancing dawn. Close now, and hammering on the great gray storm-beaten door of the ramparts, against which for centuries the _mistral_ and the _bise_ had howled and flung themselves on winter nights and days; on which all through the summer the southern sun had glared. Hammering with pistol-butt and clenched hand, loud enough to arouse the dead, and calling: "Awake! Open! Open! In God's name open!" "_Hola!_" a voice shouted answeringly from within. "No more. Cease. I come! 'In God's name.' Good! You give the password. 'Tis well!" the utterance being mingled with the grating of a key in a lock and the rumbling of a bar. And Martin divined that by a chance, a miracle, he had uttered the royalist sign. A moment later the gate was open wide. Before it stood a lean, gray-haired warder, the very counterpart of Cervante's hero, fastening the tags of his jacket with one hand as he threw back the door with the other. "Monsieur rides in haste," he said, seeing that he had a gentleman to do with, though no soldier clad in _bleu royal_ or scarlet, as he had expected. "What is the news you carry? Have the accursed English landed, the vile Protestants captured the port?" "Nay," answered Martin, "but I ride on an errand of life or death. I must reach Baville; above all, Montrevel or Julien. They know not what they do." "What they do! What is't? I have heard they barricade themselves in Uzès and Alais, yet thousands strong! Soldiers! Bah! Tosspots and _vauriens_, afraid of a beggarly set of goatherds. _Dieu des Dieux!_ 'twas not so when I rode behind Condé." "You are mistaken. They are in the mountains, putting all to fire and sword. Above all, to fire. And among those whom they will slay--they know her not--is Baville's child. Friend, as you have loved ones of your own, help me to a fresh horse. This one is spent." "It is," the warder said, all action now and regarding the smoking flanks of the poor beast. "Antoine, _petit_," he called, "out of your bed, _dindon_. A bucket of water, quick. And for you, monsieur, a sup," whereon he ran into his lodge and came back carrying a great _outre_, from out of which he poured a flask of amber-coloured liquor. "'Tis of the best," he said, and winked as he did so. "Hein! 'tis Chastelneuf. Three years in vat. Down with it." "Another horse, another horse!" Martin exclaimed after he had swallowed the wine and thanked the man. "In Heaven's name put me in the way of that. I must on--on." "Off!" said the man to a boy who had now come from his lodge, half dressed, as though he had but just tumbled out of his bed; a boy who was by now holding a bucket to the horse's thirsty mouth. "Off, Antoine, to the Jew. He has the cattle. If you have money," he added to Martin. "Without it you will get naught from any of his tribe." "I have enough. Fifty gold pistoles." "Show them not to him, or he will want all. Bargain, traffic, _marchandise_. 'Tis the only way." Led by the boy and leading now the steed, with the warder calling after him that it was strange he had heard naught of what he related, "for his part, he believed he was misinformed, and that Montrevel and Julien were doing nothing but eating and drinking up all in the land like locusts," Martin went down the street, none of the inhabitants seeming yet awake. It was as silent and empty as a deserted city. In front of a cross in a market place--a cross which the fiery Anjou had caused to be erected there to remind the Jews of their fathers' sins, as he said--the boy paused and, pointing to a house with large, capacious stables by its side, observed: "'Tis there that Elie lives. Beat him up, monsieur, beat him up," and Martin, following his advice, seized the great copper knocker and hammered with it as lustily as, some minutes earlier, he had hammered to arouse the warder. Because strange, fantastic thoughts and memories come to us even in our most bitter moments, so to Martin there came now the thought that the face, which a moment later appeared at a window above, might well have served Nokes, the comedian, whom he had often supped with at Pontac's, for a model of the apothecary in Mantua. A face lean and hatchet-nosed, fleshless almost as the face of one dying of starvation, the eyes deep sunken above the beak-like nose. "What is't?" this man asked. "What does monsieur desire at such an hour?" "A horse. A horse at once that will carry me to----" "Horses are dear just now. The army needs all." "I will pay well. Come down and supply me. Quick, every moment is precious." "So are horses. Yet I will descend. I have a good animal, but it cost me much." A moment later he appeared at his door, a thick cudgel in his hand as though to guard against any sudden attack that might be made upon him, and said: "The animal I have is worth a hundred gold pistoles." "Bah! I have not so much about me." "How much have you?" "Twenty." "Twenty for such an animal! Father of Abraham and Isaac! Twenty gold pistoles for such a creature!" and he made as though he would re-enter his house. "Let him go, monsieur," whispered the boy with a grin, "he will come back. _N'ayez pas peur_. Oh! _avec ça_, we know him." The lad spoke truly, for even as Martin, cursing himself for trafficking thus at such a moment, resolved to fling his purse of fifty pieces down before the man and bid him bring out the horse, the Jew's vulpine beak and pendulous underlip appeared again from behind the door. "Will you give twenty-five?" "Show me the horse." A little later, in accordance with some whispered instructions to another person behind the door, a Jewish maiden was seen leading a horse from out the stable yard at the side, an animal of an ordinary type, yet looking sturdy and as though quite capable of carrying Martin to Alais and the mountains beyond. "Twenty-five?" the Jew asked, leering. "Yes, twenty-five. Help me"--to the boy--"to change saddle and bridle," which the lad did willingly enough. But the Hebrew's instincts were stronger than aught else. As they began to do this he shrieked: "Ah, mother of Moses, the girl is mad. She has brought the wrong beast. Oh! Oh! Oh! This can not go under fifty pistoles." "It is too late to change," Martin said grimly. "The beast is mine," and he produced his purse and told out twenty-five pistoles. Then, tossing the boy a crown, he said: "Keep my horse for me until I come this way again or send for it, and I will reward you well. Treat it carefully. Farewell. The road to Nîmes and Alais? Where is the gate?" The boy indicated it amid the shrieks of the Jew, who now yelled he was robbed; that he meant twenty-five gold pistoles with the other's horse thrown in; how else could he part with such an animal for a beggarly twenty-five? And amid a tussle between the lad on one side and the Abrahamite and the girl on the other, in which the former seemed quite able to hold his own and retain his charge, Martin rode down the street to the Nîmes gate. Once more he was upon the road. Nearer to his love, to her who had dawned a star above his life--the woman in deadly peril for whom, as he tightened rein and pressed flank, he prayed God's mercy. Prayed also that he might not be too late, not too late. The autumn sun beat down upon his head, fierce as July suns in more northern lands. The skies were like brass. There was no air to fan his cheek except that which his own swift passage caused. Yet he never felt or heeded the former, nor missed the latter; there was but one thought in his mind--Urbaine! Urbaine! Urbaine! Lunel was left behind him, had dwindled to a spot. He cursed the leagues of _détour_ he had to make to reach Nîmes first, find Baville, and warn him of the awful danger of the girl if still she lived--oh, God! if still she lived!--procure his order to those battue-making butchers to hold their hands, possess himself of it, and hurry on to the mountains, That, that was all he could do, yet he would accomplish it or reel from his saddle to the road--dead. Through Vergese he went, seeing the cool wooden slopes of Les Vaquerolles on his left, shouting the password he had by Heaven's grace learned so opportunely to all who endeavoured to arrest his flight; on, on to Milbaud and Saint Cesare. And at last Nîmes was ahead of him. He saw it now. The Temple of Diana rose before his eyes, solitary and majestic as the Romans had left it two thousand years before; rose, too, beneath the brassy shimmer, the white marble columns of Agrippa's sons and the city walls. Yet also arose something else toward the heavens which startled, amazed him. Stealing up into the yellow haze, a spiral column twined snakily until it seemed to be merged in the sky, a column white and fleecy at first, then black at its base, and, later, black up all its length. Next, tinged flame-colour--soon flame itself. Flame which leaped up in countless tongues as though with its great flecks and flickers it aspired to lick the canopy above, flame in which now were mixed black specks and daubs borne up upon its fiery breath. Nîmes was burning. It was impossible to doubt it. Set on fire by whom? Camisards descending from the mountains, or perchance, though that seemed impossible, by Camisards returning from Cette. Or by the King's forces. Yet, why that? It was the royalist stronghold, the royalist base. It could scarce be that. Spurring his horse, he urged it to its fullest speed through the last remaining half-league of road running through fields of crimson-flowered sainfoin and beneath the yellow-green, sweet-scented limes. On, while now above the broadleaved trees the smoke rose thicker and thicker. On, scarce knowing why he rode thus or what he had to do in Nîmes except to find Baville if he were there; to tell him no burning city mattered one jot to him in comparison with what was doing, might be done by now, up in those mountains five leagues off which lay bathed in the golden haze of the noontide heat. He saw the great southern gate open before him, no warders by it. Doubtless they were in the city trying to save it from the flames; from the gate itself he saw people issuing, running. Some--among others two old gray-haired people, man and woman--wringing their hands; also a great burly _cordelier_, his fat face suffused with an oily smile. "What--what is it?" he cried, reining in his horse. "What fresh horror now?" "Murder! Cruelty unparalleled!" the old gray-haired man said, his look of terror awful to behold. "Wickedness extreme! Montrevel is there, Julien is there; they have caught the Protestants in the great mill, have barred them in, they can not escape. And they are burning it. All, all must perish." "Montrevel--Julien--there! It is impossible. They are in the mountains burning the Protestants _there!_" Martin exclaimed. "Nay, nay, my son," the greasy monk exclaimed, chiming in, "that was but a heaven-inspired ruse to catch the others in the trap. They are here. They slaughter the heretics, _par le fer et par le feu_, as Montrevel says. Here! Here! My son, make your way in. Join the good work." CHAPTER XXV. PAR LE FER ET PAR LE FEU. He made his way in. Entered by the Porte des Carmes, to find himself in the midst of a seething mass of people who shouted and gesticulated while pushing each other to and fro, some doing so in their anxiety to escape from out the city, others endeavouring to force themselves farther into it and toward the Canal de la Gau, which was near the gate. A mass of people who seemed infuriated, beyond the bounds of reason, to frenzy, who shouted and screamed, "_Au glaive, au glaive avec les héritéques_. Kill all! Burn all! Now is the time." While others shrieked, "To the mill, to the mill!" as onward they went in the direction of the canal. He had put his horse up in a stall behind the gate, tethering it to a peg alongside one or two other animals which, by their trappings, evidently belonged to some dragoons; and now, borne on by the crowd, Martin went the same way, keeping his feet with difficulty yet still progressing, progressing toward where he saw the flames ascending, darting through dense masses of black smoke, roaring as a vast furnace roars. Toward the mill that, all said, was the place which was on fire; the mill in which there were three hundred people--women, children, and old, decrepit, useless men, old, aged Protestants who could not take to the mountains--being burned to death; the mill in which they had been worshipping God in their own fashion. "Tell me," Martin besought a bystander, big, brawny, and muscular, whom he found by his side and who, in spite of his splendidly developed manhood, wept, dashing the tears fiercely away from his eyes every moment. "Tell me what has happened. Tell me, I beg you." "Murder! Butchery! A crime that will ring down the ages. Montrevel is burning three hundred helpless ones in Mercier's mill." Then he paused, casting his eyes over Martin's riding dress (stained now with the dust of his long rides) and upon his lace at breast and throat, smirched and dirty from continued wear. Paused to say: "What are you? a _seigneur_, I see. But of which side? The butchers or the slaughtered?" "I am of the Reformed faith." "Of Nîmes?" the man asked. "If so, God help you. Your mother or your babe may be burning there and you powerless to succour them. Montrevel's wolves surround the mill. He is there too, mad with wine and lust of blood. If there is any woman or child you love in Nîmes at this moment, God help you." "She whom I love is not here. But, alas! can we do nothing? You wear a sword as I do? We can strike a blow----" "Do! What can we do? There are two hundred dragoons there. What will our blades avail, though we were the best _ferrailleurs_ in France?" Then suddenly he cried, "See, there is the slaughter-house!" He spoke truly. The burning mill was before them. A sight to freeze one's blood, to turn that blood to ice even beneath the sky of brass, even before the hot flames that darted forth, licking up, devouring all. It stood, an ancient building of stone foundations and wooden superstructure. They said the former dated back to Cæsar's day, the latter to that of Charles le Bel, upon the banks of the canal as it would never stand again, since now it was nothing but a mass of burning fuel. Also a human hecatomb, there being within it the ashes of three hundred human beings whose bodies had that morning been consumed. And Martin blessed God that he had not been there to hear their piercing shrieks, their cries for mercy and their supplications. Around the nearly destroyed mill, except on one side where it adjoined an inn, "La Rose de Provence," the front of which was all singed and scarred, he saw the executioners, the men who had been soldiers, fierce yet valiant, until this morning, but who were now worthy of no nobler name than that of cowardly murderers. Dragoons, Croatian Cravates, now Prance's most bloody swashbucklers with one exception, the Miquelets, those fierce Pyrenean tigers, as well as _chevaux-légers_ and countless numbers of the _milice_. And near them, his sword drawn, his face inflamed with drink and fury, his breast a mass of ribbons and orders, was Montrevel upon his horse, a scandal to the _bâton_ he had lately gained. "Murderer! Assassin! Brave butcher of women and babes," howled many in the crowd, one half of which was Protestant, "noble papist! you have done your work well. Yet beware of Cavalier and Roland!" And even as they so shouted, from more than one window high up in the roofs there came little puffs of smoke and spits of flame, showing that he was aimed at. Only the devil protected him. His time was not yet come. He was mad now with fury or drink, or thirst for human blood. Mad, stung to frenzy by resistance and contempt, even in spite of all that he had done that morning, of having glutted his ire on the helpless, which should have sufficed, all heard him roar: "_Finissons!_ Nîmes is heretic to the core. Make an end of it. _Avancez, mes soldats_. Burn, destroy, slaughter. Kill all." And he turned his horse toward where the crowd was thickest and bade the carnage begin, marshalling his troops into companies the better to distribute them about the doomed city. But now there stepped forth one--Sandricourt, Governor of Nîmes--who forbade him to do that which he threatened; warned him that if one more house or street was injured he would himself that night set forth for Paris, and tell Louis that Montrevel was unworthy of the command he held in this distracted province. "Ha! Sandricourt, 'tis Sandricourt," whispered one in a knot of Protestants standing near to where Martin and the man he had accosted were. "He is the best, he and Fléchier, bishop though he is. If all were like them--if Baville were--then--then we might live in peace, not see nor know the awful terrors we have seen this day. Oh, the horror of it! the horror of it!" and he buried his face in his hands as though to hide some sight that he feared might blast him. Baville! The name recalled the man to Martin's memory. Nay, it did more, far more than that. Recalled his love, Urbaine. Set him wondering, too, if by any chance this holocaust had taken place at the Intendant's suggestion; if this was a vengeance on those who had destroyed her. For he must deem her dead by now; weeks had passed since she disappeared. Had he set the shambles fresh running with blood to avenge her loss? He must see Baville at once, must tell him she was safe. Thereby, perhaps, more slaughter might be averted. "Where is Baville?" he asked, turning to the group of terrified Protestants by his side. "Is he in this carnage?" "God, he knows," one replied. "Yet he has not appeared. Not since this commenced. Were you here at the beginning?" "Nay, I arrived but now. Is it true, can it be true there are three hundred destroyed within that?" and he glanced toward the _débris_ of the mill, the superstructure now nothing but ashes and charred beams, with, lying above them, the red tiles of what had been a roof ere it fell in, burying beneath it--what? "It is true, it is true," the man wailed. Then, composing himself, he told of all that had gone before. "They were at prayer," he said, "in there, in Mercier's mill. I myself and Prosper Roumilli," indicating one of the men by his side. "Also Antoine La Quoite and Pierre Delamer," nodding to two others near him, "were hastening to join them; all grieved that we were too late. Late, _grand Dieu!_ What have we not escaped?" "Death and destruction," whispered La Quoite, trembling. "Ay, death and destruction. _Hélas!_ they raised their songs of thanksgiving too loud. Their _cantiques_ told where they were, reached the ears of that murderer there who was at his breakfast----" "He was," again interrupted La Quoite, "with the woman, Léonie Sabbat. A fitting companion. She can drink even him beneath the table." "Furious he left that table, summoned a battalion, passed swiftly here, surrounded the mill. Furious, too, because as they passed the cathedral he heard the organ blow, knew that Fléchier worshipped too, mad and savage because during such time we should also worship God in our own way." "Yet our day will come," murmured Pierre Delamer, "it will come. I am old, yet shall I not die until it comes." "The soldiers burst open the door," went on the original speaker, "rushed in among them sabres in hand, slew many. Yet this was too slow for him----" "It was," exclaimed La Quoite. "He said they would be three hundred minutes slaying three hundred people thus. Too slow! He drew off his men, closed the doors, set fire to the mill. You see the end," and he pointed to the ashes of the ruined place, ashes that were also something else besides the remains of the mill. Again the first speaker took up the story, Martin feeling sick unto death as he stood by and heard. "From within there came the shouts of the lost, the piercing cries, the heartrending shrieks. Midst burst walls, at windows, upon the roof, we saw the death-doomed appear. Flying spectres, phantoms, upon them the wounds the soldiers had made, black, singed by the flames. And then, O God! the sight passed man's endurance." "What next?" asked Martin, white to the lips. "What next? This: With their new weapons, the accursed _baïonnettes_, the soldiers thrust back into the flames those whom the could get at; those whom they could not reach they fired at. We saw them fall back shrieking. Yet in God's mercy their shrieks ceased soon--there were none left." "But one," exclaimed the man called La Quoite, "a girl, _pauvre petite fillette!_ She escaped so far as to reach the ground unhurt, to escape their blades, although they held them up as she jumped from the window, so that thereby she might be impaled. But they missed her, and, running toward Montrevel, she shrieked for mercy. Poor child, poor child! not more than fifteen--than fifteen!" "His lackey," struck in Delamer, "had more mercy than the master. He helped her to escape from out the hands of the soldiers." "Thank God there was a man, a human heart, among them," murmured Martin. "Ay, yet it availed little. The brigand ordered her to the hangman's hands, also the lackey. The gibbet was prepared. Both would have died but that a Catholic woman, _une s[oe]ur de la miséricorde_, upon her knees--Heaven's blessings light upon her!--besought him by the God whom all worship equally to give them their lives." "And he yielded?" "He yielded. He spared these two, though an hour later the lackey was thrown outside the gate of Nîmes, his master bidding him go hang or drown himself, or join his friends, _les Protestants_, whereby once more he might fall into his hands." "There is one good piece of news yet to be told," whispered La Quoite, who was a man of fiercer mood than the others. "In the _mêlée_ the soldiers sabred many of the Catholics unwittingly. God be praised!" and he laughed harshly. And now the end of this day's work had come. Montrevel had left the spot. Behind him went the dragoons and _milices_. The butchery was over. He should have been well satisfied with his morning. Yet it scarcely looked as though he were so. His eyes glared around him as he rode off, his hand clutched convulsively the sword laid across his horse's mane. No wonder that they said afterward, when his recall came and the noble and merciful Villars replaced him, that on that day he was mad as the long-chained and infuriated panther is mad. He had met with nothing but defeat and disaster since he had marched into Languedoc _tambours battants_; nothing but scorn and contempt and derision from the mountaineers whom he had sworn to crush beneath his heel; had received nothing but reproof from headquarters. "Baville must be somewhere near," Martin said to La Quoite as they watched him ride forth from the scene of carnage. "Where is he?" "I know not; yet, doubtless, not far. And he too is mad for the death of his loved one. God grant he is not close at hand; that none of us fall into his clutches. He would spur Montrevel on to fresh attempts." Yet La Quoite's prayer found no echo in Martin's heart. He wished to find Baville, desired to see him, to stand face to face with him and tell him that Urbaine was safe. For safe she must be even after this massacre, safe even though in Cavalier's hands. Had he not said that he knew for certain she too was a Protestant, as they were--_une Huguenote!_ Note.--Justice requires it to be said that, of all the Roman Catholic writers who have described and written upon the slaughter at the mill in Nîmes, not one has approved of it, or attempted to exonerate Montrevel. In truth, this awful outrage was the brutality of a rude, ungovernable soldier and not of a priest; and Fléchier, Bishop of Nîmes, was loud in its condemnation. It led to Montrevel's recall and to the arrival of Marshal Villars, who at last restored peace to Languedoc by the use of clemency and mercy. Such peace was not, however, to take place for some time. Also it should be stated that Baville was quite free from any part in this matter, and that Louis XIV knew nothing of what had happened, nor indeed of any of the terrible events which occurred about the same time, it being the system of Madame de Maintenon and of Chamillart to keep him in ignorance of what was being enacted so far away from Versailles. It has been told that when he heard of the massacre at the mill he was observed to weep for the first and only time in his life. He might well do so! CHAPTER XXVI. DOOMED. Remembering that his horse (which he would require ere long to carry him to the mountains, since although, as he had thanked God again and again, Urbaine was in no danger, Baville would doubtless desire him to obtain her release at once) had been left in the stables behind the Porte des Carmes, Martin made his way there. Went toward the gate, resolved to fetch it away and place it in some more secure spot than the one in which several dragoons had tied up theirs ere dismounting. Reaching the yard, he found the animal; found also that the dragoons must have preceded him, since now all their horses were gone excepting one, which, by its caparisons and trappings, by the great gold sun upon the bridle, the throat-plume and saddle-flaps, as well as by its fleecy bear-skin saddle-cloth, was plainly an officer's. "A fine beast," he mused as, ere he removed his own horse, he held a bucket of water to its mouth, "a fine beast. Too good to be employed in carrying its rider to such work as he and his men have been about to-day." As he thought thus he heard the heavy ring of spurred boots upon the rough flags of the yard, also the clang of a metal scabbard-tip on them, and, glancing round, saw coming toward him a young dragoon officer, his face flushed, perhaps with the heat, perhaps with the business that he and his troops had been recently employed upon. "_Peste!_" the man exclaimed as he came up to his own steed and began unfastening the bridle from the staple to which it was attached. "_Peste!_ Hot work, monsieur, this morning, what with the glaring sun and the flames from the mill. _N'est-ce pas, monsieur?_ Yet, yet I wish those heretics had not been of the feeble. It is no soldier's work slaughtering babes and women and _vieillards_. My God!" he broke off, exclaiming, a moment later, "So it is you, villain!" "What!" exclaimed Martin, astonished at this sudden change of speech and regarding him as though he were a madman. "What! _Villain!_ To whom does monsieur apply that word?" and the look upon his face should have warned the young man to be careful of his words. "To whom," the other sneered, however, "to whom? To whom should I apply it but one? Who else is there in the stable-yard but you to whom it would apply? And if there were fifty more, I should still address it to you. Also the word murderer." "To me! Are you mad that you assault a stranger thus with such opprobrium? Answer, or, being sane, draw the weapon by your side." "Which is that which I intend to do. Yet I know not whether you are fit to cross blades with. You! You!" "You will know it shortly," Martin said quietly, as now he drew his own sword and stood before him, "unless, that is, you have some very tangible explanation of your words to offer." "Explanation! Explanation! Oh, _avec ça!_ you shall have an explanation. Are you not the fellow who sat on the bridge when De Peyre's dragoons rode into Montvert after the murder of the Abbé du Chaila? Are you not the man who led the attack on the Intendant's daughter, dragging her from her carriage, carried her off to the mountains, to your accursed _attroupés_; doubtless assisted in her murder? Answer that, _maraud_, and tell no lies." And even as he spoke he struck at him with the gauntlet he held in his hand, muttering, "I loved her, I loved her, and I will slay you." Then said again, "Answer ere I slay you." "I will answer you," said Martin quietly still--so quietly, yet ominously, that, had the man before him not been a soldier, he would have been well advised to flee from out the yard. "But it must be later; when I have stretched you at my feet for your insolence. You shall have the explanation when I have paid you back that blow, when your soul is hurrying to join your victims of this morning." His blood was up now. The abusive words of the soldier; the sting of the heavy gauntlet still upon his cheek; perhaps, though that he scarce recognized, the feeling of hate against this swashbuckler for having dared to dream of loving Urbaine--all combined to make him resolute to kill the man before him. Also the horror, the disgust, that every effort he had made, every danger he had run, should be subjected to such misinterpretation, added to the accusation, if any addition were needed, that doubtless he had murdered her. For the first time in the course of this unholy war his weapon was unsheathed, about to be used. It should not find its scabbard again till it was wet with this man's life blood. "Have I been mistaken?" the soldier said, astonished by his words, above all by his calm. "Made some strange error?" "You have. No greater in your life than that foul blow. Put up your weapon before you, or I run you through as you stand here. Quick, _en garde_. I am neither 'woman, babe, nor _vieillard_.'" "If it must be, it must----" "It must!" "_Soit!_ If you will have it so." The yard was large enough for any pair of _escrimeurs_ to make fair play in, yet had it been smaller it would have well sufficed, as the dragoon found. Found that he had his master here before him, a man in whose hands he was a child; a fencer who would not let him move from the spot he was on, except backward slowly to the wall. And that not by his own desire, but because the iron wrist in front of him rendered resistance to its owner's will impossible. Sword-play such as this he had never known, nor an adversary who parried every thrust as he made it, yet never lunged himself, reserving, doubtless, all his strength for that lunge at last. Strength to thrust through muscle and chest-wall the blade which would pierce his heart. He felt that he was doomed. There rose before him an old _manoir_ with a window high up in a _tourelle_, a window from which he knew that, even now, a gray-haired, sad-eyed woman--his mother!--watched as she had often watched for his coming. Ah, well, he would never appear again to gladden her. Never, never, through all the years that she might live. Never! There was a click, a tic-tac of steel against steel that told him his reflections were but too true and just, that the gray-haired woman's chance of ever seeing him again would be gone in a few seconds now. Also he experienced that feeling which every swordsman has known more than once, the feeling that the wrist of the opponent is preparing the way for the deadly lunge, the feeling that his own guard is being pressed down with horrible, devilish force, that the lightning thrust will be through him in a moment. For a moment he was saved, his agony prolonged by an interruption. Two men--warders--had appeared on the roof of the gate, and, seeing what was going on below, stood there watching the play of the swords. Joking and jeering, too, about his incompetency in spite of the scarlet and gold he wore, bidding him take heart; that soon it would be over; also that the pain was not great after the first bite of the steel. And disturbed, agitated, he but clumsily endeavoured to guard himself from that awful pressure, knowing that the thrust must come directly. Astonished, he found it did not do so. Instead, the pressure relaxed. A moment later his adversary spoke to him. "Those fellows agitate you. Take breath," and the dreaded blade was still. Soon both weapons were unlocked. "You are very noble," the dragoon said. "I--I--no matter. Let us continue," and muttered to himself, "as well now as three moments later," preparing for the death he knew was to be his. Or rather thought was to be his, not dreaming that it would never be dealt to him by the calm and apparently implacable swordsman before him. For Martin, his blood cooling as he learned how poor a foeman he was opposed to, a swordsman unworthy of his steel, had resolved to dismiss him, strike up his weapon and give him his life, with some contemptuous words added to the gift. Not understanding, however, all that was in the brain of the man who, as a boy, had been sent across the Alps from Paris to the best _maestri di scherma_ of Padua and Florence to learn all they could teach in the use of small arms; not knowing this, the other prepared himself for his fate, seeing now that the men on the roof jeered and fleered no longer; instead, stared with a look of apprehension at the entrance to the yard. Started, too, at a voice which Martin heard, as the others heard. "Strike up that man's guard," the voice cried. "Secure him. For you, Montglas, touch him not at your peril. Arrest the English spy." The voice of Baville! As Martin knew well enough ere, contemptuously disarming the dragoon by a _flanconnade_, he turned and faced the Intendant. The man whose child he had saved, yet who now denounced him as an English spy; who had learned by some means that he was a subject of France's bitterest foe. Behind him there stood six Croatian Cravates, part of the Intendant's guards, swarthy fellows whose very name caused tremblings to all in France, though they themselves had trembled once before Prince Eugene's soldiers, and were to tremble again as Marlborough hedged them in with English steel later--men who now advanced to seize the English spy. "Take his sword from him," Baville said. "If he resists, knock him on the head. Yet spare his life. That is mine to deal with." For a moment the glittering blade flashed ominously before the Croatians; glittered, too, before Baville's eyes. Then the point was lowered to the ground, and Martin spoke. "What," he asked calmly, "do these orders mean?" "Mean?" echoed Baville. "Mean! You ask _me_ that? They mean that you are in my hands. That to-morrow you die." "Upon what charge?" "Bah! I equivocate not with such as you," and he turned to go. "Nay," he exclaimed violently, looking round as Martin again addressed him. "Speak not. I require no answer. If you reply I shall forget that I am the King's Intendant, shall remember only that you are the murderer of my child, shall bid these men despatch you here upon this spot." "The--murderer--of--your--child!" Martin repeated. "Of--of----" "Of Urbaine Ducaire." "You believe that?" "Believe it? I know it. This man whom but now you attempted to slay, le Baron de Montglas, saw you drag her from her carriage, carry her off. Enough. Answer me not. Take him," he said to the Croatians, "to the citadel." Then, once more addressing Martin, he said, his voice calm now, his tones gentle: "To-morrow you will have your chance to speak, even you, an English spy, you, the murderer of an innocent woman, will not be condemned unheard. The Court will sit at the earliest moment possible." "What if I tell you that Urbaine Ducaire lives, is well, happy? What then?" As Martin spoke he saw the handsome face of the Intendant flush, the dark olive complexion become suffused with a warm glow, the dark, full eyes sparkle beneath their long black lashes. Saw, too, that he took a step forward toward him, whispering, "Lives--is happy!" Next, turned away again with a movement of contempt. "What then!" he exclaimed, once more addressing Martin. "What then! What, you ask, should I say or do? Say it is a lie, such as you told before, only of five thousand times a deeper dye--a lie such as the lie you uttered when you proclaimed yourself a _propriétaire_ of the North. Shall do that which no power on earth, not Louis' own, can prevent. Slay you as I have sworn a thousand times to do if ever by God's grace I had you in my hands again." At the feet of the soldiers there was a clang--the clang of Martin's sword as he flung it on the paved stable-yard. "Bid your bravoes pick it up," he said. "For yourself, do with me what you choose. It will never be sheathed by me again till you have heard my story before the Court you speak of. Packed as it may be, packed as all the courts of Languedoc have been by Monsieur l'Intendant from the beginning, packed by every one of your creatures whom you can gather round you, they shall all hear to-morrow morning my story, if I am not done to death ere I can tell it." "Lies, bravado, will avail you nothing. Le Baron Montglas is witness against you. Come," he said, turning to that person. "Come." And he strode from out the stable-yard after bidding the Cravates to follow with their prisoner. Yet when he was alone in the house which he occupied at Nîmes his mind was ill at ease. Ill at ease because, in the calm bearing of this prisoner, in the contempt which that prisoner had shown for him and his authority as he flung his sword at his feet, he saw something which was neither guilt nor fear. Instead, contempt and scorn. Also he had said "Urbaine Ducaire lives, is well, happy," and in saying it had spoken as one speaks who utters truth. Yet how could he believe that such as this could be possible? Montglas, whose life had been at this man's mercy as he entered the stable-yard, had seen the other in the _mêlée_, had seen him tear Urbaine from the coach, lift her on to his horse, ride off with her. To what, to where? To death, to the mountains where the Protestants sheltered. And, if further confirmation was needed, had he not caused to be brought before him one who had escaped from the massacre of the Château St. Servas, one who plainly told how ere the Camisards attacked the castle disguised as royalists, this man, the Englishman as he now knew him to be, had brought Urbaine there, to wait doubtless for his accomplices? Also that very day he had heard, had been told by some who had returned from Cette, that among the Cévenoles who had been on the beach waiting for the landing of the English, this man had been recognised. His own spies had seen him; there could be no possibility of doubt. "Yet if, after all, they should be wrong," he mused to himself; "if, after all, Montglas, the escaped one from St. Servas, the spy, should be deceived! Or, not being deceived, Urbaine should still live! What then? What if in truth he has in some manner managed to protect her, to save her! What then?" Even as he muttered these words, these surmises, he wiped the heat drops from his brow. For--and now almost he prayed that this man might be lying--if all were wrong in what they accused him of, if instead of leading Urbaine to her death he had saved, protected her, all the same he was doomed. Doomed beyond hope! He had communicated with Paris, with Chamillart, with the woman who ruled the King, had asked for information about this stranger who stated that he was a kinsman of the de Rochebazons in search for one who was the De Rochebazon himself, and not a week since had received in return his orders from Paris. Orders written by De Maintenon's own private secretary to arrest the man, to put him on trial as an English spy found in France during a time of war, orders to have him condemned and executed without appeal--his nationality, which was undoubted, to be the justification for that execution. And again, as he remembered this, Baville almost prayed that Martin's words might not be true, prayed that, if they were true and Urbaine still lived and was safe, _he_ at least might not prove to be her saviour. Her saviour! Yet doomed to lose his life at the hands of the man who worshipped the girl, the man who, instead of doing that saviour to death, should, instead, have poured out at his feet all that would have gone to make his life happy, prosperous, and contented. CHAPTER XXVII. HER FATHER, URBAIN DUCAIRE. It was in a great hall, or chamber, of the Hôtel de Ville that Baville now sat, splendidly apparelled, as was ever his custom when assisting at any great public function. Once more he wore his white satin jacket with, over it, the _justaucorps-à-brevet_, and with, upon his satin waistcoat, the gold lilies of France emblazoned. Also his hat--which, since he represented the King, he did not remove--was white and fringed with gold lace, his ruffles were of the finest point de Malines, his gloves gold-fringed, his sword ivory-hilted and gold-quilloned. The rich costume suited well the handsome features of the terrible Intendant of Languedoc--_le fléau du fléau de Dieu_, as he had been called. That superb dress, combined with his dark olive complexion, classic outline, and soft dark eyes, shaded by their long lashes, caused Baville to look, as indeed he was, the handsomest man in Nîmes that day. Beneath him sat a group of men of the law. Three judges in scarlet and ermine; the _Procureur du Roi_, also in scarlet, but with ermine only at his cuffs; _greffiers_ and clerks, as well as two men who were termed _abréviateurs_ and practised the shorthand of the day, with, near these, many other persons of importance in Nîmes. Sandricourt, the governor of the city, was there, as also Montrevel, his fierce eyes rolling round the Court as they glared from his inflamed face; Esprit Fléchier, Bishop of Nîmes, a good and righteous man, reverencing deeply his ancient faith, yet shuddering with horror at all that had been done in Languedoc, and was still doing, in the name of that faith; and many more. For it was known to every one in Nîmes, Protestant and Catholic alike, that to-day a man was to be tried who was himself a Protestant, an ally of the Camisards in the mountains, an English spy who had been one of those waiting on the shore of the Mediterranean to welcome the English invader. Tried! tried! Nay, rather brought up for condemnation and sentence without any trial to a doom which meant either the flames in the market place or the wheel by the cross in the Cathedral _Place_ below the _Beau Dieu_, or perhaps the lamp whose post was highest. All knew this, Protestant and Catholic alike; all knew, the former shuddering and the latter gloating over the knowledge, that this was to be no trial, but a sentence; no execution, but a murder. The Court, or great chamber, began to fill with spectators, also with those who were to act as guards to all who presided at or took part in the proceedings. That guard would indeed be necessary, since none could say, among those who represented what was termed the _Partie Royaliste_, how soon its services might be required to prevent them from being attacked and done to death, even as, in Mercier's mill yesterday, they had attacked and done to death those of the other side. None could say how, at any instant, sweeping down from their mountain homes, from their impenetrable fastnesses and caverns, might come the dreaded _attroupés_ headed by either Cavalier or Roland, with their tigerish blood on fire to revenge the hideous massacre not yet twenty-four hours old, or with a fierce determination in their hearts to save the man who had been their friend and ally. At any moment a shout might be heard, o'ermastered by the pealing of a solemn canticle from a thousand throats; at any moment a psalm might break upon the ears of all, as it rose to Him whom they termed the God of the Outcasts, even as, to the swell of that hymn, was heard the clash of steel, the shriek of those who were in the avengers' grasp, the cry of despair from those who fell before the avengers' glaives. It was well those guards should be there. They came in now, the fierce Cravates whose eyes gleamed like dusky stars from beneath their heavy brows, whose faces were as the faces of wild beasts that rend and tear others, not so much because rending and tearing is necessary to their own preservation as because it is their sport and delight; men from whom women drew back shuddering as they passed, and before whom their fellow-men felt their blood tingling with the desire to measure themselves. Also the Miquelets were there, the wolves of the Pyrenees who fought with their short, thin-bladed knives, yet slew as surely as others slew with heavy-handled swords or by shot of musketoon. Outside were the dragoons and the Chevaux-Légers, even the humble militia of the province, proud yet half timorous of the company they were in. Scarcely could even Cavalier, the undefeated, have made his way with his followers into that hall, or, being there, have done aught to avenge the butchery of yesterday or to save the one who would shortly be doomed to-day. The guard set outside and in, every precaution taken. Those of the citizens who chose to enter and were able to find standing room were allowed to do so. They were a strangely assorted company. Some were of the class known as the _nouveaux convertis_, men whom misery and fear of poverty had turned from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism, men who could not endure to face the flames or the gibbets. These were mostly old--too old to seek the mountains and fight for their lives and their faith, _vieillards_ who told themselves that the only fire they needed was that of their own hearths to warm their blood, and who persuaded themselves, though with many a tear dropped unseen, that one religion was much the same as another. Yet by their sides came others now who should have put their weakness to shame: old women brought up in the same faith as they, yet scorning to change to save their skins; women who now mouthed and grimaced at Baville as he sat in splendour on the dais which acted as a substitute for Louis' throne, and seemed by that mouthing and grimacing to defy the Intendant to injure them that morning. Also, too, there came in shepherds and goatherds clad in fleeces of the Narbonne sheep that grazed on the hills around, with knives in their girdles; men known to be of the new faith, yet men who were safe to-day, since the butchery of yesterday would not bear repetition. Even Montrevel knew this, knew that he dared take no vengeance at present on those mountaineers who scowled at him over the shoulders of his own scowling soldiers, and nodded to one another and whispered as they glanced toward where he sat, while they gazed inquiringly into each other's eyes, as though asking a question. What question? One, perhaps, as to whether it would not be well to o'erleap the barriers and cut from ear to ear the throat of the beribboned and bestarred swashbuckler who sat glaring before them! It may well have been such a question as that. The soft yet piercing eyes of Baville saw all who entered by the great porte that gave into the chamber--_nouveaux convertis_, mountaineers, monks and priests, prohibited Protestant _pasteurs_, old women and men, soldiers off duty, and some members of the _noblesse_ (_grande et petite_) from the surrounding towns and villages. Those eyes missed not one face, yet seemed, judging by the calmness that dwelt in his glance, to observe nothing; a calmness that told no more than a mask or a marble bust tells, yet only served to cloak a hell which raged within him. The unhappiest man in Languedoc that day was Baville, the most heartbroken. Ere the dawn had long been come, the Intendant, a prey to his own thoughts, to his own self-reproaches, not knowing whether he had not committed an act that was irreparable in handing Martin over to the judges as an English spy, had left his bed and made his way to the cell in which Martin had been placed. "I must see him," he whispered to himself as he hastily donned a dark coat and cloak, vastly different from the splendour of the costume he now wore in open court. "I must see him, for I fear--O God, how I fear!--that I have sent to his doom the man who has saved Urbaine. His manner, his words, were the words, the action of truth. What hideous reparation may I not have made!" Thinking thus, musing thus, he had taken his way from the apartment he occupied in the citadel when at Nîmes to the place where Martin was detained, a room stone-flagged and built into the wall, and strong enough to detain the most ferocious and determined prisoner who should once find himself within it. "Unlock the door," he said to the man, one of the local _milice_, who was appointed to sit outside on guard over the prisoner within. "Open. You know me, do you not?" "Yes, monseigneur, I know you," the soldier said, springing to his feet and preparing to do as he was bidden. "Yet will monseigneur venture within? The man is, they say, a dangerous----" "Bah! Open." And a moment later the Intendant was gazing down upon him whom he had denounced to the law, the man for whose trial, a few hours later, he had already issued orders and summoned the judges. Upon a low pallet Martin Ashurst lay sleeping as peacefully as though in his own bed in his far-distant home, nor was he disturbed by the grating of the key in the lock nor by the entrance of Baville. He had slept but little for some nights past, and his long rides and exertions had worn him out at last. Gazing down upon him, observing the fair hair and handsome features of his victim, Baville knew that here was no guilty man capable of betraying a young and helpless girl to her death. The calm and peaceful figure beneath him could scarce be that of one who would descend to such villainies. Murderers of the young and innocent looked not so innocent themselves! And if any confirmation of his thoughts were needed, he had it now. Upon Martin's face there came a soft smile; his lips parted and he murmured the name of Urbaine. "Urbaine!" he whispered. "Urbaine! My love!" Had an adder stung the Intendant standing there, or the lightning stroke blasted him, neither could have been more terrible. His love! His love! His love! Therefore he must have spoken truth when he said that she was well, was happy. "God help me," Baville muttered. "Have pity on me." Even as he did so, Martin's eyes opened and he saw his enemy, his captor, looking down upon him. "What," he asked, the softness of his face all gone, his glance one of contemptuous disdain, "do you desire of me? Is my hour come, and are you here to show me the way to the scaffold? Is that the reason of your presence?" and as he spoke he rose from the pallet and stood before the other. "Nay, nay," replied Baville, veiling his handsome face with the end of his cloak, as though he feared his emotion might be too palpable. "But--but--I have judged you too hastily. I have learned that but now. Have indeed misjudged you. All pointed, all evidence pointed, to one thing: that, by treachery unparalleled, you were the betrayer of Urbaine--to her death." For a moment the clear eyes of Martin, all traces of slumber vanished from them, looked into the equally clear ones of Baville with a glance that the latter could scarce fathom. Then Martin said, quietly: "And you believed that evidence? Believed that I, whom you had made welcome to your hearth, had made known to your child, should do _that!_" "Almost I was forced to believe," Baville answered, his voice thick and hoarse, his eyes lowered to the ground. "You were in the _mêlée_, the attack upon the escort. You were at the Château St. Servas, and she too was there. After that massacre--I--I--was compelled to believe." "Do you still believe?" "No," the other answered, his voice still broken, his eyes still on the ground. "What has changed your belief against the evidence you speak of?" "You murmured her name but now in your slumbers, spoke of her as your love. Is she that? Do you love--her?" "Yes, I love her. Before all, beyond all else in this world, I love her." Then he turned his face away from Baville and whispered low: "Urbaine, oh, Urbaine!" The dawn had come now, saffron-hued, bright with the promise of a fair day; had come stealing in through the _[oe]illet_ high up in the wall. Through the cross of the _[oe]illet_ the morning sun streamed, also throwing one ray athwart the features of the two men standing there face to face. "And--and "--whispered Baville now, the voice, usually so rich and sweet, still blurred with emotion, almost indistinct, "and she loves--returns--your love?" "Yes," Martin answered, "yes." "Has told you so?" "Ay, with her own sweet lips to mine." Then suddenly, his tone changed, speaking loudly, clearly, he exclaimed: "Man, you can not rob me of that! Make one more victim of me in your shambles if you will, yet, as I die, my last word, my last thought, shall be of Urbaine. My recompense, her hate and scorn of you." "No, no, no!" Baville exclaimed, his hands thrust out before him as though groping for something he could not touch, or as though to fend off the denunciation of the other. "No, no, not that. Never that. You must be saved--for--for her sake. For Urbaine. She is my life, my soul. Sorrow must never come _anigh_ her again. Already I have done--O God!--have done her wrong. Enough. Listen. You will be tried to-day, condemned as an English spy; the De Maintenon has said it----" "The De Maintenon!" "Ay! You are the heir to the wealth of the de Rochebazons--to much of it. You are English. It is enough. Tried, I say, condemned! Yet you shall be saved. Here, in Languedoc, _I_ am Louis. _I_ am France," and once more Baville was himself, erect, strong, superb. "It shall be done--it--it--it; there must be no sorrow," he repeated, "for Urbaine." "You forget one thing--the Church." "The Church! Bah! Theirs is a sentimental power; mine is effective, actual. You must be saved. I am Louis, the King, here. Shall be recalled for what I do; be broken, ruined. Yet, _until recalled_, the King. Go to your trial, but say nothing. Refuse to plead; that shall suffice." Then changing the subject, he said eagerly, feverishly almost, "Where is she? Where have you left her?" "In the mountains. Under the charge of Cavalier." "Cavalier!" Baville exclaimed recoiling, his face a picture of suspicion and doubt. "With Cavalier! Under the charge of Cavalier! My God! They will slaughter her! And you profess to love her!" "She is safe; as safe as in your own arms. They will protect her." "Protect her! Protect her! They! Protestants, like yourself!" "Yes, Protestants, like myself. And, as they believe, nay, as they know, perhaps as you yourself know, Protestants like--Urbaine Ducaire!" Through the thick moted sunbeams that swept from the _[oe]illet_ across the dusty room, passing athwart of Baville's face, Martin saw a terrible change come into that face. Saw the rich olive turn to an ashen hue, almost a livid hue; saw the deep, soft eyes harden and become dull. "They know," he whispered, "they know that! That Urbaine is--a--Protestant? How--can--they--know--it?" "One of their seers, a woman, divined it, proclaimed her no papist. And Cavalier has discovered those who knew her father, Urbain Ducaire." "My God!" CHAPTER XXVIII. BAVILLE--SUPERB! There was a hush over the Court. Yet a hush broken and disturbed by many sounds. By the sobs of more than one woman, by the shuffling of many feet, by muttered ejaculations from those who strove to force their way nearer to where the judges sat beneath the Intendant, and once by a ribald laugh from a painted woman who leered at all around her and flung nods and smiles toward Montrevel--the woman Léonie Sabbat. By pushings, too, administered by brawny men who were possibly mountaineers to the Miquelets and even the Cravates, since if they were the former they feared not the latter; they had met before. Once an oath was heard muttered and the ominous sound of a blow, then a girl's shriek of horror. Yet at last some semblance of order was obtained, the proceedings were about to commence. "Bring in the prisoner," exclaimed the presiding judge, Amédée Beauplan, a harsh and severe man who had sentenced countless Protestants to the various forms of death dealt out to those of that religion; and his words were re-echoed by the _greffiers_. A moment later Martin Ashurst stood before all assembled there. And as he did so many women were heard to weep afresh. Perhaps his handsome manhood recalled to them some of their own men who had once stood where he was standing now. Alone among her sex Léonie Sabbat, who was eating Lunel grapes from a basket, laughed. "_Tiens!_" she muttered, addressing herself to an elderly decorous-looking woman who was close by her, but who shrank away from the courtesan as though she were some noxious reptile, "_regardez moi ça_. A fool! One who might have had wealth, vast wealth. Now see him! Doomed to death, as he will be in an hour. I know his story. _Tout même, il est beau!_" and she spat the grape seeds out upon the floor at her feet. Baville's eyes, roaming round the Court, yet apparently observing nothing, he seeming indeed supremely oblivious of all that was taking place, lighted casually upon two persons hemmed in by many others. A man well enough clad in a simple suit of russet brown, who looked somewhat like a notary's clerk, his wig _en pleine échaudé_ covering the greater part of his cheeks, so that from out of it little could be seen but his eyes, nose, and mouth. An idle fellow, the Intendant deemed him, a scrivener who had probably brought his old mother to see the _spectacle_. For he held in his hand that of an aged woman whose eyes alone were visible beneath the rough Marseilles shawl with which her head was enveloped, and with, about her brow, some spare locks that were iron-gray. The pair were not, however, always visible to Baville even from his raised seat; sometimes the movements of others by whom they were surrounded--of a fat and gloating monk, or of a weak and shivering Protestant, or of a crowd of gossips from out the streets--obscured them from him momentarily. Yet, as the trial went on, they came across his view now and again, the youth holding always the old woman's hand. And seeing that woman's hollow eyes fixed on him always, Baville shuddered. He knew her now, from a far-off yet well-remembered past; her face rose as a phantom rises. That Martin, standing there, calm, almost indifferent, his hands folded on the rail in front of him, should be the principal object of attention in that crowded place was natural. For he was, as all knew, awaiting a sentence that must indubitably be awarded ere long. All knew also that the trial was but a preliminary farce leading up to the great _dénoûment_. That trial, such as it was, drew near to its close. Witness had been heard; Montglas, who had seen Martin snatch Urbaine Ducaire from her coach and ride off with her; also the one man who had escaped from the massacre at the Château St. Servas; also the three men who had been present on the beach near Cette and had seen the English spy hand and glove with the Camisards--all had testified, Montglas alone with regret and emotion. "You swear this is the truth?" Beauplan said to him, looking up from the papers on his desk before him. "There is no doubt?" "It is the truth," the young dragoon had answered. "Yet I would that other lips had had to speak. He spared my life but yesterday when it was in his hands." "He has led to the death of many others. Also he is an English spy. _Mes frères_," he went on, turning to each of the other judges and whispering low, so that none but the silent Intendant sitting above could hear, "what is our verdict? We need not long deliberate, I imagine." Both those others fixed also their eyes upon him acquiescingly, yet neither spoke. Words were not wanted. Then Beauplan, turning his head over his shoulder toward the man who represented the King's majesty, and seeing that he sat there calm and impassable, statue-like, inscrutable, rose from his seat and made three solemn bows to Baville. "We await permission to pronounce sentence," he said. "Pronounce--it," and Baville drew a long breath between the two words. Yet the handsome face changed not. Or only grew more ivory-like--so ivory-like that those standing in that hall, both enemies and adherents, cast back their thoughts to their dead whom they had seen lying in their shrouds ere the coffin lid closed over and hid them forever. "What does he see that blasts him?" whispered Montrevel in Fléchier's ear, and the bishop, turning his own white face to the inflamed one of the great bravo, muttered, "God, he knows, he only." In the crowd beyond the railed-off place where the principals sat the effect was the same. Among all who now fixed their eyes on Baville, the greater number asked: "What does he see?" and glanced over their shoulders as though expecting themselves to see something terrible. "Can the dead rise?" exclaimed one swarthy Cévenole who, in any other circumstances than the present, would have been arrested for an _attroupé_ ere he had been an hour in Nîmes; have been borne to the earth by the Cravates and loaded with chains ere hurried to a dungeon, so certain did it appear that he was a Camisard. "Can the burned ashes of our loved ones come together again, the limbs that have rotted on the gibbets be restored to life? Has one of those come back to paralyze him?" And he laughed bitterly. "_Il est lâche_," whispered Léonie Sabbat through her small white teeth. "_Mon Dieu! il a peur. Fichtre pour Baville!_" and she pressed her plump jewelled hand on the shoulder of her unwilling neighbour as she craned her neck over the balcony to observe the man she jibed at. Yet he was no coward. Only his heart sickened within him. With fear, but not the fear of either phantom risen from the dead or of fierce Camisard ready to send him to join the dead. Sickened at the sight of that aged woman who never took her eyes off him, who seemed about to address all assembled there. For he remembered her. Recognised her face now beyond all doubt. Remembered one night--how long ago it seemed!--when all the land lay under the snow, and when, at the foot of the mountains the _tourbillon_ whirled down from the heights above great flurries of other snow which froze as it fell, and struck and cut the faces of those riding through the wintry storm as knives or whipcord strike and cut. Recalled how he himself riding through the _tourmente_, followed by a dozen of his guard, had to strike breast and body to prevent this freezing snow from ensheathing him in its swift, hardening masses. Yet of what account such memory as that compared to another which followed swiftly in its train! The memory of a humble peasant's cot, a man stricken with years reading his Bible by the fireside, a child playing at his feet, rolling about the floor laughing and crowing as it teased a good-natured hound that endeavoured, unavailingly, to sleep before the crackling logs. Then a word from the man, another from him--O God! how fearfully, horribly misunderstood! Next, the room full of smoke and the smell of powder, the man gasping out his life, gasping, too, one last muttered sentence, whispering that he, Baville, was forever smitten by God's frown. And on the rude staircase that led from behind the deep chimney to the room above a comely woman standing, the little child clasped in her arms, her face distorted with terror, her voice shrieking that he was a murderer, an assassin. A comely woman then, now an old one and before him, there, in the body of the Court. What if she and Urbaine should meet? What if they had met? The doomed man, the man upon whom Amédée Beauplan was about to pronounce sentence, had said that Cavalier had discovered those who knew her father, Urbain Ducaire. Was she one of those whom the Camisard chief had discovered, and had she told all? "Is he mad?" some in the Court asked again, while others answered, "More like stricken with remorse or fear." Yet surely not the latter, since now he repeated his last words referring to the sentence. "Pronounce--it." Yet with his eyes never off that woman's face. A moment later and it was done; the sentence delivered, even as it had been delivered again and again in Nîmes and Avignon, Montpellier and Alais within the last few months by red-robed legal functionaries, and, in countless bourgs and villages, by rough soldiers acting as judges. A sentence of death by the flames before the _Beau Dieu_ of the cathedral, to take place at the time ordered by the King's representative, Baville. The ashes afterward to be scattered to the winds. Yet, as Amédée Beauplan's voice ceased, others were heard in the Court, rising above all the noise made by the movement of the spectators passing out into the street, by the orders shouted from officers to men to clear that Court, and by the loud murmurings either of approbation or disapproval which were heard. "It will never take place," one clear, high-toned voice was heard above all others to cry, "never. Ere it does, Nîmes shall be consumed to ashes." And Martin, turning as the warders prepared to take him back to his cell, saw from whose lips that cry had come. From Cavalier, the man dressed in russet-brown and with his features hidden by the long black wig. Perhaps, too, Baville suspected who might be the utterer of that ominous threat, for now he rose from his seat once more, again he stood erect and commanding; except for his pallor, which still remained, he was himself as ever. "Stop!" he cried, his voice ringing like a clarion above all the other sounds, the shuffling of feet, the murmurings and mutterings, and the clank of sabres; "stop and hear my words!" And seeing that all eyes were turned toward him, he continued, his tones as firm and unshaken as though the events of the past hour had had no actual existence: "In this hall to-day are present--I know it well--many who are rebels to the King's, to my authority. Men whose lives are forfeit even as the lives of countless others have been forfeited. Enough! To-day they are safe. This Court is open, but for to-day only. Let those rebels therefore take heed. For so sure as there is a God above us, so sure as I, Baville, Intendant of Languedoc and representative of his Majesty, stand here, those rebels who are found in this city at nightfall shall follow the same road their brethren have trod before them. You have called me the Tiger of Languedoc, and, by the splendour of Heaven, a tiger you shall still find me. Till rebellion is crushed forever from out this province, so long as I live, never will I spare one who takes up arms against the anointed King of France. Now," and he sank back on to his chair, "begone all of you out of Nîmes. To-night I cause a house-to-house visitation to be made--ay! a search from room to room. Those found here die. Begone, therefore, while there is yet time." Then, without waiting to hear what answer might be made to his threats by any in the crowd, he rose and, passing to the heavily curtained door which led from out the Court, left them. Yet ere he did so, and even while the attendants held back that curtain for him to pass through, he paused once and, facing all there, gazed on them calmly. A moment later he was gone; gone without hearing the curses and objurgations muttered by many lips, the loud "Brava" which Montrevel gave utterance to, or the little rippling laugh that issued from Léonie Sabbat's lips as again she struck her unwilling neighbour on the shoulder with her white hand and exclaimed, "_Avec tout, il est superbe_." Had she seen him, however, the instant after the heavily figured arras had fallen behind him, she might have deemed he was less strong and masterful than she had a moment before grudgingly allowed him to be. For even as he passed down the passage which led to the door at which his heavily-gilt state-coach awaited him, an exact facsimile of that in which Le Roi Soleil himself travelled from Versailles to Marly or from St. Germain to Fontainebleau, he walked unsteadily and his white brow was moist and damp. "If she should have met Urbaine," he muttered as he passed along the passage, "or if she should meet her, and tell all!" CHAPTER XXIX. "HER FATHER'S MURDERER." "I have not yet decided," Baville said that night to Beauplan as they sat together in the new citadel, "when the sentence will be carried out. Have my doubts as to whether I shall not release him." "Release him!" the other echoed. "Release him! Such a thing is unheard of. He, an Englishman, a consorter with the Camisards, a man under the ban of Versailles! Surely you would not dare----" "Dare!" exclaimed Baville, though very quietly, "dare! Monsieur Beauplan, you forget yourself. Since I have ruled in Languedoc no man has _dared_ to use that word to me before." "Yet," said the judge, a member of an ancient family in the south, who had always rebelled against the authority of this stranger to the customs, as well as the _noblesse_, of Languedoc, "though none here may question your authority, there are those in the capital who can do so." "There are. But you are not of the number. Monsieur Beauplan, I have nothing more to say. I wish you a good-night." "I understand," Beauplan replied, "understand very well. And your conduct is natural; also natural that there should be an exchange of prisoners, that your child's release should depend upon his. Yet beware, Monsieur l'Intendant! I was at Versailles two months ago, as you know, and--and--they said----" and he hesitated a moment while a slight smile came into his face. "What did they say?" "That not only might a substitute he sent in place of Montrevel, but of----" "Baville! Is that it?" "It is that." "The substitute to be, perhaps, Amédée Beauplan." "Nay, that is impossible, as you are aware. In Languedoc none can rule as Intendant who are of the province. Yet I warn you, if you set free this man even in the desire to obtain the freedom of Urbaine Ducaire, neither Chamillart nor Madame de Maintenon will forgive." "You mean well, doubtless," Baville replied, "yet I shall act as I see best. Beauplan, you have children of your own, also a high post. If the life of one of your girls were balanced against that post, which should you prefer to protect?" To this the judge made no answer, leaving the Intendant alone a moment afterward. Yet, as he sought his own great sumptuous coach, he acknowledged that, much as he detested Baville, what he was undoubtedly about to do was natural. Left alone, the other took from his pocket a paper and glanced at it as, before the judge had appeared in his room, he had glanced at it a dozen times--a paper on which were written only a few words. They ran: "Urbaine Ducaire will be restored unharmed to none other than the Englishman sentenced to death to-day. If he dies she dies too. Nothing can save her, even though she is a Huguenot. Decide, therefore, and decide quickly." And it was signed "Jean Cavalier." "So," he mused, "he was in the Court to-day, or sent this message by one of his followers, knowing well what the sentence would be. Yet the decision was made ere this paper was smuggled in here, God knows how! It needed not this to determine me." He struck upon the bell by his side as he thus reflected, and, on the servant appearing in answer to it, he asked: "How came this paper here which I found upon my table?" and he touched with his finger the letter from Cavalier. "It was left, monsieur, by a woman." "A woman! Of what description?" "Old, monsieur, gray and worn. She said, monsieur, that it was of the first importance. A matter of life and death." Again, as the lackey spoke, there came that feeling to the other's heart of icy coldness, the feeling of utter despair which had seized upon him earlier, as he saw her face in Court. For he never doubted that the bearer of the missive was the same woman who appeared as a spectre before him at the trial--the woman who could tell Urbaine all. "Where have they disposed the man who was tried and sentenced to-day?" he asked next. "In the same room he has occupied since he was brought here, monsieur." "So! Let him be brought to this room. I have to speak with him." "Here, monsieur!" the man exclaimed with an air of astonishment which he could not repress. "Here." Ten minutes later and Martin was before him, he having been conducted from the wing of the citadel in which he was confined to the adjacent one in which Baville's set of apartments were. His escort consisted of two warders who were of the _milice_; nor was there any need that he should have more to guard him, for his hands were manacled with great steel gyves, the lower ends of which were attached by ring bolts to his legs above his knees. Yet, since they could have had no idea that there was any possibility of one so fettered as he escaping from their custody, the careful manner in which these men stood by their prisoner could have been but assumed with a view to finding favour with the ruler of the province. As Martin confronted the other, their eyes met in one swift glance; then Baville's were quickly lowered. Before that man, the man whom Urbaine loved, the man who had saved her life, who could restore her once more to his arms--if, knowing what she might know, she would ever return to them--the all-powerful Intendant felt himself abased. "Who," he said, addressing the warders, "has the key of those irons?" "I, monsieur," one answered. "Remove them." "Monsieur!" "Do as I bid you." With a glance at his comrade (the fellow said afterward that the Intendant had gone mad) the one thus addressed did as he was ordered. A moment later and Martin and Baville were alone, the warders dismissed with a curt word, and hurrying off to tell their mates and comrades that the rebellion must be over since the trial of the morning could have been but a farce. Then Baville rose and, standing before Martin, said: "You see, I keep my promise. You are free." "Free! To do what? Rejoin Urbaine?" "Ay, to rejoin Urbaine. For that alone, upon one stipulation." "What is the stipulation?" "That--that--she and I meet again!" "Meet again! Why not?" Instead of replying to this question Baville asked Martin another. "Was," he demanded, speaking swiftly, "Cavalier in Court to-day, dressed in a russet suit, disguised in a long black wig?" "Yes," the other replied, "he was there." "And the woman with him, old, gray-haired, is she one of the dwellers in the mountains, one of his band?" "Nay. Her I have never seen." "She can not then have met, have come into contact with Urbaine?" "How can I say? It is a week since I left Urbaine there, safe with him in those mountains. Since then many things have happened, among others the horrors of Mercier's mill." "It was not my doing," Baville answered hotly. "Not mine; Montrevel is alone answerable for that. I was away at the beginning, on my road back from Valence. None can visit that upon my head. Yet--yet--rather should fifty such horrors happen, rather that I myself should perish in such a catastrophe, than that this woman and Urbaine should ever meet." As he spoke there came to Martin's memory the words that Cavalier had uttered to him. "Ere she leaves us there is something to be told her as regards Baville's friendship for her father, Ducaire. And when she has heard that, it may be she will never wish to return to him, to set eyes on her beloved Intendant again." Was this woman of whom Baville spoke the one who could tell her that which would cause her the great revulsion of feeling which Cavalier had hinted at? "Why should they never meet?" he asked, the question forced from him by the recollection of the Camisard's words joined to Baville's present emotion. "Because," the other replied, his face once more the colour of death, the usually rich full voice dull and choked, "because--O God! that I should have to say it--because I am, though all unwittingly, her father's murderer. And that woman knows it." "You! Her father's murderer!" "Yes, I." Then he went on rapidly, his tones once more those of command, his bearing that of the ruler before whom stood a prisoner in his power. "But ask me no more. It was all a hideous, an awful mistake. I loved Urbain Ducaire; would have saved him. And--and--by that mistake I slew him. Also, I love his child--his!--nay, mine, by all the years in which I have cherished, nurtured her. Oh, Urbaine, Urbaine, _ma mie, ma petite!_" he whispered, as though there were none other present to see him in this, his dark hour. "Urbaine, if you learn this you will come to hate me as all in Languedoc hate me." "Be comforted," Martin exclaimed, touched to the heart by the man's grief, forgetful, too, of all the horrible instances of severity linked with his name, "be comforted. She must never meet that woman, never know. Only," he almost moaned, remembering all that the knowledge of this awful thing would bring to her, "how to prevent it. How to prevent it." "I have it," Baville said, and he straightened himself, was alert, strong again, "I have it. I said but now I would, must, see her once more. But, God help me! I renounce that hope forever. To save her from that knowledge, to save her heart from breaking, I forego all hopes of ever looking on her face again, ever hearing her whisper 'Father' in my ear more. And you, you alone, can save her. You must fly with her, away, out of France. Then--God, he knows!--she and I will be far enough apart. Also she will be far enough away from that woman who can denounce me." "But how, how, how? Where can we fly? All Languedoc, all the south, is blocked with the King's, with your, troops----" "Nay, the Camisards can help you. Can creep like snakes across the frontier to Switzerland, to the Duke of Savoy's dominions. You must go--at once. You are free, I say," and he stamped his foot in his excitement. "Go, go, go. I set you free, annul this trial, declare it void. Only go, for God's sake go, and find her ere it is too late." "I need no second bidding," Martin answered, his heart beating high within him at the very thought of flying to Urbaine, of seeing her again and of clasping her to his arms, and, once across the frontier, of never more being parted from her; of his own freedom which would thereby be assured he thought not one jot, the full joy of possessing Urbaine forever eclipsing the delight of that newly restored liberty entirely; "desire naught else. Only, how will you answer for it?" "Answer!" Baville exclaimed. "Answer! To whom shall I answer but to Louis? And though I pay with my head for my treachery, if treachery it is, she will be safe from the revelation of my fault. That before all." "When shall I depart?" Martin asked briefly. "Now, to-night, at once. Lose no moment. A horse shall be prepared for you. Also a pass that will take you through any of the King's forces you may encounter on the road to the mountains. Once there, you are known to the Camisards and--and she will be restored to you." "Will they let me pass the gate?" "Let you pass the gate! Pass the gate! Ay, since I go with you as far as that. Let us see who will dare to stop you." An hour later Martin was a free man. Free, that is, in so far that he had passed the Porte des Carmes and was once more upon the road toward the mountains, toward where Urbaine Ducaire was. Yet with all around him the troops of Montrevel, the field marshal having sallied forth that morning intent upon more slaughter and bloodshed, and with, still farther off, the Camisards under Cavalier in one division and under Roland in another, descending, if all accounts were true, upon Nîmes and Alais with a full intention of avenging mercilessly the burning of their brethren in the mill. Yet, sweet as was the sense of that freedom, sweet, too, as was the hope that ere many more hours would be passed he and Urbaine would have met once more never again to part, he could not but reflect upon the heartbrokenness of Baville as he bid him Godspeed. "Save her, save her," he whispered as they stood at the Great Gate, "save her from France, above all from the knowledge of what happened so long ago. Fly with her to Switzerland and thence to your own land; there you can live happily. And--and--tell me ere you go that from your lips she shall never know aught. Grant me that prayer at the last." "Out of my love for her, out of the hopes that in all the years which I pray God to let me spend with her, no sorrow may come near her, I promise. If it rests with me you shall be always the same in her memory as you have been in actual life. I promise. And perhaps when happier days shall dawn, you and your wife and she may all meet again." "Perhaps," Baville replied, "perhaps." Then from the breast of this man whose name was execrated in every land to which French Protestants had fled for asylum, this man of whom all said that his heart, if heart he had, was formed of marble, there issued a deep sob ere he moaned: "Be good to her. Shield her from harm, I implore you. She was all we had to love. Almost the only thing on earth that loved me. Farewell!" CHAPTER XXX. FREE. The mountains again! And Martin free! Happy, too, because, as the cold blast swept down from their summits to him as he rode swiftly through the valley toward the commencement of the ascent, he knew that it came from where, high up, Urbaine waited for her freedom and for his return. Knew it beyond all thought and doubt; knew, divined that daily those clear, pure eyes looked for him to be restored to her, was sure that nightly, ere she sought her bed, she prayed upon her knees for him and his safety. Had she not said it, promised it, ere they parted? Was not that enough? Enough to make him turn in his wrist another inch upon his horse's rein, press that horse's flanks once more, urge it onward to where she was? Yet though he travelled with Baville's pass in his pocket, though he went toward where the Camisards were, who would receive him with shouts of exaltation and welcome, he knew that again he rode with his life in his hands as, but a night or so before, he had thus ridden from the seacoast to Nîmes. For there were those abroad now who would be like enough to tear Baville's pass up and fling it in his face if he were caught, soldiers who served Montrevel and Montrevel alone, men whose swords would be through his heart or the bullets from their musketoons embedded in his brain, if he but fell into their hands. For on this very night the great bravo had broken with the Intendant ere he had quit Nîmes to march toward the Cévennes and make one more attack upon the strongholds of the "rebels"; had sworn that ere Villars arrived, who was now on the way from Paris to supersede Julien, he would wipe out those rebels so that, when Louis' principal soldier should appear on the scene, he would find none to crush. Also he had sent forward on the very road which Martin now followed a captain named Planque (a swashbuckler like himself) and a lieutenant named Tournaud, in command of three thousand men, all of whom had declared with many an oath that they took their orders from their commander and from no governor or intendant who ever ruled. At first Martin had not known this, would indeed not have known it at all, had not his suspicions been aroused by finding that, as he rode on swiftly toward where the principal ascent to the mountains began, near Alais, he was following a vast body of men, among whom were numbers of the hated Pyrenean Miquelets; men who marched singing their hideous mountain songs and croons, such as in many a fray had overborne the shrieks of the dead and dying. "I must be careful," Martin had muttered to himself, as he drew rein and moved his horse on to the short crisp grass that bordered the road, "or I shall be among them. Where do they go to?" Yet, careful as he was, he still determined to follow in their train, to observe what road they took when farther on in their march, for he knew, from having been much in the neighbourhood a year before, and ere he had set out for Switzerland on his first quest for Cyprien de Rochebazon, that ere long they must take one route of two. If that to the left, which branched off near Anduse, their destination would be undoubtedly the mountains; if they kept straight on, then Alais was their destination. And if the latter, they would not hinder him. He was soon to know, however, where that destination lay. High above the chatter of the Miquelets and their repulsive chants--on one subject alone, that of slaughter, rapine, and plunder combined--high above also the jangle of the bridles, bridoons, steel bits, and the hoofs of the dragoons and _chevaux-légers_ ahead, the orders were borne on the crisp icy air: the orders to wheel to the left--to the mountains. Therefore an attack was intended there, or what, as Julien had himself termed it, when planning that which was now to be carried out, _une battue_. That it would be successful Martin doubted. Never yet had the royalists forced their way far up those passes, never yet had they been able to possess themselves of one square yard of ground above the level of the valley. And he recalled the treacherous drawbridges constructed over ravines and gullies, as well as the other traps, which he had seen and had pointed out to him as he descended from the Cévennes to meet Cavalier. He doubted if now this enlarged attack would be any more successful than former and less well-arranged attacks had been. Yet Urbaine was there. That unnerved him, caused him to shudder. For if at last, if now, at this time, success should come to these troops, as both Julien and Montrevel had sworn it should come eventually, what then of her! Those in command might not know, or, knowing, not choose to believe that she was Baville's cherished idol. And to think of his beloved one in the power of those fiends, the Miquelets, was enough to cause his heart to cease beating. Or, better still, to beat more fiercely with a firm determination of seeking her than even he had experienced an hour before; the determination to get to where she was before these heavily accoutred soldiers could do so, if they ever got there at all; to join her, save her, protect her. But how to do it! How! How! How to get ahead of this band; how gain the ascent before them, warn the Camisards. Above all--ay, that was it--above all, how save the girl he worshipped and adored! That, or one other thing: die in the attempt. He knew a moment later that the turn was made toward the mountains. From beneath the tree where he had halted he saw, in the rays of the now risen full moon, the sparkle of the breasts and backs and gorgets of the dragoons as they wheeled to the left, also the glitter of aiguillette and steel trappings. Perceived, too, that a deep silence had fallen on all that moving mass. Even the Miquelets ceased to sing and chatter. Nothing disturbed the silence of the night but the thud of countless horses' hoofs, with now and again a neigh and now and again the rattle of scabbard against charger's flank. They were in, or near the country of the insidious, unvanquished foe. Doubtless the order had gone forth for silence. He must get ahead of them--reach the pass or mountain road before them. Otherwise, what of Urbaine if they should win? But, again, how to do it! To the left of him, and still farther yet to the left of where the battalions marched after wheeling, there was a stream, a branch of Le Gardon; in summer a swift-flowing river beneath whose gliding waters the reeds bent gracefully; now half frozen and seemingly without current. If he could cross that, there was on the other side a wide open plain, on which for centuries peasant landlords had been endeavouring to cultivate grapevines, to redeem from the marshy soil that was so common in the south some of the thousands of useless acres which abounded. And across that plain, dotted here and there by countless poles on which no vine had ever grown in man's memory, and on which many sheep had browsed upon the short grass salted by the spray (brought in from the Mediterranean on the wings of the Circius) until the Cévenoles had descended and raided them, he might make his way, might cut off by a short _détour_ that advancing force, get before it to where the ascent began, be the first to reach the mountains, the home of the outcasts. Only he might be seen. And then--then--though the heavily accoutred dragoons would undoubtedly not be able to leap the stream and chase him, the balls from their musketoons and fusils would perhaps reach him; one alone out of the number sent hurtling after him might reach its mark. And that would be enough. Yet all the same it should be done. The horse he rode was a strong black, handsome creature, its nostrils red and fiery, its eyes possessed of that backward glance which tells the horseman ere he mounts what he is about to bestride, its legs as thin and agile as a cat's. Well, he would see. Now for the stream, fifteen feet across if an inch. Then he found the animal knew what was meant even as his knee pressed beneath the holster, even as his wrist turned inward to draw tighter the rein and as he sat down firmly in the saddle. There was a rush upon the short, crisp grass--crisp both from the salt of the distant sea and from the night frost--a quiver from the body beneath him, a loosened rein now, a flight as of an arrow, as smooth, too, and as swift. Then the animal's feet were upon the other side; the rivulet was skimmed as though by a swallow. Over and away, the black steed bounding like a ball beneath him. "Thank God!" he said, "thank God!" And, ere he settled into the saddle again, patted the firm, iron-sinewed neck beneath his hand. Off through vine poles, over another and a smaller rivulet unseen by him for the moment, yet clear as day to the keen eyes of the noble creature that bore him; off now parallel with the dragoons, across the plain--parallel with the dragoons so dangerously near! And with over all, both them and him, a cloudless sky and a full bright moon. Then, next, a shout from that advancing force, a hoarse clatter that all know and recognise who have ever heard firelocks wrested quickly from saddle-rests, white smoke curling on the night air, spits of flame from twenty different spots near together, puffs of bullets past his face, puffs such as the droning beetle makes as it flies by us; a numbing shock against the saddle-flap, yet on, on, on! The horse uninjured and still going fleet as the deer, or even fleeter still, because of fear and nervousness. But still on, and followed by a dropping fire that ceased almost directly. The musketoons were useless by this time; they were out of range and he was ahead of the others. Nothing could stop him now, the danger was past. Nothing, unless the horse reeled in its stride, was wounded. Yet that he knew was not so, or else that swift, even motion below him would have ceased ere this. "Heaven be praised! Where is she?" The night wind blew more piercingly as he felt the earth rising beneath the steed. Far up he saw more and more plainly the burning lights that burned near false bridges and declivities, to fall down which meant death and destruction. The air was nipping even to those two whose bodies were heated by their last hour's motion together. The ascent had begun. The horse breathed more heavily now, threw out great snorting gasps from mouth and nostrils, yet hardly halted, or only so far as to change from canter to trot and from trot to walk. But still went on up, until at last one of the red flambeaux on the hilltops was winking and flickering close by. He was near Urbaine now. Another hour and she would be in his arms. At that moment three forms sprang lightly into the mountain road from behind a piece of fallen rock, the moon showing that each bore in its hand a firearm--a firearm raised and pointed at the advancing man and horse. "Who goes there?" one cried. "Quick, your answer, or this," and each weapon's butt was brought to the shoulder. "The Englishman," Martin called out in reply. "The man doomed to death to-day at Nîmes for consorting with you." "So! Advance, Englishman. Yet in the name of the Holy One how came you here?" "To seek for her who was my fellow-prisoner with you," he replied as he got off his horse. "Is she well?" "She is well--" "Behind. Up there," and he cast his eyes toward the summits. "She descends with brother Cavalier to-night." "With Cavalier to-night! Is he back already?" "Ay, he is back, three hours ago. Now, to-night, he descends. Nîmes is doomed. You would have been rescued by the morning. It was brother Cavalier's second plan. He warned the tyrant, Baville, to free you at pain of the girl's death, but _tout de même_, he meant to have you out himself. Yet," he repeated, "Nîmes is doomed." "But why, why, since I am free?" "To repay the slaughter at the mill. Ho! Doubt not! That goes not unrewarded. Nîmes first, then Alais, then Montpellier. 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' It is our holy shibboleth." "It can never be----" "Never be! Why not?" asked the man who alone had spoken among the three. "Why not? What shall prevent the Lord's children from outrooting their persecutors? Why not? You are on our side. Is it not so?" and he looked menacingly at Martin. "You do not know," the latter replied. "Advancing here not two hours behind me there comes a vast body of royalist soldiers in two battalions. Among them the Miquelets. And, though they may never scale your mountain passes, never reach the plateau, yet surely they will bar your way to Nîmes. Even though your full force descend, they will outnumber you." The man, whom Martin remembered well when he was a prisoner in the caverns and whom he had heard addressed as Montbonneux, pondered a moment; then he said suddenly, with a slight laugh: "Perhaps they will reach the plateau. Perhaps we shall not bar their way. One catches the rat by leaving the trap-door open, not by shutting it," and as he spoke his companions laughed too, while as they did so Martin again remembered the _oubliettes_ and snares prepared for any who might wander up into the gloomy refuges of the _attroupés_. Ere he could reply, however, or announce his intention of proceeding to where Urbaine might be ere setting forth with Cavalier, there rose a sound close to them. A sound borne on the night wind toward where they were, a sound that told him and them that down from their mountain home were coming the Camisards. A chant that, rising above all else; spoke of revenge decided on, of fierce unsparing retaliation: "Quand tu te léveras, oh, notre Roi celeste! Pour délivrer enfin les élus d'ici-bas, Le vent de ton tonnerre à nos tyrans funeste En Balaiera le reste Au gouffres du trépas. Venge--Venge----" "Tis he, Cavalier," the man Montbonneux exclaimed, "'tis he who comes." CHAPTER XXXI. BETRAYED. They had met again. Were together, never more to part unless parted by one thing, Death! Death that was imminent at any moment, that might overtake them that very night, or to-morrow, or the next day; for Cavalier was on his way down to the plains to make those reprisals of which Montbonneux had spoken. God only knew what might be the end of all. She, riding on the captured little mule and enveloped in costly furs--as usual, part of a spoil of a successful foray made by the Camisards on a more or less unprotected _manoir_--had seen him as the large body of Cavalier's followers had rounded a point in the mountain pass, and, springing from the animal's back, had thrown herself into his outstretched arms, unheeding those who came behind her and the Cévenole chief, thinking of naught at the moment but that he was safe and with her again, deeming all else insignificant beside that one supreme mercy vouchsafed by God. For she knew in what awful danger he had stood not many hours before; knew that, not more for the purpose of exacting vengeance than for that of rescuing him, was this descent from the mountains being made. And now he was safe, by her side again. He drew her apart from where Cavalier stood with all his followers behind him; drew her apart and whispered words of love and thankfulness at seeing her once more. Then suddenly, observing on the fair young face and in the clear, pure eyes a look that he had never seen before, he murmured: "What--what is it, Urbaine, my sweet?" But she would not answer him, only contenting herself with saying, "Not now, not now," while even as she did so he saw beneath the light of the full moon that her eyes were full of tears. Felt, too, the warm hand which he held quiver in his grasp. And as he noticed those symptoms of unhappiness he wondered if she had learned while among these Camisards that secret which one at least of them knew--that secret which, to prevent her from ever learning, had caused Baville to bid him fly with her out of France, away, anywhere, so that she might never know it. Never know that her father's death lay at his door. "Come," said Cavalier, approaching them and speaking very quietly, after having carried on a hurried conversation for some moments with Montbonneux and the other two men, "come, we must move forward. Thank God, you are free, out of the tiger's claws; for your sake and ours as well, if what my followers report of the news you bring is true. _Is_ it?" and he looked piercingly at the other in the moonbeam's light. "It is true if they have told you that a large force is making its way toward these mountains. They must have left Nîmes some time before me, since I followed them a considerable distance before coming up with their rear, and I have outstripped them by perhaps two hours, though not longer, I think." Then he told Cavalier that Baville had himself released him. "Baville released you! Because of my threat?" "Because of----" yet since Urbaine was by his side he paused and told no more, or only with a look which Cavalier understood sufficiently well, for he also now knew of the Intendant's part in the death of Urbain Ducaire, understood that his love for Urbaine had grown out of his remorse. "Come," he said shortly, after meditating for a moment with his eyes fixed on the ground, "come, we must go forward now. Best meet this force and check it, or part of it. How many strong are they, do you suppose?" "At least a thousand. Perhaps more. Composed of dragoons, _chevaux-légers_, and Miquelets. Can you cope with those?" "If we are united, yes. But Roland is away, ahead, with half our men; yet, stay. We have to meet at the Tour de Bellot. If we can join them before these soldiers reach that, then we can win. If not, if they catch Roland's force alone, then God help Roland!" As he spoke, from afar off there came a sound that none in all the vast band which had descended from the mountains could have mistaken, unless it were Urbaine alone. A sound deep, muffled, roaring. That of cannons firing. Heard first down in the valley, then reverberating high up amid the clouds that capped the summits of the cold mountain tops. "You hear?" he said. "You hear? We must on at once. On, on! What will you do with the lady? She is yours now. You see, I remembered my promise. I was bringing her to you, knowing full well that either by threats or siege we would have you out of the hands of Baville. Yet I thought not you could have been free to-night, so soon." "My place is by her side forever now. Where she is, there am I." "Be it so. Will you go back with her? Yet I know not, if they gain the passes, the caverns will be surrounded and--and--if they succeed we shall not be there to help or succour. God, he knows what is best!" "Can they do that, gain the summits?" "Scarce can I say. Yet now at last I fear. The prophets see visions, speak of rebuffs at last. The _extasées_, the woman seers, the female children--all foretell disaster. Even I, who have ere now believed that I could read the future, am shaken, not in my courage, but my hopes." His last words were lost, or almost lost, in the dead muffled roar that rose once more from far down in the valley, and as the sound was heard again Cavalier started. "We must not tarry, even for her. Decide, therefore, and decide quickly," while, as he spoke, he gave orders briefly to all who surrounded them and commanded that they should be transmitted along the line of Camisards which stretched far behind and up to where the great plateau was. "I have decided," Martin answered. "That firing is some distance off, some five or six miles at least. At the foot of the mountains there are many side-paths leading east and west. I can convey her by one of those to some haven of shelter, out of harm. Let us accompany you to the valley; then, Cavalier, we part." "Do as you will," the other answered. "I gave you my word that all should be as you desired when you returned from Cette. I keep it to the last. We part to-night forever. Remember me in years to come as one who was an honourable man." Then, as though he wished no more said, he gave another order for the band under his command to set forth again upon its descent, and, quitting Martin, went forward and placed himself at its head. And now Martin took his place by the side of her he loved, walking by the little mule, holding her hand in his beneath the richly-furred cloak. Also he told her what was decided on as best for her safety. Once, too, he asked, after he had informed her of the arranged plan: "You do not fear? Are content?" "Content! To be with you!" And the glance that rested on him, and plainly to be seen beneath the ray of the moon, told more than further words could have done. "We shall be together forever and always now," he continued, speaking clearly though low, so that she might catch his words above the deep thud of the Camisards' tread as they swept down the mountain road. Above, too, the roar of the cannon that grew louder as they approached nearer and nearer to the spot whence it proceeded. "Forever and always, once we are across the frontier and in the Duke of Savoy's dominions. Man and wife, _ma mie_, in a week's time if we escape to-night. Will that suffice?" And once more she answered with a glance. They were descending fast now toward the plain, yet, as they neared it, it almost seemed as though the booming of the cannon grew less continuous, as if the pauses were longer between each roar. What did it mean? the Camisards asked each other. Was the cannon becoming silent because Julien and his detachments had been caught in some trap, or had the royalist troops been driven back again as they had been so often driven back before? Were the outcasts, the _attroupés_, again successful, still invincible? Above all else, above that thud of mountaineers' heavy feet and the clatter of musketoon and fusil shifted from shoulder to shoulder; above, too, sword scabbards clanging on the ground, Cavalier's voice arose now. "Down to meet them!" he cried. "Down! Down! Faster and faster, to join Roland and sweep the tyrant's soldier from out our land, or perish beneath their glaives. On, my brethren, on!" and as he spoke the tramp of the men was swifter and heavier, the march of the band more swinging. The plain was reached. They poured out upon it, no longer a long, thin line, but a compact body now which marched not only on the straight, white road that gleamed a thread beneath the moon's rays, but spread itself over the sodden marshy lands bordering that road; went on swift and fast, while as they almost ran they saw to the priming of their firelocks, and buckled rough goatskin baudriers and bandoleers, wrenched from many a dying royalist, tighter round them, and loosened swords and knives in their sheaths. Yet, as they went, the firing ceased or rather rolled farther away from them, sounded now as if coming from where, beneath the moonlit sky, the cathedral spire of Nîmes lifted its head. Surely, all thought, the enemy must be driven back. Otherwise the booming of the cannon would not have ceased altogether; at least would not become more distant, farther off. And now they were near the Tour de Bellot, the rendezvous, the spot where Roland was to have joined forces with them, if all was well. So near that the solitary and lofty structure--once the round tower of an ancient feudal castle that had stood many a siege in days as far off as those of the Albigensian crusade, but on to which, in later years, had been built a farmhouse, now a ruin also--could be seen rising clear and pointed to the heavens; clearer than the more distant spire of Nîmes itself. And Roland was not there, nor any of his force. One glance showed that, long ere they reached it, the battle which had been going on for now more than two hours was farther off than they had at first supposed. The place was deserted, except for the shepherd who dwelt within it, a man holding the creed of the outcasts, one who had also at that time two sons in their ranks. "Where is Roland?" demanded Cavalier of this man as they all streamed into the place, leaping over the stone walls which surrounded the pasturage and rushing hastily into grange and granary, there to snatch some rest, even though but half an hour's, ere they might have to set forth again. "Where? Where?" "Forward toward Nîmes," the fellow answered, speaking stolidly and, as it seemed to Martin, who stood by, stupidly; "toward Nîmes. He has driven them back." "God be praised!" exclaimed Cavalier and many who stood around. Then the former asked: "And followed them toward Nîmes? Is that so?" "Nay, I know not," the other replied, seeming even more stupid than before. "I know not. They are not here. The battle was afar. I did but hear it." "We can do nothing as yet," Cavalier said, "nothing. Can but wait and abide events. Yet 'tis strange, strange that of all his force he could not send back one messenger to tell me of his doings, his whereabouts. Our rendezvous was to be ten of the clock; 'tis past that now. Strange!" he repeated, "strange!" And his eyes followed the shepherd searchingly as he moved about preparing rough, coarse food for as many of the band as he could supply. He had been warned that the descent was to be made that night from the mountains, and also to prepare as much bread and wine as possible; and now he produced all that he had, he said, been able to obtain without arousing suspicions. At this time Martin was standing beside Urbaine, she having been placed in a rude armchair possessing neither pillow nor covering, which had been set in front of the fire for her; and to them Cavalier now addressed himself, saying: "For you to go forward now would be madness; nay, madness even to quit this house and seek any road either to right or left. For--for--Heaven forgive me if I am wrong, yet I misdoubt me of this man, one of us as he is and the father of two others." "I have Baville's pass; they would respect that. Would not harm her. Even though the men in command have never seen her, they would understand. And--and--it is imperative that I convey her across the frontier to Savoy without loss of time." Then, drawing the banished chief away from the close neighbourhood of Urbaine, he said in a lower tone, "He dreads that she should learn from any here that he caused her father, Urbain Ducaire's death!" With a swift glance the other looked up into Martin's face, far above his own; looked up with a glance that was almost a mocking one. "He dreads that, does he?" Cavalier replied. "_Malheureusement pour lui!_ he dreads too late. He should have taken steps bef----" "What?" "She knows it." "Great God! 'Tis from that her fresh sorrow springs. How--how did she----?" But ere he could finish his question there came an interruption which prevented it from ever being answered. Across the broken flags of the farmhouse kitchen there came a man, one of the prophets, known as _Le Léopard_, because of his fierce staring eyes, a man in whose belt there was a long knife, the hilt of which he fingered savagely, and on whose back was strapped a long military carabine, another spoil of the enemy. And, reaching Cavalier's side, he muttered hoarsely from beneath his ragged, dishevelled mustache: "We are betrayed. There has been no battle. Roland is not within leagues of this spot. The cannon was a snare, a lure. And--and--come forth into the moonlight and see what is without." CHAPTER XXXII. THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. From that old, dismantled farmhouse, built on to the tower, there sloped down, toward where a small stream ran some four hundred yards away, a long stretch of bare land, covered sometimes in the summer heat by short, coarse grass, while in the winter time it was, if any of it were left uneaten by the sheep, frost-bound or snow-covered. It was so now on this clear, cold winter night, its surface being dotted by innumerable folds and pens into which those sheep had once been driven, but which, since the mountaineers had been forced into revolution and had raided the place, were empty. They were so on this night, of sheep. Yet not of other living things, unless the moon played strange tricks with the eyes of those regarding the pens. Instead, were being filled rapidly with human forms creeping like Indians or painted snakes toward them, wriggling their bodies beneath the hurdles they were composed of, entering by that way into the ready-found ambush--the forms of the Miquelets, the most hated by the Camisards of all the troops which had been sent against them; the men whose extermination was more vowed and determined than the extermination of either dragoon, _chevau-léger_, or _milice_. "You see?" whispered Le Leopard to Cavalier and Montbonneux as they stood together sheltering themselves from observation behind the great stone posts of the farmhouse's antique stoop, "you see? They first, then next the cavalry. Observe, beyond the stream; look through the trunks of the trees across it. The moon sparkles on breast and back and the splints of the gorgets. You see?" Then added, "And hear?" For from down toward where _Le Léopard_ had directed the other's attention there rang that which told beyond all doubt that the foe was lurking there; discovered them to the surrounded, hemmed-in Camisards. The neigh of a horse, long, loud, and shrill, taken up a moment later by others in their company and answered. After that no need for further disguise or hiding. The presence of the enemy was made known. An instant later the trumpets rang out the "Advance!" Across the stretch of bare land the cavalry of Montrevel were seen riding fast. "To arms! To arms!" sounded Cavalier's voice on the night air, it rivalling almost in distinctness the clear sounds of the royal trumpeters. "To arms! The tyrants are upon us. To arms! I say," and ere, with one wild shriek in unison from the throats of the Miquelets, the latter sprang from their ambush, the Protestants had leaped from the floors where they had flung themselves and were in the open, face to face with the Pyrenean wolves. Instantly the whole surface of the earth beneath the bright rays of the moon was changed. Soon no moon was seen. The smoke from countless firelocks covered, obscured her. Smoke dispelled for an instant now and again by volleys of flame belched forth from fusil and carabine, flame that showed Miquelets dashing at huge mountaineers' throats, their long knives in their hands or 'twixt their teeth as they so sprang and clutched; that showed, too, these savage creatures forced to release their grasp, hurled to the earth, their brains clubbed out by butt and stock. Showed also the dragoons in the midst of all, sabring, thrusting, cutting down, overriding ally and foeman indiscriminately, reeling back themselves over their chargers' haunches as, from the windowless apertures of the tower, came hail after hail of bullets from Camisards ensconced therein. But still the battle raged. Still from the Protestants' throats rang their war cry, "For God and his children!" from those of the royalists, "For God and the King!" from those of the Miquelets, in their hideous shrieking falsetto, "Guerra al Culchielo!" "Guerra al Morté!" "Save yourself and her," cried Cavalier, rushing back for a moment to the farmhouse kitchen and stumbling over the dead body of the treacherous peasant, Guignon, who had been poniarded by _Le Léopard_ the moment he was certain that the man had betrayed them, "save yourself--and her. There is a backway by the fosse to an ancient passage 'neath the old castle; save yourselves. We are lost, lost! Outnumbered! Save yourselves!" Then in a moment he saw that neither Martin nor Urbaine were there. Gone! either to destruction or safety, he knew not which, yet gone. And he rushed back to his doomed band; rushed back to see that the tower was in flames, that all of his men who were in it were beyond earthly salvation. Already it seemed to rock beneath the great spouting flames that leaped forth from roofless summit and openings where windows might once have been. Doomed! _Le Léopard_ came near him at this moment, an awful spectacle--bleeding from a dozen wounds, his vast and iron-gray beard crimson, yet with his eyes glaring as ever. Came near, staggering, reeling, yet able to gasp: "To the fosse, to the fosse! You can save some that way. To the fosse!" "Come you also," muttered Cavalier, "Come----" "_I_ come!" _Le Léopard_ exclaimed. "Nay, never more. See!" and he tore open his rough coat, showing on his breast a hideous gaping wound. And as he did so he reeled more heavily than before, then fell across the body of a dragoon lying close by. But still, all around, the fight went on; the sabres swung and the volleys rattled, while from the tower there rose now the death song of those within it. Above all else that was heard a hymn of praise to the God of Battles, the God also of the outcasts--a hymn blessing and magnifying his name. And as it rolled through the fumes and the grime there came next an awful roar, a vast uprising of a monstrous sheet of fresh flame, and, with a crash, the tower came to earth, burying beneath its ruins not only those within it, but also many others around, Camisards and royalists. "They are bringing their culverins," cried one now above all the tumult, "to play upon the house," and in answer there rang out now another voice which all knew, the voice of Cavalier, the words he shouted being: "Disperse, disperse, my brethren! Children of the mountains and the clouds, disperse as do the clouds themselves. Not to-night is our triumph, yet it will come. It must come." He spoke truly. The triumph was to come ere long now. The Camisards were to gain their cause at last, but it was not to be to-night, nor by the sword. Instead, by the gentle mediation and mercy of one whose name is still spoken gently in the Cévennes--the name of the great and good Villars. "You can go no farther?" Urbaine said an hour later to Martin Ashurst, "no farther. Oh, my God, my God, that it should come to this! And for me, for my sake!" "Nay, dear one, what matter? We are together to the last. And you love me. What more is there to ask?" "Alas! Alas! I can not live without you, stay behind alone. My love, my love, you must not leave me. Shall not go before. If you die, then must I die too." And as she spoke she loosened his vest and sought for the wound in his shoulder which had brought him to this pass. They had found the fosse the Camisards knew of in the old farmhouse. Even as the attack began, Martin, seeking for a place of refuge for her, had thrust open a door at the back of the great old kitchen in which they were, and had led her out of the dangerous room that gave upon the spot where the conflict had begun. Had led her on through a passage sloping down into the earth from behind the house, until, by following it, they found themselves in a place which none could have supposed would have been there; a place like a crypt, stone-flagged, the stones themselves roughly hewn, the pillars dwarfed, yet strong enough to bear a vast fabric above them; a place so old, so long since built, that it may have been some Roman sepulchre, or hiding-place of Albigenses in long-forgotten days, or secret chapel of worship beneath the old feudal castle that had once existed. Yet there it was, calm and quiet. Even the sounds of the battle now waging in all its fury without came gently to their ears, was scarce heard more strongly than the murmur in a shell or the breaking of the ocean on a far-off shore. Calm and quiet, with, through a recess in the farther wall, perhaps once a niche or shrine, a moonbeam streaming brightly and making the dull flame of the lantern Martin had brought with him, snatching it off the nail where it hung, burn dull and rustily. And Urbaine, entering with him this haven into which they had penetrated--surely none of those soldiers knew of it, would find it, surely God in his mercy would not permit that--flung herself on her lover's breast sobbing that they were saved again; again were saved by him whom she so loved with her whole heart and soul. Then started back, a look of terror on her face--a look of awful fear and apprehension--seeing what she did see in her lover's eyes as she sought them. "My God!" she half whispered, half shrieked, shuddering, "what--what is it? Martin, my love? Oh, what--what has happened?" For his lips were cold, there was no answering warmth in them as they met hers; his face was white as death, his eyes dull and filmy. "It--it--is not much. But--I--am struck. As we left the place above, a bullet--through the window--struck me. I--I--can go no farther. Alas, I can not stand," while as he spoke he swayed heavily against the middle pillar of the crypt, then slid, clutching at it, to the earth. Even as he did so, even, too, as she a moment later undid his vest to seek for the wound, there came to her ears, though perhaps not to his as he lay there faint and almost insensible, the sound of many rushing feet, a heavy trampling; then, next, men passing swiftly by and farther on through the fosse--men whose smoke-grimed faces (sometimes, too, their wounded faces) she recognised as the moonbeams flickered on them. Camisards fleeing hastily, dispersing as Cavalier had said. The Camisards in whose power she had once been, in whose company she had but a few hours ago descended from the mountains. "O God!" she moaned, "are they pursued by Montrevel's troops? If so, and he, my love, is found here by those troops!" But he was not all unconscious; he could still hear, and, hearing, understood that moan. "Nay, dearest," he whispered back, "even so it matters not. The Protestants, these men, are our friends. Baville's pass, the packet he bade me give you on our wedding morn--alas, our wedding morn!--will hold us safe from the soldiers. Fear not, _ma mie_." Baville! The name stung her like an adder's fang. Baville! The man who had slain her father, and then endeavoured by a false, pretended love, to take that father's place! The man she would never see again, had vowed, as deeply as one so gentle as she could vow, never to see or know again. Baville! And he had written to her, sent her a packet. Her lover had it about him at this moment. What could such a thing mean? What import? Yet, yet she upbraided herself for thinking of her own griefs and sorrows now at such a time as this. Baville! Faugh! Baville! Yet if he knew to what a pass they had come, knew that this man whose life might be ebbing slowly from him now, was ebbing slowly, was here? If he knew that he who had saved her was dying? Baville! The man whom once she had loved with a daughter's love. Again the hurrying feet passed, again the gaunt fugitives went by, yet she heeded them not. Her whole soul was in what she was endeavouring to do--to staunch that gaping wound. Then suddenly one, an old, white-faced, terror-stricken man with long gray hair, stopped, seeing those forms; stopped, peering through the moonbeam that slanted down upon their faces; stopped, then advanced toward them. "'Tis he," he whispered, bending toward the wounded man. "Martin! Martin! O Martin, my friend!" "You know him? Your friend? You know him?" she whispered back. "Who are you?" "His friend, Buscarlet, the inhibited _pasteur_ of Montvert. Driven to the mountains at last, forced to abide with these unhappy outcasts, but, thank God, not yet to draw the sword. No, no, not that! Never, never! Only to pray upon my knees to them by morn and night to shed no blood, to bear, to suffer all. To do that, I followed them here. Only they will not listen. Oh, Baville, Baville, has not your tiger's fury been glutted yet?" And he gazed down upon the almost senseless form of Martin lying there, muttering, "If I could save you!" Then, a moment later, he spoke again. "Who," he said very gently now, "are you? Not his wife or sister, I know. But what?" For a moment she did not answer, looking up at him, instead, with wide, clear eyes so full of sorrow that her glance struck him to the heart. "I was to have been his, am his, affianced wife. And--and--God help me!--I am Baville's, that tiger's, adopted child!" "You! _His_ adopted child, and Martin's affianced wife!" "Even so." And she bent her head and wept. For a moment there was silence in that deserted place, deserted now since all the fugitive mountaineers had passed through the fosse; silent because no longer was heard the distant sound or hum of shot or cry of combatants. Then he bent over Martin, looked to his wound, touching it very gently and afterward replacing the hasty bandages she had made from some of her own linen, and said: "He is exhausted from his loss of blood. But, though he dies, it will not be yet. The cold is to be feared, however. If that reaches the wound--I know somewhat of surgery--he can not live. Now I go to seek succour, help!" "Succour! Help! Where can it be obtained? In Heaven's mercy, where? Nîmes is three leagues off." "I will do my best. Pray God I am not too late." And so he left her. CHAPTER XXXIII. TOUT SAVOIR, C'EST TOUT PARDOXNER. Coming to himself, Martin, lying there, wondered where he was. He felt no pain in the wounded shoulder, only, instead, an awful weakness. Also he felt no cold. Knew too that around him was wrapped some soft warm garment, yet knew not that it was the great fur cloak in which the woman whom he had loved had been muffled up as she descended from the mountains, and in which she had long since enveloped him. Long since to her, watching, waiting there for succour to come, through two, three, four hours, and then another, but to him no length of time whatsoever. And he did not know--he was indeed even still in a half-unconscious state--how those hours had been spent by her, heedless of the cold which pierced through and through her, spent in sitting on the ground by his side, soothing him when he moaned painfully, holding his hand, kissing his hot brow. Attending also to his wound, and going even some distance farther along the fosse in the hope of discovering water, yet without success. He knew nothing; had forgotten how he came there, that she had been with him, that there was such a woman, and that they loved each other madly. Then suddenly a voice broke in upon his unconsciousness--a voice that seemed to recall him back to the world--the voice of Urbaine, yet, as she spoke, stifled now and again by sobs. "Better," it seemed to him that he heard her say, "better have slain me with him, upon his desolate hearth, than have spared me to learn this at last. Of you, you whom I worshipped, whom I so reverenced." If he had doubted whether he lived or was already in the shades leading to another world, or in that world itself, he doubted no longer, when through that old crypt a second voice sounded, one known to him as well as Urbaine's was known--a voice deep, solemn, beautiful. Broken, too, as hers had been, yet sweet as music still. "If," that voice said, "you had escaped with your lover to some far-distant land as I hoped, ay, as even such as I dared to pray that you might do, you would have learned all. In those papers I sent by him you love, you would have known all on the morning you became his wife. Now I must tell you with my own lips. Urbaine, in memory of the happy years gone by, the years when you grew from childhood to womanhood by my side, at my knee, hear my justification, let me speak." It was Baville. Baville! Her father's murderer there! Face to face with Urbaine once more! For a moment the silence was intense, or broken only by the woman's sobs. Then from her lips he heard the one word "Speak" uttered. "Urbaine, your father died through me, though not by my will, not by my hands." "Ah!" "I loved Urbain Ducaire," the rich, full voice went on. "Loved him, pitied him too, knowing something, though not all, of his past life. Knew that he, a Huguenot, was doomed if he stayed here in Languedoc, stranger though he was, for his nature was too noble to conceal aught; he was a Catholic who had renounced his ancient faith, a _nouveau converti_, yet of the wrong side for his future tranquility. And he boasted of it loudly, openly. He was doomed." Again there was a pause broken only by the weeping of Urbaine. Then once more Baville continued: "I beseeched him to go, to leave the neighbourhood, to depart in peace. Provided him with safe conducts, implored him to seek an asylum in England or Holland where those of his newly adopted creed were safe. He refused. Your mother, a woman of the province, had died in giving birth to you. He swore he would not leave the place where her body lay. He defied me, bade me do my worst." "And--and----" Urbaine sobbed. "And the orders came from Paris. From Louvois, then alive, and Madame de Maintenon. '_Saccagez tous!_' they wrote. 'Those who will not recant must be exterminated.' "Then I sent to him by a trusty hand a copy of those orders. I bade him fly at once, since even I could not save him. Told him that on a fixed night--great God! it was the night ere Christmas, the night when the priests bid us have our hearts full of love and mercy for each other--I _must_ be at his cottage with my Cravates. He was a marked man; also I was known to favour him. If I did so now, spared him and imprisoned others, all the south would be in a tumult." Again Baville paused. Again went on: "I never deemed I should find him; would have sworn he must be gone ere I reached his house. Yet went there, knowing that I dared not omit him. Went there, praying, as not often I have prayed, that it would be empty, forsaken. Alas! Alas! Alas! he had ignored my warning, my beseechings. He _was_ there, reading his Bible. He defied me. By his hand he had a pistol. Seeing the Cravates behind me, their musketoons ready, it seemed as though he was about to use it. Raised it, pointed it at me, covered my breast." The pause was longer now. Martin, hearing, understanding all, his mind and memory returned to him, thought Baville dreaded to continue. Yet it was not so. The full clear tones reached his ear again: "I could not deem him base enough to do that, to shoot me down like a dog, since I had drawn no weapon of my own. It was, I have divined since, the soldiers whom he defied. Yet in my contempt for what I thought his idle threat, I cried scornfully '_Tirez donc_.' Alas, ah, God! the fatal error that has forever darkened your life and mine! Those words were misunderstood. The Cravates misunderstood them, believed the exclamation an order given to them by me; a moment later they had fired. O Urbaine! my love, my child--I--I--what more is there to tell?" And as he ceased, hers were not the only sobs Martin heard now. Then, as they too ceased somewhat, another voice was heard by the listener--the voice of Buscarlet. "You hear? The wrong, that was in truth no wrong, is atoned. Has never been. Your way is clear before you. The evil he has wrought has not come nigh you or yours. Woman, as his heart has ever cherished you, I, a pastor of your rightful faith, bid you give back your love to him." The dawn was coming as the old man spake these words. In the thin light of that new morning which crept in from where the moon's ray had shone through the night, Martin, his fur covering tossed from off him long since, saw Urbaine fall on Baville's breast, heard her whisper, "My father, oh, my father!" Knew, too, that they were reconciled, the past forgotten. And thanked God that it was so. Yet once again Buscarlet spoke, his white hair gleaming in the light of the coming day, his old form erect and stately before the other. "You are absolved by her," he said; "earn absolution, too, for your past cruelty by greater mercy to others of her faith. I charge you, I, a priest of that persecuted faith, that henceforth you persecute no more. God has given you back your child's love. Be content." * * * * * * * A little later and those three were gathered round the spot where Martin lay, with, in the background, a fourth figure, that of Baville's own surgeon. He had been brought by the Intendant after Buscarlet had told the latter all that he had ridden hastily to Nîmes to inform him of, and when the pastor had declared that if surgical aid was not at once forthcoming the wounded man must surely die. And, seeing him, the surgeon had said that his life still hung in the balance; that if what Baville desired was to be done, it had best be done at once. "It will make you happy?" Urbaine whispered, her lips close to her lover's, her arms about him. "Passing happy," he murmured, "beyond all hope. Now, now, at once." "You can do it?" the Intendant asked, turning to the pastor. "I can do it now." "So! Let it be done." "Stay there by his side," Buscarlet said then to Urbaine, "upon your knees.--Take you her hand," to Martin. And in whispered tones he commenced the marriage ceremony of the Huguenots as prescribed by their Church. "Repeat after me that you take Urbaine Ducaire to be your wedded wife" "Nay, nay," said Baville, interposing. "Nay, I had forgotten. Not that. Not that. The packet would have told what both must have learned ere they had been married elsewhere. Now I must tell it myself. Her name is not Urbaine Ducaire." "Not Urbaine Ducaire?" all exclaimed, looking up at him. "Not Urbaine Ducaire?" "Nay. Nor her father's Urbain Ducaire. Instead, this," and he produced hastily his tablets from his pocket and wrote on them for some few moments, muttering as he did so, "I knew it not till lately, until I communicated with those in Paris, though I suspected. Also," he repeated, "the packet would have told all." Then, thrusting the tablets into the pastor's hands, while all around still gazed incredulously at him, he said aloud: "Marry her in those names and titles. Hers by right which none can dispute, and by the law of Richelieu passed through the Parliament of Paris in the last year of his life. The right of sole daughters where no male issue exists." "These titles are lawfully hers?" Buscarlet asked, reading in astonishment that which Baville had written, while Urbaine clung closer still to her lover, wondering what further mystery surrounded her birth, and Martin, no light breaking in on him as yet, deeming Baville demented. "Lawfully hers?" "Lawfully, absolutely hers. Proceed." And again Buscarlet commenced: "Repeat after me that you take Cyprienne, Urbaine Beauvilliers----" "My God!" whispered Martin faintly ere he did so. "My God! that my quest ends here!" Then he repeated the words that Buscarlet read from Baville's tablets as he had been bidden. "Baronne de Beauvilliers," the pastor continued, "Comtesse de Montrachet, Marquise du Gast d'Ançilly, Princesse de Rochebazon, daughter of Cyprien, Urbain Beauvilliers, former bearer of those titles, to be your wedded wife--to----" * * * * * * * It was finished. They were married. The union blessed by a pastor of their own Church and attested by him who had so persecuted the members of that Church by order of the man, if indeed it was by his orders, whom they called "The Scourge of God." And Martin, gazing up into the eyes of his wife, murmured: "I have not failed, my love, in what I sought. But, ah, that my search should bring me to such perfect peace, should end with you! Now, if I die, I die happy." But even as she held him close to her, his head upon her shoulder, he knew, felt sure, that he would not die; that God would restore him to a new life, to be passed as long as it lasted by her side. Postscript.--The historical incidents in the foregoing story have necessarily, for obvious purposes in one or two instances, been altered from their exact sequence. With this exception they are described precisely as they occurred, each description being taken from the best authorities, and especially the best local ones. Exclusive of the names of Ashurst, Ducaire, and all pertaining to that of De Rochebazon and of De Rochebazon itself, the others are, in almost every case, authentic. FOOTNOTES [Footnote 1: Baville judged accurately. Of all who are descended from those great Protestant houses, there is not one now who is not of the Roman Catholic faith.] [Footnote 2: Doubtless the Prophet's visions foresaw the Battle of Almanza, whereon many hundreds of Camisards fell fighting for England and the allies against France. A strange battle this! in which the French were led by an Englishman, the Duke of Berwick, and the English by a Frenchman, Ruvigny, afterward the Earl of Galloway.] [Footnote 3: Among the inspired prophets of the Cévennes, none were supposed to be more penetrated with this gift than the youngest children. In their histories there are recorded instances, or perhaps I should say beliefs, of babes at their mothers' breasts who had received it, and were by signs and motions supposed to direct the actions of their seniors.] THE END. 
23120	----	The King's Daughters, How Two Girls Kept the Faith, by Emily Sarah Holt. ________________________________________________________________________ You will enjoy this book about the time when Mary was Queen of England, following the rise of Protestantism during Henry the Eighth's and Edward the Sixth's reigns. Mary was a Catholic, and during her reign there was a time when people with the Protestant faith were apt to be tortured and burnt at the stake. So the King of the title is the King of Heaven, and his daughters are those women who retain their faith even up to the moment when they die in the flames. The subtitle is "How Two Girls Kept The Faith". The problem with killing saintly mothers is that they may leave young children behind them, and a great deal of this book deals with the three young children of one such woman. The edition used was not registered in the Copyright Library, but it appears to have been a rather badly printed pirated version. It was not an easy job to create this e-book, but I believe the author would approve of what we have done for you. ________________________________________________________________________ THE KING'S DAUGHTERS, HOW TWO GIRLS KEPT THE FAITH, BY EMILY SARAH HOLT. CHAPTER ONE. CHOOSING A NEW GOWN. "Give you good den, Master Clere!" said a rosy-faced countrywoman with a basket on her arm, as she came into one of the largest clothier's shops in Colchester. It was an odd way of saying "Good Evening," but this was the way in which they said it in 1556. The rosy-faced woman set down her basket on the counter, and looked round the shop in the leisurely way of somebody who was in no particular hurry. They did not dash and rush and scurry through their lives in those days, as we do in these. She was looking to see if any acquaintance of hers was there. As she found nobody she went to business. "Could you let a body see a piece of kersey, think you? I'd fain have a brown or a good dark murrey 'd serve me--somewhat that should not show dirt, and may be trusted to wear well.--Good den, Mistress Clere!--Have you e'er a piece o' kersey like that?" Master Nicholas Clere, who stood behind the counter, did not move a finger. He was a tall, big man, and he rested both hands on his counter, and looked his customer in the face. He was not a man whom people liked much, for he was rather queer-tempered, and as Mistress Clere was wont to remark, "a bit easier put out than in." A man of few words, but those were often pungent, was Nicholas Clere. "What price?" said he. "Well! you mustn't ask me five shillings a yard," said the rosy-faced woman, with a little laugh. That was the price of the very best and finest kersey. "Shouldn't think o' doing," answered the clothier. "Come, you know the sort as 'ill serve me. Shilling a yard at best. If you've any at eightpence--" "Haven't." "Well, then I reckon I must go a bit higher." "We've as good a kersey at elevenpence," broke in Mrs Clere, "as you'd wish to see, Alice Mount, of a summer day. A good brown, belike, and not one as 'll fade--and a fine thread--for the price, you know. You don't look for kersey at elevenpence to be even with that at half-a-crown, now, do you? but you'll never repent buying this, I promise you." Mrs Clere was not by any means a woman of few words. While she was talking her husband had taken down the kersey, and opened it out upon the counter. "There!" said he gruffly: "take it or leave it." There were two other women in the shop, to whom Mrs Clere was showing some coarse black stockings: they looked like mother and daughter. While Alice Mount was looking at the kersey, the younger of these two said to the other-- "Isn't that Alice Mount of Bentley?--she that was had to London last August by the Sheriffs for heresy, with a main lot more?" "Ay, 'tis she," answered the mother in an undertone. "Twenty-three of them, weren't there?" "Thereabouts. They stood to it awhile, if you mind, and then they made some fashion of submission, and got let off." "So they did, but I mind Master Maynard said it was but a sorry sort. He wouldn't have taken it, quoth he." The other woman laughed slightly. "Truly, I believe that, if he had a chance to lay hold on 'em else. He loves bringing folk to book, and prison too." "There's Margaret Thurston coming across," said the younger woman, after a moment's pause. "I rather guess she means to turn in here." When people say "I guess" now, we set them down at once as Americans; but in 1556 everybody in England said it. Our American cousins have kept many an old word and expression which we have lost. See Note Two. In another minute a woman came in who was a strong contrast to Alice Mount. Instead of being small, round, and rosy, she was tall and spare, and very pale, as if she might have been ill not long before. She too carried a basket, but though it was only about half as large as Alice's, it seemed to try her strength much more. "Good den, neighbour!" said Alice, with a pleasant smile. "Good den, Alice. I looked not to find you here. What come you after?" "A piece of kersey for my bettermost gown this summer. What seek you?" "Well, I want some linsey for mine. Go you on, and when you've made an end I'll ask good Master Clere to show me some, without Mistress Clere's at liberty sooner." Alice Mount was soon satisfied. She bought ten yards of the brown kersey, with some black buckram to line it, and then, as those will who have time to spare, and not much to occupy their thoughts, she turned her attention to helping Margaret Thurston to choose her gown. But it was soon seen that Margaret was not an easy woman to satisfy. She would have striped linsey; no, she wouldn't, she would have a self colour; no, she wouldn't, she would have a little pattern; lastly, she did not know which to have! What did Master Clere think? or what would Alice recommend her? Master Clere calmly declined to think anything about it. "Take it or leave it," said he. "You'll have to do one or t'other. Might as well do it first as last." Margaret turned from one piece to another with a hopelessly perplexed face. There were three lying before her; a plain brown, a very dark green with a pretty little pattern, and a delicate grey, striped with a darker shade of the same colour. "Brown's usefullest, maybe," said she in an uncertain tone. "Green's none so bad, though. And that grey's proper pretty--it is a gentlewoman's gown. I'd like that grey." The grey was undoubtedly ladylike, but it was only fit for a lady, not for a working man's wife who had cooking and cleaning to do. A week of such work would ruin it past repair. "You have the brown, neighbour," said Alice. "It's not the prettiest, maybe, but it 'll look the best when it's been used a while. That grey 'll never stand nought; and the green, though it's better, 'll not wear even to the brown. You have the brown now." Still Margaret was undecided. She appealed to Mrs Clere. "Why, look you," responded that talkative lady, "if you have yonder green gown, you can don it of an even when your master comes home from work, and he'll be main pleased to see you a-sitting in the cottage door with your bit o' needlework, in a pretty green gown." "Ay, so he will!" said Margaret, suddenly making up as much mind as she had. "I thank you Mistress Clere. I'll have the green, Master Clere, an' it please you." Now, Alice Mount had offered a reason for choosing the brown dress, and Mrs Clere had only drawn a picture; but Margaret was the sort of woman to be influenced by a picture much more than by a solid reason. So the green linsey was cut off and rolled up--not in paper: that was much too precious to be wasted on parcels of common things. It was only tied with string, and each woman taking her own package, the two friends were about to leave the shop, when it occurred to Mrs Mount to ask a question. "So you've got Bessy Foulkes at last, Mistress Clere?" "Ay, we have, Alice," was the answer. "And you might have said, `at long last,' trow. Never saw a maid so hard to come by. I could have got twenty as good maids as she to hire themselves, while Bess was thinking on it." "She should be worth somewhat, now you have her, if she took such work to come by," observed Margaret Thurston. "Oh, well, she'll do middling. She's a stirring maid over her work: but she's mortal quiet, she is. Not a word can you get out of her without 'tis needed. And for a young maid of nineteen, you know, that's strange fashions." "Humph!" said Master Nicholas, rolling up some woollen handkerchiefs. "The world 'd do with another or twain of that fashion." "Now, Nicholas, you can't say you get too much talk!" exclaimed his wife turning round. "Why Amy and me, we're as quiet as a couple of mice from morning till night. Aren't we now?" "Can't I?" said Nicholas, depositing the handkerchiefs on a shelf. "Well, any way, you've got no call to it. Nobody can say I talk too much, that I know: nor yet Amy." "You know, do you?" said her husband coolly. "Well, then, I need not to say it." "Now, neighbours, isn't that too bad?" demanded Mrs Clere, as Nicholas moved away to attend to another customer. "I never was a rattle, not I. But 'tis right like men: they take in their heads that all women be talkers, and be as still as you will, they shall write you down a chatterbox. Well, now, can't I tempt you with nought more? Stockings, or kerchiefs, or a knitted cap? Well, then, good den. I don't so well like the look of them clouds yonder; we shall have rain afore night, take my word for it. Farewell!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Mulberry-colour, much like that we call plum-colour or prune. Note 2. They say, "I want to _have you go_," when we should say, "I want _you, to go_." Queen Elizabeth would have used the former expression. CHAPTER TWO. WHO TOOK CARE OF CISSY? The clothier's shop which we entered in the last chapter was in Balcon or Balkerne Lane, not far from its northern end. The house was built, as most houses then were, with the upper storey projecting beyond the lower, and with a good deal of window in proportion to the wall. The panes of glass were very small, set in lead, and of a greenish hue; and the top of the house presented two rather steeply sloped gables. Houses in that day were more picturesque than they have been for the last two hundred years, though they have shown a tendency in recent times to turn again in that direction. Over Master Clere's door--and over every door in the street--hung a signboard, on which some sign was painted, each different from the rest, for signs then served the purpose of numbers, so that two alike in the same street would have caused confusion. As far as eye could see ran the gaily-painted boards--Blue Lion, varied by red, black, white, and golden lions; White Hart, King's Head, Golden Hand, Vine, Wheelbarrow, Star, Cardinal's Hat, Crosskeys, Rose, Magpie, Saracen's Head, and Katherine Wheel. Master Nicholas Clere hung out a magpie: why, he best knew, and never told. His neighbours sarcastically said that it was because a magpie lived there, meaning Mistress Clere, who was considered a chatterbox by everybody except herself. Our two friends, Margaret Thurston and Alice Mount, left the shop together, with their baskets on their arms, and turning down a narrow lane to the left, came out into High Street, down which they went, then along Wye Street, and out at Bothal's Gate. They did not live in Colchester, but at Much Bentley, about eight miles from the town, in a south-easterly direction. "I marvel," said Margaret, as the two pursued their way across the heath, "how Bessy Foulkes shall make way with them twain." "Do you so?" answered Alice. "Truly, I marvel more how she shall make way with the third." "What, Mistress Amy?" Alice nodded. "But why? There's no harm in her, trow?" "She means no harm," said Alice. "But there's many an one, Meg, as doesn't mean a bit of harm, and does a deal for all that. I'm feared for Bessy." "But I can't see what you're feared for." "These be times for fear," said Alice Mount. "Neighbour, have you forgot last August?" "Eh! no, trust me!" cried Margaret. "Didn't I quake for fear, when my master came in, and told me you were taken afore the justices! Truly, I reckoned he and I should come the next. I thank the good Lord that stayed their hands!" "'Tis well we be on the Heath," said Alice, glancing round, as if to see whether they could be overheard. "If we spake thus in the streets of Colchester, neighbour, it should cost us dear." "Well, I do hate to be so careful!" "Folks cannot have alway what they would," said Alice, "But you know, neighbour, Bessy Foulkes is one of us." "Well, what then? So's Master Clere." Alice made no answer. "What mean you, Alice Mount? Master Clere's a Gospeller, and has been this eight years or more." "I did not gainsay it, Meg." "Nay, you might not gainsay it, but you looked as if you would if you opened your mouth." "Well, neighbour, my brother at Stoke Nayland sells a horse by nows and thens: and the last time I was yonder, a gentleman came to buy one. There was a right pretty black one, and a bay not quite so well-looking. Says the gentleman to Gregory, `I'd fainer have the black, so far as looks go; but which is the better horse?' Quoth Gregory, `Well, Master, that hangs on what you mean to do with him. If you look for him to make a pretty picture in your park, and now and then to carry you four or five mile, why, he'll do it as well as e'er a one; but if you want him for good, stiff work, you'd best have the bay. The black's got no stay in him,' saith he. So, Meg, that's what I think of Master Clere--he's got no stay in him. I doubt he's but one of your fair-weathered folks, that'll side with Truth when she steps bravely forth in her satin gown and her velvet slippers; but when she comes in a threadbare gown and old clouted shoes, then she's not for their company. There's a many of that sort." "And you think Master Clere's one?" said Margaret, in a tone which sounded as if she did not think so. "I'm feared he is. I'd not say it if there wasn't need. But if you see Bess afore I do--and you are more like, for you go into town oftener--do drop a word to her to be prudent." "Tell Elizabeth Foulkes to be prudent!" exclaimed Margaret, laughing. "Nay, that were carrying coals to Newcastle!" "Well, and the day may come for that, if the pits there be used up. Meg, have you ne'er noted that folks oftener come to trouble for want of their chief virtue than from overdoing it?" "Nay, Alice, nor I don't think it, neither." "Well, let be!" said Alice, shifting the basket to her other arm. "Them that lives 'll see it." "But what mean you touching Mistress Amy! You said you were feared she'd make trouble for Bess." "Ay, I am: but that's another matter. We've fault-found enough for one even. Who be them two afore us?" "What, those bits of children? Why, they're two of Jack Johnson's, of Thorpe." "They look as if they'd got too much to carry," said Alice, as they came up to the children. They were now about half way to Bentley. The younger, a boy of about six, held one ear of a large jar full of meal, and the other was carried by his sister, whose apparent age was eight. They were plodding slowly along, as if afraid of spilling their meal, for the jar was pretty full. "Well, Cis, thou hast there a load!" was Margaret's greeting. The little girl turned her head to see who spoke, but she only said gravely, "Ay." A very grave, demure little maiden she seemed to be. "Whither go you?" asked Alice Mount. "We're going home," said the small boy. "What, a matter of five miles, with that jar? Why, you'll drop in the road! Couldn't nobody have fetched it but you?" "There wasn't nobody," said the little boy; and his sister looked up to say, in her grave way,-- "You know Mother's gone to Heaven." "And who looks after you?" "Will looks after Baby," answered Cissy demurely, "and I look after Will." "And who looks after thee?" asked Alice much amused. "I'm older than I look," replied Cissy, drawing herself up; but she was not big enough to go far. "I'm nine--going in ten. I can make porridge, and clean the room and wash Baby. And Will's learning to wash himself, and then he'll be off my hands." It was irresistibly funny to hear this small mite talk like a woman, for she was very small of her age; and Alice and Margaret could not help laughing. "Well, but thou knowest thou canst not do a many things that must be done. Who takes care of you all? I dare be bound thou does thy best: but somebody there must be older than thee. Who is it now?" "Have you e'er an aunt or a grandmother?" added Margaret. Cissy looked up quietly into Alice's face. "God takes care of us," she said. "Father helps when his work's done; but when he's at work, God has to do it all. There's nobody but God." Alice and Margaret looked at each other in astonishment. "Poor little souls!" cried Margaret. "Oh, but we aren't!" said Cissy, rather more eagerly. "God looks after us, you know. He's sure to do it right, Father says so." Alice Mount laid her hand softly on Cissy's head. "Ay, little maid, God will do it right," she said. "But maybe He'd let me help too, by nows and thens. Thou knowest the Black Bear at Much Bentley--corner of lane going down to Thorpe?" Yes, Cissy knew the Black Bear, as her face showed. "Well, when thou gets to the Black Bear, count three doors down the lane, and thou'lt see a sign with a bell. That's where I live. Thee rap at the door, and my daughter shall go along with you to Thorpe, and help to carry the meal too. Maybe we can find you a sup of broth or milk while you rest you a bit." "Oh, thank you!" said Cissy in her grown-up way. "That will be good. We'll come." CHAPTER THREE. ROSE. "Poor little souls!" repeated Margaret Thurston, when the children were out of hearing. Alice Mount looked back, and saw the small pair still toiling slowly on, the big jar between them. It would not have been a large jar for her to carry, but it was large and heavy too for such little things as these. "However will they get home!" said she. "Nobody to look after them but `God and Father'!" The moment she had said it, her heart smote her. Was that not enough? If the Lord cared for these little ones, did it matter who was against them? How many unseen angels might there be on that road, watching over the safety of the children, and of that homely jar of meal for their sakes? It was not the first time that angels had attended to springs of water and cakes baken on the coals. No angel would dream of stopping to think whether such work degraded him. It is only men who stoop low enough for that. The highest work possible to men or angels is just doing the will of God: and God was the Father of these little ones. "What is their Father?" asked Alice Mount. "Johnson? Oh, he is a labouring man--a youngish man, only four-and-thirty: his mistress died a matter of six months back, and truly I know not how those bits of children have done since." "They have had `God and Father,'" said Alice "Well, I've no doubt he's a good father," answered Margaret. "John Johnson is as good a man as ever stepped, I'll say that for him: and so was Helen a rare good woman. I knew her well when we were maids together. Those children have been well fetched up, take my word for it." "It must have been a sad matter to lose such a wife," said Alice. "Well, what think you?" answered Margaret, dropping her voice. "Agnes Love told me--Jack Love's wife, that dwells on the Heath--you'll maybe know her?" "Ay, I know her, though not well." "I've known her ever since she was a yard long. Well, she told me, the even it happed came Jack Johnson to their house, and when she oped the door, she was fair feared of him, he looked so strange--his face all white, and such a glitter of his eyes--she marvelled what had taken him. And says he, `Agnes, my Helen's gone.' `Gone? oh dear!' says she. `Ay, she's gone, thank God!' says he. Well, Agnes thought this right strange talk, and says she, `Jack Johnson, what can you mean? Never was a better woman than your Helen, and you thanking God you've lost her!' `Nay, Agnes, could you think that?' says he. `I'm thanking God because now I shall never see her stand up on the waste by Lexden Road,' says he. `She's safe from that anguish for evermore!' And you know what that meant." Yes, Alice Mount knew what that meant--that allusion to the waste ground by Colchester town wall on the road to Lexden, where the citizens shot their rubbish, and buried their dead animals, or threw them unburied, and burned their martyrs. It was another way of saying what the Voice from Heaven had cried to the Apostle--"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord from henceforth!" "It's a marvel they haven't done somewhat to them Loves afore now," said Margaret, after a minute's silence. "I thought they had?" replied Alice. "Wasn't John Love up afore the Sheriff once at any rate?" "Oh, ay, they've had him twice o'er; don't you mind they gat them away in the night the last time, and all his goods was taken to the Queen's use? But now, see, he's come back, and they let him alone. They've done all they mean to do, I reckon." "God grant it!" said Alice, with a sigh. "Meg, I cannot forget last August. Twenty-two of us had up afore the Bishop, and we only escaped by the very skin of our teeth, as saith Job. Ay me! I sometimes marvel if we did well or no, when we writ our names to that submission." "Truly, neighbour, so have I," replied Margaret rather bluntly. "I would not have set mine thereto, I warrant you." Alice sighed heavily. "God knoweth we meant not to deny His truth," said she; "and He looketh on the heart." After that they were silent till they came to Much Bentley. Turning down the lane which led to Thorpe, they came in sight of a girl of twenty years, sitting on a low stool at the door of the third cottage in the lane, weaving worsted lace on a pillow with bobbins. Over the door hung a signboard bearing a bell painted blue. The lace-maker was a small-built girl, not in any way remarkable to look at, with smooth dark hair, nicely kept, and a rosy face with no beauty about it, but with a bright, kind-hearted expression which was better than outside beauty. If a person accustomed to read faces had been there, he might perhaps have said that the small prominent chin, and the firm setting of the lips, suggested that Rose Allen occasionally had a will of her own. The moment that Rose saw who was coming, she left her stool with a bright smile which lighted up all her face, and carrying the stool in one hand, and her lace pillow in the other, disappeared within the house. "She's quick at her work, yonder maid," said Margaret. "Ay, she's a good lass, my Rose!" was her mother's answer. "You'll come in and sit a bit, neighbour?" "Well, thank you, I don't mind if I do--at any rate till them children comes up," responded Margaret, with a little laugh. "Will you have me while then?" "Ay, and as long after as you've a mind," said Alice heartily, leading the way into her cottage. As Margaret had a mile yet to walk, for she lived midway between Much Bentley and Thorpe, she was glad of a rest. In the kitchen they found Rose, very busy with a skillet over the fire. There was no tea in those days, so there was no putting on of the kettle: and Rose was preparing for supper a dish of boiled cabbage, to which the only additions would be bread and cheese. In reply to her mother's questions, she said that her step-father had been in, but finding his wife not yet come from market, he had said that he would step into the next neighbour's until she came, and Rose was to call him when supper was ready. William Mount, the second husband of Alice, was twenty years older than his wife, their ages being sixty-one and forty-one. He was a tall, grey, grave-looking man,--a field labourer, like most of the dwellers in Much Bentley. This was but a small place, nestling at one corner of the large park of the Earl of Oxford, the owner of all the property for some distance round. Of course he was _the_ great man in the esteem of the Much Bentley people. During the reign of Edward the Sixth, when Protestantism was in favour at Court, Lord Oxford had been a Protestant like other people; but, also like many other people, he was one of those of whom it has been well said that: "He's a slave who dare not be In the right with two or three." Lord Oxford was a slave in this sense--a slave to what other people said and thought about him--and very sad slavery it is. I would rather sweep a crossing than feel that I did not dare to say what I believed or disbelieved, what I liked or did not like, because other people would think it strange. It is as bad as being in Egyptian bondage. Yet there are a great many people quite contented to be slaves of this kind, who have not half so much excuse as Lord Oxford. If he went against the priests, who then were masters of everything, he was likely to lose his liberty and property, if not his life; while we may say any thing we like without need to be afraid. It is not always an advantage to have a great deal to lose. The poor labourers of Much Bentley, who had next to no property at all, and could only lose liberty and life, were far braver than the Earl whom they thought such a grand man, and who carried a golden wand before the Queen. Supper was over at the Blue Bell, and Margaret Thurston was thinking about going home, when a little faint rap came on the door of the cottage. Rose opened it, and saw a big jar standing on the door-sill, a little boy sitting beside it, and an older girl leaning against the wall. "Please, we're come," said Cissy. CHAPTER FOUR. ON THE WAY TO THORPE. "Please, we're come," said Cissy. "We've been a good while getting here, but we--Oh, it isn't you!" "What isn't me?" said Rose, laughing--for people said _me_ where it should have been I, then, as they do still. "I rather think it is me; don't you?" "Yes, but you are not she that spake to us on the road," said Cissy. "Somebody told us to call here as we went down the lane, and her daughter should go home with us, and help us to carry the big jar. Perhaps you're the daughter?" "Well, I guess I am," answered Rose. "Where's home?" "It's at the further end of Thorpe." "All right. Come in and rest you, and I'll fetch a sup of something to do you good, poor little white faces." Rose took a hand of each and led them forward. "Mother, here be two bits of Maypoles," said she, "for they be scarce fatter; and two handfuls of snow, for they be scarce rosier--that say you promised them that I should go home with them and bear their jar of meal." "So I did, Rose. Bring them in, and let them warm themselves," answered Mrs Mount. "Give them a sup of broth or what we have, to put a bit of life in them; and at after thou shalt bear them company to Thorpe. Poor little souls! they have no mother, and they say God looks after them only." "Then I shall be in His company too," said Rose softly. Then, dropping her voice that the children might not hear, she added, "Mother, there's only that drop of broth you set aside for breakfast; and it's scarce enough for you and father both. Must I give them that?" Alice Mount thought a moment. She had spoken before almost without thinking. "Daughter," she said, "if their Father, which is also ours, had come with them visible to our eyes, we should bring forth our best for Him; and He will look for us to do it for the little ones whose angels see His Face. Ay, fetch the broth, Rose." Perhaps Cissy had overheard a few words, for wheel the bowl of broth was put into her hands, she said, "Can you spare it? Didn't you want it for something else than us?" "We can spare it, little maid," said Alice, with a smile. "Sup it up," added Rose, laying her hand on the child's shoulder; "and much good may it do thee! Then, when you are both warmed and rested, I'll set forth with you." Cissy did not allow that to be long. She drank her broth, admonished Will by a look to finish his--for he was disposed to loiter,--and after sitting still for a few minutes, rose and put down the bowl. "We return you many thanks," she said in her prim little way, "and I think, if you please, we ought to go home. Father 'll be back by the time we get there; and I don't like to be away when he comes. Mother bade me not. She said he'd miss her worse if he didn't find me. You see, I've got to do for Mother now, both for Father and the children." Alice Mount thought it very funny to hear this little mite talking about "the children," as if she were not a child at all. "Well, tarry a minute till I tie on my hood," said Rose. "I'll be ready before you can say, `This is the house that Jack built.'" "What do you with the babe, little maid, when you go forth?" asked Alice. "Baby?" said Cissy, looking up. "Oh, we leave her with Ursula Felstede, next door. She's quite safe till we come back." Rose now came in from the inner room, where she had been putting on her hood and mantle. There were no bonnets then. What women called bonnets in those days were close thick hoods, made of silk, velvet, fur, or woollen stuff of some sort. Nor had they either shawls or jackets--only loose mantles, for out-door wear. Rose took up the jar of meal. "Please, I can carry it on one side," said Cissy rather eagerly. "Thou mayest carry thyself," said Rose. "That's plenty. I haven't walked five miles to-day. I'm a bit stronger than thou, too." Little Will had not needed telling that he was no longer wanted to carry the jar; he was already off after wild flowers, as if the past five miles had been as many yards, though he had assured Cissy at least a dozen times as they came along that he did not know how he was ever to get home, and as they were entering Bentley had declared himself unable to take another step. Cissy shook her small head with the air of a prophetess. "Will shouldn't say such things!" said she. "He said he couldn't walk a bit further--that I should have to carry him as well as the jar--and I don't know how I could, unless I'd poured the meal out and put him in, and he'd never have gone, I'm sure; and now, do but look at him after those buttercups!" "He didn't mean to tell falsehoods," said Rose. "He was tired, I dare say. Lads will be lads, thou knowest." "Oh dear, I don't know how I'm to bring up these children to be good people!" said Cissy, as gravely as if she had been their grandmother. "Ursula says children are great troubles, and I'm sure it's true. If there's any place where Will should be, that's just where he always isn't; and if there's one spot where he shouldn't be, that's the place where you commonly find him. Baby can't walk yet, so she's safe; but whatever I shall do when she can, I'm sure I don't know! I can't be in all the places at once where two of them shouldn't be." Rose could not help laughing. "Little maid," she said kindly, "thy small shoulders will never hold the world, nor even thy father's cottage. Hast thou forgot what thou saidst not an half-hour gone, that God takes care of you all?" "Oh yes, He takes big care of us," was Cissy's answer. "He'll see that we have meat and clothes and so forth, and that Father gets work. But He'll hardly keep Will and Baby out of mischief, will He? Isn't that too little for Him?" "The whole world is but a speck, little Cicely, compared with Him. If He will humble Himself to see thee and me at all, I reckon He is as like to keep Will out of mischief as to keep him alive. It is the very greatness of God that _He_ can attend to all the little things in the world at once. They are all little things to Him. Hast thou not heard that the Lord Jesus said the very hairs of our heads be numbered?" "Yea, Sir Thomas read that one eve at Ursula's." Sir Thomas Tye was the Vicar of Much Bentley. "Well," said Rose, "and isn't it of more importance to make Will a good lad than to know how many hairs he's got on his head? Wouldn't thy father think so?" "For sure he would," said Cissy earnestly. "And isn't God thy Father?" Just as Rose asked that, a tall, dark figure turned out of a lane they were passing, and joined them. It was growing dusk, but Rose recognised the Vicar of whom they had just been speaking. Most priests were called "Sir" in those days. "Christ bless you, my children!" said the Vicar. Both Rose and Cissy made low courtesies, for great respect was then paid to a clergyman. They called them priests, for very few could read the Bible, which tells us that the only priest is our Lord Jesus Christ. A priest does not mean the same thing as a clergyman, though too many people thoughtlessly speak as if it did. A priest is a man who offers a sacrifice of some living thing to God. So, as Jesus Christ, who offered Himself, is our sacrifice, and there can never be any other, there cannot be any priests now. There are a great many texts which tell us this, but I will only mention one, which you can look out in your Bibles and learn by heart: the tenth verse of the tenth chapter of the Epistle to the Hebrews. It is easy to remember two tens. Cissy was a little frightened when she saw that Sir Thomas walked on with them; but Rose marched on as if she did not care whether he came or not. For about a year after Queen Mary's accession Sir Thomas had come pretty regularly to the prayer-meetings which were held sometimes at the Blue Bell, and sometimes at Ursula Felstede's at Thorpe, and also sometimes at John Love's on the Heath. He often read the Bible to them, and gave them little sermons, and seemed as kind and pleasant as possible. But when Queen Mary had been about a year on the throne, and it could be plainly seen which way things were going--that is, that she would try to bring back the Popish religion which her brother had cast off--Sir Thomas began to come less often. He found it too far to John Love's and to Thorpe; and whenever the meeting was at the Blue Bell, which was only a few hundred yards from the Vicarage,--well, it certainly was odd that Sir Thomas was always poorly on that night. Still, nobody liked to think that he was making believe; but Alice Mount said so openly, and Rose had heard her. CHAPTER FIVE. IN DIFFICULTIES. Cissy Johnson was not old enough to understand all the reasons why her father distrusted the priest; but she knew well that "Father didn't like him," and like the dutiful little girl she was, she was resolved not to make a friend of any one whom her father disliked, for she knew that he might have good reasons which she could not understand. But Cissy had been taught to be civil to everybody, and respectful to her betters-- lessons of which a little more would not hurt some folks in the present day. People make a great mistake who think that you cannot both be respectful to others and independent for yourself. The Bible teaches us to do both. Being in this state of mind, Cissy was decidedly pleased to see her father coming up from the other end of the lane. "Oh, here's Father!" she said to Rose; and little Will ran on joyfully to meet him. "Well, my lad!" was Johnson's greeting to his boy. "So thou and Cissy have got back? It's a right long way for such as thou." Little Will suddenly remembered that he was exceedingly tired, and said so. "Thou'd better go to bed," said her father, as they came up with the girls. "Well, Cis, who hast thou picked up?--I'm right thankful to you," he added, looking at Rose, "for giving my little maid a helping hand. It's a long way for such little ones, all the way from the Heath, and a heavy load for little arms, and I'm main thankful. Will you come in a bit and rest you?" he said to Rose. But Rose declined, for she knew her mother would expect her to come back at once. She kissed Cissy, and told her, whenever she had a load to carry either way, to be sure she looked in at the Blue Bell, when Rose would help her if she possibly could: and giving the jar to Johnson, she bade him good-night, and turned back up the lane. Sir Thomas had walked on, as Rose supposed: at any rate, he was not to be seen. She went nearly a mile without seeing any one, until Margaret Thurston's cottage came in sight. As Rose began to go a little more slowly, she heard footsteps behind her, and the next minute she was joined--to her surprise--by the priest. "My daughter," he said, in a soft, kind voice, "I think thou art Rose Allen?" Rose dropped a courtesy, and said she was. "I have been wishful to speak with some of thy father's household," said Sir Thomas, in the same gentle way: "so that I am fain to meet thee forth this even. Tell me, my child, is there illness in the house or no?" Rose breathed quickly: she guessed pretty well what was coming. "No, Father," she answered; "we are all in good health, God be thanked for that same." "Truly. I am glad to hear thee so speak, my daughter, and in especial that thou rememberest to thank God. But wherefore, then, being in good health, have ye not come to give thanks to God in His own house, these eight Sundays past? Ye have been regular aforetime, since ye were back from the Bishop's Court. Surely it is not true--I do hope and trust it is not true, that ye be slipping yet again into your past evil ways of ill opinions and presumptuous sin?" The reason why the Mounts had not been to church was because the services were such as they could no longer join in. Queen Mary had brought back the Popish mass, and all the images which King Edward had done away with; so that to go to church was not to worship God but to worship idols. And so terrible was the persecution Mary had allowed to be set up, that the penalty for refusing to do this was to be burnt to death for what she called heresy. It was a terrible position for a young girl in which Rose Allen stood that night. This man not only held her life in his hands, but also those of her mother and her step-father. If he chose to inform against them, the end of it might be death by fire. For one moment Rose was silent, during which she cried silently but most earnestly to God for wisdom and courage--wisdom to keep her from saying what might bring them into needless danger, and courage to stand true and firm to God and His truth. "Might I be so bold as to pray you, Father," she said at last, "to ask at my mother the cause of such absence from mass? You wot I am but a young maid, and under direction of mine elders." Sir Thomas Tye smiled to himself. He thought Rose a very cautious, prudent girl, who did not want to bring herself into trouble. "So be it, my daughter," said he in the same gentle way. "Doubtless it was by direction of thine elders that then wert absent aforetime, ere ye were had up to the Bishop." He meant it as a question, by which he hoped to entangle poor Rose. She was wise enough not to answer, but to let it pass as if he were merely giving his own opinion, about which she did not wish to say anything. "Crafty girl!" thought Sir Thomas. Then he said aloud,--"The festival of our Lady cometh on apace: ye will surely have some little present for our blessed Lady?" The Virgin Mary was then called "Our Lady." "We be but poor folks," said Rose. "Truly, I know ye be poor folks," was the priest's reply. "Yet even poor folks do oft contrive to pleasure their friends by some little present. And if ye might bring no more than an handful of daisies from the field, yet is our Lady so gracious that she will deign to accept even so small an offering. Ye need not be empty-handed." "I trust we shall do our duty," said poor Rose, in great perplexity. "Father, I cry you mercy if I stay me here, for I would fain speak with the woman of this cot." "So do, my daughter," was the soft reply, "and I will call here belike, for I do desire to speak with Thurston." Poor Rose was at her wit's end. Her little manoeuvre had not succeeded as she hoped. She wanted to be rid of the unwelcome company of the priest; and now it seemed as if, by calling on Margaret Thurston instead of going straight home, she would only get more of it. However, she must do it now. She had nothing particular to say to Margaret, whom she had already seen that day, though her mother had said after Margaret was gone, that she wished she had told her something, and Rose meant to use this remark as furnishing an excuse. She tapped, lifted the latch, and went in, the priest following. John Thurston sat by the fire cutting clothes-pegs; Margaret was ironing clothes. Thurston rose when he saw the priest, and both received him reverently. Feeling that her best chance of escaping the priest was to proceed immediately, Rose drew Margaret aside, and told her what her mother had said; but Margaret, who was rather fond of talking, had something to say too, and the precious minutes slid by. Meanwhile the priest and Thurston went on with their conversation: and at last Rose, saying she really could not stay any longer, bade them good-bye, and went out. But just as Margaret was opening the door to let her out, Sir Thomas said a few words in reply to Thurston, which Rose could not but overhear. "Oh, Master Clere is a worthy man enough. If he hath gone somewhat astray in times past, that shall now be amended. Mistress Cicely, too, is an honest woman that wist how to do her duty. All shall be well there. I trust, John Thurston, that thou shalt show thyself as wise and well ruled as he." Rose heard no more. She passed out into the night, and ran nearly all the way home. "Why, Rose, how breathless art thou, maid!" said the other when she came in. "Well I may, Mother!" cried Rose. "There is evil ahead for us, and that not a little. Father Tye overtook me as I came back, and would know of me why we had not been to mass these eight Sundays; and I staved him off, and prayed him to ask of you. And, Mother, he saith Master Clere the draper, though he have gone somewhat astray, is now returned to his duty, and you wot what that meaneth. And I am feared for us, and Bessy too." "The good Lord have mercy on us!" said Alice Mount. "Amen!" responded William Mount gravely. "But it had best be such mercy as He will, Alice, not such as we would. On one matter I am resolved--I will sign no more submissions. I fear we have done it once too often." "O Father, I'm so fain to hear you say it!" cried Rose. "Art thou so, daughter?" he answered a little sadly. "Have a care thy quick tongue bring thee not into more trouble than need be. Child, to refuse that submission may mean a fiery death. And we may not--we must not--shrink from facing death for Him who passed through death for us. Lord, grant us Thy grace to stand true!" And William Mount stood up with uncovered head, and looked up, as we all do instinctively when we speak to Him who dwelleth in the heavens. "Who hath abolished death!" was the soft response of Alice. CHAPTER SIX. ROSE ASKS A FAVOUR. "You'll not find no better, search all Colchester through!" said Mrs Clere, to a fat woman who did not look particularly amiable, holding up some worsted florence, drab with a red stripe. "Well, I'm not so sure," replied the cross-looking customer. "Tomkins, now, in Wye Street, they showed me some Kendal frieze thicker nor that, and a halfpenny less by the yard." "Tomkins!" said Mrs Clere, in a tone not at all flattering to the despised Tomkins. "Why, if that man knows a Kendal frieze from a piece of black satin, it's all you can look for. Never bred up to the business, _he_ wasn't. And his wife's a poor good-for-nought that wouldn't know which end of the broom to sweep with, and his daughters idle, gossiping hussies that'll drive their husbands wild one o' these days. Don't talk to me about Tomkins!" And Mrs Clere turned over the piece of florence as roughly as if it had been Tomkins instead of itself. "It was right good frieze," said the customer doubtfully. "Then you'd better go and buy it," snapped Mrs Clere, whom something seemed to have put out that morning, for she was generally better-tempered than that. "Well, but I'm not so sure," repeated the customer. "It's a good step to Wye Street, and I've lost a bit o' time already. If you'll take tenpence the ell, you may cut me off twelve." "Tenpence the fiddlesticks!" said Mrs Clere, pushing the piece of worsted to one side. "I'll not take a farthing under the shilling, if you ask me while next week. You can just go to Tomkins, and if you don't find you've got to darn his worthless frieze afore you've done making it up, why, my name isn't Bridget Clere, that's all. Now, Rose Allen, what's wanting?" "An't please you, Mistress Clere, black serge for a girdle." "Suit yourself," answered Mistress Clere, giving three pieces of serge, which were lying on the counter, a push towards Rose. "Well, Audrey Wastborowe, what are you standing there for? Ben't you a-going to that Tomkins?" "Well, nay, I don't think I be, if you'll let me have that stuff at elevenpence the ell. Come now, do 'ee, Mistress Clere!" "I'm not to be coaxed, I tell you. Shilling an ell, and not a bit under." "Well! then I guess I shall be forced to pay it. But you'll give me good measure?" "I'll give you as many ells as you give me shillings, and neither more nor less. Twelve? Very good." Mrs Clere measured off the florence, tied it up, received the twelve shillings, which Audrey drew from her pocket as slowly as possible, perhaps fancying that Mrs Clere might relent, and threw it into the till as if the coins were severely to blame for something. Audrey took up her purchase, and went out. "Whatever's come to Mistress Clere?" asked a young woman who stood next to Rose, waiting to be served. "She and Audrey Wastborowe's changed tempers this morrow." "Something's vexed her," said Rose. "I'm sorry, for I want to ask her a favour, when I've done my business." "She's not in a mood for favour-granting," said the young woman. "That's plain. You'd better let be while she's come round." "Nay, I can't let be," whispered Rose in answer. "Now or never, is it? Well, I wish you well through it." Mistress Clere, who had been serving another customer with an ounce of thread--there were no reels of thread in those days; it was only sold in skeins or large hanks--now came to Rose and the other girl. "Good-morrow, Gillian Mildmay! What's wanting?" "Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! My mother bade me ask if you had a fine marble cloth, about five shillings the ell, for a bettermost gown for her." Mrs Clere spoke a little less crossly, but with a weary air. "Marbled cloth's not so much worn as it was," she said; "but I have a fair piece that may serve your turn. It's more nor that, though. I couldn't let it go under five and eightpence." "Mother'll want it better cheap than that," said Gillian. "_I_ think that'll not serve her, Mistress Clere. But I want a pair of tawny sleeves, an't like you, wrought with needlework." Sleeves, at this time, were not a part of the dress, but were buttoned in as the wearer chose to have them. Gillian found these to suit her, paid for them, and went away. Mrs Clere turned to Rose. "Now, then, do be hasteful, Rose Allen; I'm that weary!" "You seem so in truth, Mistress Clere. I'm feared you've been overwrought," said Rose, in a sympathising tone. "Overwrought? Ay, body and soul too," answered Mrs Clere, softening a little in response to Rose's tone. "Well! folks know their own troubles best, I reckon, and it's no good harrying other folks with them. What priced serge would you have?" "About eighteenpence, have you some?" "One and eightpence; and one and fourpence. The one-and-fourpenny's right good, you'll find." "Thank you, I'll take the one-and-fourpenny: it'll be quite good enough for me. Well, I was going to ask you a favour, Mistress Clere; but seeing you look so o'erwrought, I have no mind to it." "Oh, it's all in the day's work. What would you?" asked Mrs Clere, rather more graciously. "Well, I scarce like to tell you; but I _was_ meaning to ask you the kindness, if you'd give leave for Bessy Foulkes to pass next saint's day afternoon with us. If you could spare her, at least." "I can spare Bessy Foulkes uncommon well!" said Mrs Clere irascibly. "Why, Mistress Clere! Has Bessy--" Rose began in an astonished tone. Mrs Clere's servant, Elizabeth Foulkes, was her dearest friend. "You'd best give Mistress Elizabeth Foulkes the go by, Rose Allen. She's a cantankerous, ill-beseen hussy, and no good company for you. She'll learn you to do as ill as herself, if you look not out." "But what has Bessy done?" "Gone into school-keeping," said Mrs Clere sarcastically. "Expects her betters to go and learn their hornbook of her. Set herself up to tell all the world their duty, and knows it a sight better than they do. That's what Mistress Elizabeth's done and doing. Ungrateful hussy!" "I couldn't have thought it!" said Rose, in a tone of great surprise, mixed with disappointment. "Bessy's always been so good a maid--" "Good! don't I tell you she's better than every body else? Tell you what, Rose Allen, being good's all very well, but for a young maid to stick herself up to be better than her neighbours 'll never pay. I don't hold with such doings. If Bess'd be content to be the best cook, or the best cleaner, in Colchester, I'd never say nought to her; but she's not content; she'd fain be the best priest and the best school-master too. And that isn't her work, preaching isn't; dressing meat and scouring pans and making beds is what she's called to, and not lecturing folks at Market Cross." "Has Bessy been preaching at the Market Cross?" asked Rose in genuine horror, for she took Mrs Clere's statements literally. "That's not while to-morrow," said Mrs Clere in the same sarcastic tone. "She's giving the lecture at home first, to get perfect. I promise you I'm just harried out of my life, what with one thing and another!" "Well, I'd like to speak with Bessy, if I might," said Rose in some perplexity. "We've always been friends, Bessy and me; and maybe she'd listen to me--or, any ways, to Mother. Could you kindly give leave for her to come, Mistress Clere?" "You may have her, and keep her, for all the good she is to me," answered the clothier's wife, moving away. "Mind she doesn't give you the malady, Rose Allen: that's all I say! It's a fair infection going about, and the great doctors up to London 'll have to come down and look to it--see if they don't! Oh, my lady can go if it like her--she's so grand now o' days I'm very nigh afeared of her. Good-morrow!" And Rose went out with her parcel, lost in wonder as to what could be the matter--first with Mistress Clere, and then with her friend Elizabeth. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE CLOUDS BEGIN TO GATHER. "Methinks that becomes me better. What sayest thou, Bess?" Two girls were standing in an upper room of Nicholas Clere's house, and the younger asked this question of the elder. The elder girl was tall, of stately carriage and graceful mien, with a very beautiful face: but her whole aspect showed that she thought nothing about herself, and never troubled her head to think whether she was pretty or ugly. The younger, who was about seventeen, was not nearly so handsome; but she would have been pleasant enough to look at if it had not been for a silly simper and a look of intensely satisfied vanity, which quite spoiled any prettiness that she might have had. She had just fastened a pair of ear-rings into her ears, and she was turning her head from one side to the other before the mirror, as she asked her companion's opinion of the ornaments. There are some savages--in Polynesia, I think--who decorate themselves by thrusting a wooden stick through their lips. To our European taste they look hideous, honestly, I cannot see that they who make holes in their lips in order to ornament themselves are any worse at all than they who make holes in their ears for the same purpose. The one is just as thorough barbarism as the other. When Amy Clere thus appealed to her to express an opinion, Elizabeth Foulkes looked up from her sewing and gave it. "No, Mistress Amy; I do scarce think it." "Why, wouldst thou better love these yellow ones?" "To speak truth, Mistress Amy, I think you look best without either." "Dear heart, to hear the maid! Wouldst not thou fain have a pair, Bess?" "Nay, Mistress Amy, that would I not." "Wherefore?" "Because, as methinks, such tawdry gewgaws be unworthy a Christian profession. If you desire my thought thereon, Mistress Amy, you have it now." "Forsooth, and thou mightest have kept it, for all I want of it. `Tawdry gewgaws,' indeed! I tell thee, Bess; these be three shillings the pair." "They may be. I would not pay three half-pence for them." "Bess, 'tis ten thousand pities thou art not a nun." "I would rather be what I am, Mistress." "I rather not be neither," said Amy flippantly. In those days, they always put two nots together when they meant to speak strongly. They did not see, as we do now, that the one contradicts the other. "Well, Mistress Amy, you have no need," said Elizabeth quietly. "And as to Christian profession--why, Bess, every lady in the land wears ear-rings, yea, up to the Queen's Grace herself. Prithee who art thou, to set thee up for better than all the ladies in England, talking of Christian profession as though thou wert a priest?" "I am Mistress Clere's servant-maid; but I set not myself up to be better than any, so far as I know." "Thee hold thy peace! Whether goeth this lace or the wide one best with my blue kirtle?" "The narrower, I would say. Mistress Amy, shall you have need of me this next Wednesday afternoon?" "Why? What's like to happen Wednesday afternoon?" "Saint Chrysostom's like to happen, an't please you; and Mistress granted me free leave to visit a friend, if so be you lacked me not." "What fashion of a friend, trow? A jolly one?" Elizabeth looked a little amused. "Scarce after your fashion, Mistress Amy." "What, as sad and sober as thyself?" "Well-nigh." "Then I'll not go with thee. I mean to spend Saint Chrysostom with Mary Boswell and Lucy Cheyne, and their friends: and I promise thee we shall not have no sadness nor sedateness in the company." "That's very like," answered Elizabeth. "As merry as crickets, _we_ shall be. Dost not long to come withal?" "I were liefer to visit Rose, if it liked you." "What a shame to call a sad maid by so fair a name! Oh, thou canst go for all me. Thy company's never so jolly I need shed tears to lose it." And with this rather uncomplimentary remark, Amy left the room, with the blue ear-rings in her ears and the yellow ones in her hand. Elizabeth waited till her piece of work was finished. Then folding it up and putting it away in a drawer, she ran down to prepare supper,--a task wherein Amy did not offer to help her, though it was usual then for the mistress of the house and her daughters to assist in the cooking. About two o'clock on the afternoon of the following Wednesday, a tap on the door of the Blue Bell called Rose to open it, and she greeted her friend Elizabeth with much pleasure. Rose had finished her share of the household work (until supper), and she took her lace pillow and sat down in the window. Elizabeth drew from her pocket a couple of nightcaps, and both girls set to work. Mrs Mount was sewing also in the chimney-corner. "And how be matters in Colchester, Bess, at this present?" "The clouds be gathering for rain, or I mistake," said Elizabeth gravely. "You know the thing I mean?" Alice Mount had put down her work, and she looked grave too. "Bess! you never mean we shall have last August's doings o'er again?" "That do I, Alice, and more. I was last night at the King's Head, where you know they of our doctrine be wont to meet, and Master Pulleyne was there, that good man that was sometime chaplain to my Lady's Grace of Suffolk: he mostly puts up at the King's Head when he cometh to town. And quoth he, `There shall shortly be another search made for Gospel books,--ay, and Gospellers belike: and they be not like to 'scape so well as they did last year.' And John Love saith--he was there, John Love of the Heath; you know him?--well, he saith he heard Master Simnel the bailiff to swear that the great Doctors of Colchester should find it warm work ere long. There's an ill time coming, friends. Take you heed." "The good Lord be our aid, if so be!" said Alice. "But what shall Master Clere do, Bessy?" asked Rose. "He hath ever been a Gospeller." "He hath borne the name of one, Rose. God knoweth if he be true. I'm 'feared--" Elizabeth stopped suddenly. "That he'll not be staunch?" said Alice. "He is my master, and I will say no more, Alice. But this may I say-- there's many in Colchester shall bear faggots ere they burn. Ay, and all over England belike." Those who recanted had to carry a faggot, as if owning themselves worthy to be burned. "Thou'rt right there, Bess. The Lord deliver us!" "Some thinketh we have been too bold of late. You see, John Love coming home again, and nothing done to him, made folks think the worst was over." "Isn't it then?" said Rose. "Master Benold says he misdoubts if 'tis well begun." "Master Benold the chandler?" "Of East Hill--ay. He was at the King's Head last night. So was old Mistress Silverside, and Mistress Ewring the miller's wife, and Johnson--they call him Alegar--down at Thorpe." "Call him Alegar! what on earth for?" asked Rose indignantly. Elizabeth laughed. "Well, they say he's so sour. He'll not dance, nor sing idle songs, nor play quoits and bowls, but loveth better to sit at home and read; so they call him Alegar." Alegar is malt vinegar; the word vinegar was then used only of white wine vinegar. "He's not a bit sour!" cried Rose. "I've seen him with his little lad and lass; and right good to them he was. It's a shame to call folks names that don't fit them!" "Nay, I don't call him no names, but other folks do. Did you know his wife, that died six months gone?" "No, but I've heard her well spoken of." "Then you've heard truth. Those children lost a deal when they lost her, and so did poor Johnson. Well, he'll never see her burn: that's one good thing!" "Ay," said Alice, "and that's what he said himself when she died. Well, God help us to stand firm! Have you been asked any questions, Bess?" "Not yet," said Elizabeth quietly, "but I look for it every day. Have you?" "Not I; but our Rose here foregathered with the priest one even of late, and he was set to know why we came not to church these eight weeks past. She parried his darts right well; but I look to hear more thereabout." CHAPTER EIGHT. NOT A BIT AFEARD. Alice Mount had only just spoken when the latch was lifted by Margaret Thurston. "Pray you, let me come in and get my breath!" said she; "I'm that frighted I can scarce stand." "Come in, neighbour, and welcome," replied Alice; and Rose set a chair for Margaret. "What ails you? is there a mad bull about, or what?" "Mad bull, indeed! A mad bull's no great shakes. Not to him, any way." "Well, I'd as soon not meet one in our lane," said Alice; "but who's _him_?" "_Him's_ the priest, be sure! Met me up at top o' the lane, he did, and he must needs turn him round and walk by me. I well-nigh cracked my skull trying to think of some excuse to be rid of him; but no such luck for me! On he came till we reached hither, and then I could bear no more, and I said I had to see you. He said he went about to see you afore long, but he wouldn't come in to-day; so on he marched, and right thankful was I, be sure. Eh, the things he asked me! I've not been so hauled o'er the coals this year out." "But what about, marry?" "Gramercy! wherefore I came not to mass, and why Master didn't: and what I believed and didn't believe, and wherefore I did this and didn't do that, till I warrant you, afore he left off, I was that moithered I couldn't have told what I did believe. I got so muggy I only knew one thing under the sun, and that was that I'd have given my best gown for to be rid of him." "Well, you got free without your best gown, Margaret," said Rose. "May be I have, but I feel as if I'd left all my wits behind me in the lane, or mayhap in the priest's pocket. Whatever would the man be at? We pay our dues to the Church, and we're honest, peaceable folks: if it serve us better to read our Bible at home rather than go look at him hocus-pocussing in the church, can't he let us be? Truly, if he'd give us something when we came, there'd be some reason for finding fault; nobody need beg me to go to church when there's sermon: but what earthly good can it do any mortal man to stare at a yellow cross on Father Tye's back? And what good do you ever get beyond it?" Sermons have always been a Protestant institution, in this sense, that the more pure and Scriptural the Church has been, the more sermons there have generally been, while whenever the clergy have taken up with foolish ceremonies and have departed from the Bible, they have tried to do away with preaching. And of course, when very few people could read their Bibles, there was more need of preaching than there is now, when nearly everybody can read. Very, very few poor people could read a word in 1556. It was put down as something remarkable, in the case of Cissy's father, that he could "read a little." Saint Paul says that it pleased God by preaching to save them that believe (1 Corinthians one 21), but he never says "by hearing music," or "by looking at flowers, or candles, or embroidered crosses." Those things can only amuse our eyes and ears; they will never do our souls any good. How can they? The only thing that will do good to our souls is to get to know God better: and flowers, candles, music, and embroidery, cannot teach us anything about God. "What laugh you at, Rose?" asked Elizabeth. "Only Margaret's notion that it could do no man good to stare at the cross on Father Tye's back," said Rose, trying to recover her gravity. "Well, the only animal made with a cross on his back is an ass," said Margaret; "and one would think a man should be better than an ass; but if his chief business be to make himself look like one, I don't see that he is so much better." This amused Rose exceedingly. Elizabeth Foulkes, though the same age as Rose, was naturally of a graver turn of mind, and she only smiled. "Well! if I haven't forgot all I was charged with, I'd better give my message," said Margaret; "but Father Tye's well-nigh shook all my wits out of my head. Robin Purcas came by this morrow, and he lifted the latch, and gave me a word from Master Benold, that I was to carry on-- for he's got a job of work at Saint Osyth, and won't be back while Friday--saith he, on Friday even, Master Pulleyne and the Scots priest, that were chaplains to my Lady of Suffolk, shall be at the King's Head, and all of our doctrine that will come to hear shall be welcome. Will you go?" "Verily, that will I," replied Alice heartily. "You see, if Father Tye should stir up the embers and get all alight again, maybe we shalln't have so many more sermons afterward; so we'd best get our good things while we can." "Ay, there may be a famine of hearing the words of the Lord," said Alice gravely. "God avert the same, if His will is!" "Johnson, he says he's right sure Master Simnel means to start of his inquirations. Alice, think you you could stand firm?" Alice Mount sighed and half shook her head. "I didn't stand over firm last August, Margaret," said she: "and only the Lord knows how I've since repented it. If He'll keep me true--but I'm feared of myself." "Well, do you know I'm not a bit feared? It's true, I wasn't tried in August, when you were: but if I had been, be sure I'd never have signed that submission that you did. I wouldn't, so!" "Maybe not, neighbour," answered Alice meekly. "I was weak." "Now, Mother," said Rose, who could bear no longer, "you know you stood forth best of anybody there! It was Father that won her to sign, Margaret; she never would have done it if she'd been left to herself. I know she wouldn't." "Then what didst thou sign for, Rose?" was the reply. Rose went the colour of her name. Her mother came at once to her help, as Rose had just done to hers. "Why, she signed because we did, like a dutiful maid as she is alway: and it was our faults, Margaret. May God forgive us!" "Well, but after all, it wasn't so very ill, was it?" asked Margaret, rather inconsistently with what she had said before: but people are not always consistent by any means. "Did you promise anything monstrous wrong? I thought it was only to live as became good Christians and faithful subjects." "Nay, Meg, it was more than that. We promised right solemnly to submit us to the Church in all matters, and specially in this, that we did believe the Sacrament to be Christ's body, according to His words." "Why, so do we all believe," said Margaret, "_according to His words_. Have you forgot the tale Father Tye did once tell us at the King's Head, of my Lady Elizabeth the Queen's sister, that when she was asked what she did believe touching the Sacrament, she made this answer? "`Christ was the Word that spake it, He took the bread, and brake it; And what that word did make it, That I believe, and take it.'" "That was a bit crafty, methinks," said Rose. "I love not such shifts. I would rather speak out my mind plainly." "Ay, but if you speak too plainly, you be like to find you in the wrong place," answered Margaret. "That would not be the wrong place wherein truth set me," was Rose's earnest answer. "That were never the wrong place wherein God should be my company. And if the fire were too warm for my weakness to bear, the holy angels should maybe fan me with their wings till I came to the covert of His Tabernacle." "Well, that's all proper pretty," said Margaret, "and like a book as ever the parson could talk: but I tell thee what, Rose Allen, thou'lt sing another tune if ever thou come to Smithfield. See if thou doesn't." And Rose answered, "`The word that God putteth in my mouth, that will I speak.'" CHAPTER NINE. COME TO THE PREACHING. "Dorothy Denny, art thou never going to set that kettle on?" "Oh, deary me! a body never has a bit of peace!" "That's true enough of me, but it's right false of thee. Thou's nought but peace all day long, for thou never puts thyself out. I dare be bounden, if the Queen's Grace and all her noble company were to sup in this kitchen at five o' the clock, I should come in and find never a kettle nor a pan on at the three-quarter past. If thy uncle wasn't a sloth, and thine aunt a snail, I'm not hostess of the King's Head at Colchester, thou'rt no more worth thy salt--nay, salt, forsooth! thou'rt not worth the water. Salt's one and fourpence the raser, and that's a deal too much to give for thee. Now set me the kettle on, and then teem out that rubbish in the yard, and run to the nests to see if the hens have laid: don't be all day and night about it! Run, Doll!--Eh deary me! I might as well have said, Crawl. There she goes with the lead on her heels! If these maids ben't enough to drive an honest woman crazy, my name's not Philippa Wade." And Mistress Wade began to put things tidy in the kitchen with a promptitude and celerity which Dorothy Denny certainly did not seem likely to imitate. She swept up the hearth, set a chair before the table, fresh sanded the floor and arranged the forms in rows, before Dorothy reappeared, carefully carrying something in her apron. "Why, thou doesn't mean to say thou'st done already?" inquired her mistress sarcastically. "Thou'st been all across the yard while I've done no more than sand the floor and side things for the gathering. What's that in thine apron? one of the Queen's Majesty's jewels?" "It's an _egg_, Mistress." "An egg! an _egg_?" demanded Mrs Wade, with a burst of hearty laughter; for she laughed, as she did everything else, with all her might. "Is that all thou'st got by thy journey? Marry, but I would have tarried another day, and fetched two! Poor Father Pulleyne! so he's but to have one _egg_ to his supper? If them hens have laid no more, I'm a Dutchwoman! See thou, take this duster, and dust the table and forms, and I'll go and search for eggs. If ever a mortal woman--" Mistress Wade was in the yard before she got further, and Dorothy was left to imagine the end of the sentence. Before that leisurely young woman had finished dusting the first form, the landlady reappeared with an apronful of eggs. "I marvel whither thou wentest for thy _egg_, Doll. Here be eighteen thou leftest for me to gather. It's no good to bid thee be 'shamed, for thou dost not know how, I should in thy place, I'll warrant thee. Verily, I do marvel whatever the world's a-coming to!" Before Mrs Wade had done more than empty her apron carefully of the eggs, a soft rap came on the door; and she called out,-- "Come within!" "Please, I can't reach," said a little voice. "Open the door, Doll," said Mrs Wade; and in came three children--a girl of nine, a boy of six, and a baby in the arms of the former. "Well, what are you after? Come for skim milk! I've none this even." "No, please. Please, we're come to the preaching." "_You're_ come to the preaching? Why, you're only as big as mice, the lot of you. Whence come you?" "Please, we've come from Thorpe." "You've come from Thorpe! you poor little bits of things! All that way!" cried Mrs Wade, whose heart was as large as her tongue was ready. "Why, I do believe you're Cicely Johnson. You are so grown I didn't know you at first--and yet you're no bigger than a mouse, as I told you. Have you had any supper?" "No, Mistress. Please, we don't have supper, only now and then. We shall do very well, indeed, if we may stay for the preaching." "You'll sit down there, and eat some bread and milk, before you're an hour older. Poor little white-faced mortals as ever I did see! But you've never carried that child all the way from Thorpe?--Doll didst ever see such children?" "They're proper peaked, Mistress," said Dorothy. [See note 1.] "Oh no!" answered the truth-loving Cissy. "I only carried her from the Gate. Neighbour Ursula, she bare her all the way." "Thou'rt an honest lass," said Mrs Wade, patting Cissy on the head. "There, eat that." And she put a large slice of bread into the hand of both Will and Cissy, setting a goodly bowl of milk on the table between them. "That's good!" commented Will, attacking the milk-bowl immediately. Cissy held him back, and looked up into Mrs Wade's kindly and capacious face. "But please we haven't got any money," she said anxiously. "Marry come up! to think I'd take money from such bits of things as you! I want no money, child. The good Lord, He pays such bills as yours. And what set you coming to the preaching? Did your father bid you?" [See Note 2.] "Father likes us to come," said Cissy, when her thanks had been properly expressed; "but he didn't bid us--not to-night. Mother, she said we must always come if we could. I'm feared Baby won't understand much: but Will and me, we'll try." "I should think not!" replied Mrs Wade, laughing. "Why, if you and Will can understand aught that'll be as much as need be looked for. How much know you about it?" "Please, we know about the Lord Jesus," said Cissy, putting her hands together, as if she were going to say her prayers. "We know that He died on the cross for us, so that we should not be punished for our sins, and He sends the Holy Ghost to make us good, and the Bible, which is God's Word, and we mustn't let anybody take it away from us." "Well, if you know that much in your little hearts, you'll do," said the landlady. "There's many a poor heathen doesn't know half as much as that. Ay, child, you shall 'bide for the preaching if you want, but you're too soon yet. You've come afore the parson. Eat your bread and milk up, and 'bide where you are; that's a snug little corner for you, where you'll be warm and safe. Is Father coming too, and Neighbour Ursula?" "Yes, they're both coming presently," said Cissy. The next arrival was that of two gentlemen, the preacher and a friend. After this people began to drop in, at first by twos and threes, and as the time drew near, with more rapidity. The Mounts and Rose Allen came early; Elizabeth Foulkes was late, for she had hard work to get away at all. Last of anybody was Margaret Thurston and with her a tall, strong-looking man, who was John Thurston, her husband. John Johnson found out the corner where his children were, and made his way to them; but Rose Allen had been before him, and was seated next to Cissy, holding the little hand in hers. On the other side of little Will sat an old lady with grey hair, and a very sweet, kind face. She was Mrs Silverside, the widow of a priest. By her was Mrs Ewring the miller's wife, who was a little deaf, and wanted to get near the preacher. When the room was full, Mr Pulleyne, who was to preach that evening, rose and came forward to the table, and gave out the Forty-Second Psalm. They had no hymn-books, as we have. There were just a few hymns, generally bound up at the end of the Prayer-Book, which had been written during the reign of good King Edward the Sixth; but hardly any English hymns existed at all then. They had one collection of metrical Psalms-- that of Sternhold and Hopkins, of which we never sing any now except the Hundredth--that version known to every one, beginning-- "All people that on earth do dwell." The Psalms they sang then sound strange to us now but we must remember they did not sound at all strange to those who sang them. Here are two verses of the Forty-Second. "Like as the hart doth pant and bray, The well-springs to obtain, So doth my soul desire alway With Thee, Lord, to remain. My soul doth thirst, and would draw near The living God of might; Oh, when shall I come and appear In presence of His sight! "The tears all times are my repast, Which from mine eyes do slide; Whilst wicked men cry out so fast, `Where now is God thy Guide?' Alas! what grief is it to think The freedom once I had! Therefore my soul, as at pit's brink, Most heavy is and sad." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Peaked: Very thin and pinched-looking. Note 2. Come up. An exclamation of surprise, then often used. CHAPTER TEN. BROUGHT OUT, TO BE BROUGHT IN. Loud and full rang the volume of voices in the kitchen of the King's Head at Colchester, that winter evening. They did not stand up in silence and let a choir do it for them, while they listened to it as they might to a German band, and with as little personal concern. When men's hearts are warm with patriotism, or overflowing with loyalty, they don't want somebody else to sing _Rule, Britannia_, or _God Save the Queen_; the very enjoyment lies in doing it themselves. Nobody would dream of paying another person to go to a party or to see a royal procession for him. Well, then, when we prefer to keep silent, and hear somebody sing God's praises instead of doing it ourselves, what can it mean except that our Hearts are not warm with love and overflowing with thankfulness, as they ought to be? And cold hearts are not the stuff that makes martyrs. There was plenty of martyr material in the King's Head kitchen that night--from old Agnes Silverside to little Cissy Johnson; from the learned priest, Mr Pulleyne, to many poor men and women who did not know their letters. They were not afraid of what people would say, nor even of what people might do. And yet they knew well that it was possible, and even likely, that very terrible things might be done to them. Their feeling was,--Well, let them be done, if that be the best way I can glorify God. Let them be done, if it be the way in which I can show that I love Jesus Christ. Let them be done, if by suffering with Him I can win a place nearer to Him, and send a thrill of happiness to the Divine and human heart of the Saviour who paid His heart's blood to ransom me. So the hymn was not at all too long for them, though it had fifteen verses; and the sermon was not too long, though it lasted an hour and a half. When people have to risk their lives to hear a sermon is not the time when they cry out to have sermons cut shorter. They very well knew that before another meeting took place at the King's Head, some, and perhaps all of them, might be summoned to give up liberty and life for the love of the Lord Jesus. Mr Pulleyne took for his text a few words in the 23rd verse of the sixth chapter of Deuteronomy. "He brought us out from thence, that He might bring us in." He said to the people:-- "`He brought us out'--who brought us? God, our Maker; God, that loved the world. `He brought us out'--who be we? Poor, vile, wicked sinners, worms of the earth, things that He could have crushed easier than I can crush a moth. From whence? From Egypt, the house of bondage; from sin, self, Satan--the only three evil things there be: whereby I mean, necessarily inwardly, utterly evil. Thence He brought us out. Friends, we must come out of Egypt; out from bondage; out of these three ill things, sin, and self, and Satan: God will have us out. He will not suffer us to tarry in that land. And if we slack [Hesitate, feel reluctant] to come out, He will drive us sharp thence. Let us come out quick, and willingly. There is nothing we need sorrow to leave behind; only the task-master, Satan; and the great monster, sin; and the slime of the river wherein he lieth hid, self. He will have at us with his ugly jaws, and bite our souls in twain, if we have not a care. Let us run fast from this land where we leave behind such evil things. "But see, there is more than this. God had an intent in thus driving us forth. He did not bring us out, and leave us there. Nay, `He brought us out that He might bring us in.' In where? Into the Holy Land, that floweth with milk and honey; the fair land where nothing shall enter that defileth; the safe land where in all the holy mountain nothing shall hurt nor destroy; His own land, where He hath His Throne and His Temple, and is King and Father of them that dwell therein. Look you, is not this a good land? Are you not ready to go and dwell therein? Do not the clusters of its grapes--the hearing of its glories--make your mouths water? See what you shall exchange: for a cruel task-master, a loving Father; for a dread monster, an holy City; for the base and ugly slime of the river, the fair paving of the golden streets, and the soft waving of the leaves of the tree of life, and the sweet melody of angel harps. Truly, I think this good barter. If a man were to exchange a dead rat for a new-struck royal, [see Note 1] men would say he had well traded, he had bettered himself, he was a successful merchant. Lo, here is worse than a dead rat, and better than all the royals in the King's mint. Will ye not come and trade? "Now, friends, ye must not misconceive me, as though I did mean that men could buy Heaven by their own works. Nay, Heaven and salvation be free gifts--the glorious gifts of a glorious God, and worthy of the Giver. But when such gifts are set before you but for the asking, is it too much that ye should rise out of the mire and come? "`He brought them out, that He might bring them in.' He left them not in the desert, to find their own way to the Holy Land. Marry, should they ever have come there? I trow not. Nay, no more than a babe of a month old, if ye set him down at Bothal's Gate, could find his way to the Moot Hall. But He dealt not with them thus. He left them not to find their own way. He brought them, He led them, He showed them where to plant their feet, first one step, then another, as mothers do to a child when he learneth first to walk. `As a nurse cherisheth her children,' the Apostle saith he dealt with his converts: and the Lord useth yet tenderer image, for `as a mother comforteth her babe,' saith He, `will I comfort you.' Yea, He bids the Prophet Esaias to learn them, `line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little'--look you, how careful is God of His nurse-children. `Feed My Lambs,' saith He: and lambs may not nibble so hard as sheep. They take not so full a mouthful; they love the short grass, that is sweet and easily cropped. We be all lambs afore we be sheep. Sheep lack much shepherding, but lambs yet more. Both be silly things, apt to stray away, and the wolf catcheth them with little trouble. Now, if a dog be lost, he shall soon find his way back; but a lamb and a babe, if they be lost, they are utterly lost; they can never find the way. Look you, the Lord likeneth His people to lambs and babes, these silly things that be continually lost, and have no wit to find the way. So, brethren, _He_ finds the way. He goeth after that which is lost, until He find it. First He finds the poor silly lamb, and then He leadeth it in the way wherein it shall go. He `brings us in' to the fair green pastures and by the still waters--brings us in to the safe haven where the little boats lie at rest--brings us in to the King's banquet-hall where the feast is spread, and the King Himself holdeth forth hands of welcome.-- He stretched not forth the cold sceptre; He giveth His own hand--that hand that was pierced for our sins. What say I? Nay, `He shall gird Himself, and shall come forth and serve them'--so great honour shall they attain which serve God, as to have Him serve them. "Now, brethren, is this not a fair lot that God appointeth for His people? A King to their guide, and a throne to their bed, and angels to their serving-men--verily these be folks of much distinction that be so served! But, look you, there is one little point we may not miss--`If we suffer, we shall reign.' There is the desert to be passed. There is the Jordan to be forded. There is the cross to bear for the Master that bare the cross for us. Yea, we shall best bear our cross by looking well and oft on His cross. Ah! brethren, He standeth close beside; He hath borne it all; He knoweth where the nails run, and in what manner they hurt. Yet a little patience, poor suffering soul! yet a little courage; yet a little stumbling over the rough stones of the wilderness: and then the Golden City, and the royal banquet-hall, and the King that brought us out despite all the Egyptians, that brought us in despite all the dangers of the desert,--the King, our Shield, and Guide, and Father, shall come forth and serve us." Old Agnes Silverside, the priest's widow, sat with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed on the preacher. As he ended, she laid her hand upon Rose Allen's. "My maid," she said, "never mind the wilderness. The stones be sharp, and the sun scorching, and the thirst sore: but one sight of the King in the Golden City shall make up for all!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Ten shillings; this was then the largest coin made. CHAPTER ELEVEN. UNEXPECTED LODGINGS. "Now then, who goes home?" cried the cheerful voice of Mrs Wade, when the sermon was over. "You, Mistress Benold?--you, Alice Mount?--you, Meg Thurston? You'd best hap your mantle well about your head. Mistress Silverside, this sharp even: yon hood of yours is not so thick, and you are not so young as you were once. Now, Adrian Purcas, thee be off with Johnson and Mount; thou'rt not for my money. Agnes Love, woman, I wonder at you! coming out of a November night with no thicker a mantle than that old purple thing, that I'm fair tired of seeing on you. What's that? `Can't afford a new one?' Go to Southampton! There's one in my coffer that I never use now. Here, Doll! wherever is that lazy bones? Gather up thy heels, wilt thou, and run to my great oak coffer, and bring yon brown hood I set aside. Now don't go and fetch the red one! that's my best Sunday gear, and thou'rt as like to bring red when I tell thee brown as thou art to eat thy supper.--Well, Alice?" "I cry you mercy, Hostess, for troubling of you; but Master and me, we're bidden to lie at the mill. Mistress Ewring's been that good; but there's no room for Rose, and--" "Then Rose can turn in with Dorothy, and I'm fain on't if she'll give her a bit of her earnestness for pay. There's not as much lead to her heels in a twelvemonth as would last Doll a week.--So this is what thou calls a brown hood, is it? I call it a blue apron. Gramercy, the stupidness o' some folks!" "Please you, Mistress, there was nought but that in the coffer." "What coffer?" "The walnut, in the porch-chamber." "Well, if ever I did! I never spake a word of the walnut coffer, nor the porch-chamber neither, I told thee the great oak coffer, and that's in my chamber, as thou knows, as well as thou knows thy name's Dorothy. Put that apron back where thou found it, and bring me the brown hood from the oak coffer. Dear heart, but she'll go and cast her eyes about for an oak hood in a brown coffer, as like as not! She's that heedless. It's not for lack of wit; she could if she would.--Why, what's to be done with yon little scraps! You can never get home to Thorpe such a night as this. Johnson! you leave these bits o' children with me, and I'll send them back to you to-morrow when the cart goes your way for a load of malt. There's room enough for you; you'd all pack in a thimble, well-nigh.--Nay, now! hast thou really found it? Now then, Agnes Love, cast that over you, and hap it close to keep you warm. Pay! bless the woman, I want no pay! only some day I'd like to hear `Inasmuch' said to me. Good even!" "You'll hear that, Mistress Wade!" said Agnes Love, a pale quiet-looking woman, with a warm grasp of Mistress Wade's hand. "You'll hear that, and something else, belike--as we've heard to-night, the King will come forth and serve you. Eh, but it warms one's heart to hear tell of it!" "Ay, it doth, dear heart, it doth! Good-night, and God bless thee! Now, Master Pulleyne, I'll show you your chamber, an' it like you. Rose Allen, you know the way to Dorothy's loft? Well, go you up, and take the little ones with you. It's time for babes like them to be abed. Doll will show you how to make up a bed for them. Art waiting for some one, Bessy?" "No, Mistress Wade," said Elizabeth Foulkes, who had stood quietly in a corner as though she were; "but if you'd kindly allow it, I'd fain go up too and have a chat with Rose. My mistress gave me leave for another hour yet." "Hie thee up, good maid, and so do," replied Mrs Wade cheerily, taking up a candlestick to light Mr Pulleyne to the room prepared for him, where, as she knew from past experience, he was very likely to sit at study till far into the night. Dorothy lighted another candle, and offered it to Rose. "See, you'll lack a light," said she. "Nay, not to find our tongues," answered Rose, smiling. "Ah, but to put yon children abed. Look you in the closet, Rose, as you go into the loft, and you'll see a mattress and a roll of blankets, with a canvas coverlet that shall serve them. You'll turn in with me." "All right, Doll; I thank you." "You look weary, Doll," said Elizabeth. "Weary? Eh, but if you dwelt with our mistress, you'd look weary, be sure. She's as good a woman as ever trod shoe-leather, only she's so monstrous sharp. She thinks you can be there and back before you've fair got it inside your head that you're to go. I marvel many a time whether the angels 'll fly fast enough to serve her when she gets to Heaven. Marry come up but they'll have to step out if they do." Rose laughed, and led the way upstairs, where she had been several times before. Inns at that time were built like Continental country inns are now, round a square space, with a garden inside, and a high archway for the entrance, so high that a load of hay could pass underneath. There were no inside stairs, but a flight led up to the second storey from the courtyard, and a balcony running all round the house gave access to the bedrooms. Rose, however, went into none of the rooms, but made her way to one corner, where a second steep flight of stairs ran straight up between the walls. These the girls mounted, and at the top entered a low door, which led into a large, low room, lighted by a skylight, and occupied by little furniture. At the further end was a good-sized bed covered with a patchwork quilt, but without any hangings--the absence of these indicating either great poverty or extremely low rank. There was neither drawers, dressing-table, nor washstand. A large chest beside the bed held all Dorothy's possessions, and a leaf-table which would let down was fixed to the wall under a mirror. A form in one corner, and two stools, made up the rest of the furniture. In a corner close to the entrance stood another door, which Rose opened after she had set up the leaf-table and put the candle upon it. Then, with Elizabeth's help, she dragged out a large, thick straw mattress, and the blankets and coverlet of which Dorothy had spoken, and made up the bed in one of the unoccupied corners. A further search revealed a bolster, but no pillows were forthcoming. That did not matter, for they expected none. "Now then, children, we'll get you into bed," said Rose. "Will must say his prayers first," said Cissy anxiously. "Of course. Now, Will, come and say thy prayers, like a good lad." Will knelt down beside the bed, and did as he was told in a shrill, sing-song voice. Odd prayers they were; but in those days nobody knew any better, and most children were taught to say still queerer things. First came the Lord's Prayer: so far all was right. Then Will repeated the Ten Commandments and the Creed, which are not prayers at all, and finished with this formula:-- "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Bless the bed that I lie on: Four corners to my bed, Four angels at their head; One to read, and one to write, And one to guard my bed at night. "And now I lay me down to sleep, I pray that Christ my soul may keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray that Christ my soul may take; Wake I at morn, or wake I never, I give my soul to Christ for ever." After this strange jumble of good things and nonsense, Will jumped into bed, where the baby was already laid. It was Cissy's turn next. Ever since it had been so summarily arranged by Mrs Wade that the children were to stay the night at the King's Head, Cissy had been looking preternaturally solemn. Now, when she was desired to say her prayers, as a prelude to going to bed, Cissy's lip quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. "Why, little maid, what ails thee?" asked Rose. "It's Father," said Cissy, in an unsteady voice. "I don't know however Father will manage without me. He'll have to dress his own supper. I only hope he'll leave the dish for me to wash when I get home. No body never put Father and me asunder afore!" "Little maid," answered Elizabeth, "Mistress Wade meant to save thee the long walk home." "Oh, I know she meant it kind," replied Cissy, "and I'm right thankful: but, please, I'd rather be tired than Father be without me. We've never been asunder afore--never!" CHAPTER TWELVE. TRYING ON THE ARMOUR. "Oh, thy father 'll do right well!" said Rose encouragingly. "I dare be bound he thought it should be a pleasant change for thee." "Ay, I dare say Father thought of us and what we should like," said Cissy. "He nodded to Mistress Wade, and smiled on me, as he went forth; so of course I had to 'bide. But then, you see, I'm always thinking of Father." "I see," said Rose, laughing; "it's not, How shall I do without Father? but, How can Father do without me?" "That's it," replied Cissy, nodding her capable little head. "He'll do without Will and Baby--not but he'll miss them, you know; but they don't do nothing for him like _me_." This was said in Cissy's most demure manner, and Rose was exceedingly amused. "And, prithee, what dost thou for him?" said she. "I do everything," said Cissy, with an astonished look. "I light the fire, and dress the meat, [Note 1] and sweep the floor. Only I can't do all the washing yet; Neighbour Ursula has to help me with that. But about Father--please, when I've said the Paternoster [the Lord's Prayer], and the Belief, and the Commandments, might I ask, think you, for somebody to go in and do things for Father? I know he'll miss me very ill." "Thou dear little-soul!" cried Rose. But Cissy was looking up at Elizabeth, whom she dimly discerned to be the graver and wiser of the two girls. Elizabeth smiled at her in that quiet, sweet way which she usually did. "Little Cissy," she said, "is not God thy Father, and his likewise? And thinkest thou fathers love to see their children happy and at ease, or no?" "Father likes us to be happy," said Cissy simply. "And `your Father knoweth,'" softly replied Elizabeth, "`that ye have need of all these things.'" "Oh, then, He'll send in Ursula, or somebody," responded Cissy, in a contented tone. "It'll be all right if I ask Him to see to it." And Cissy "asked Him to see to it," and then lay down peacefully, her tranquillity restored, by the side of little Will, and all the children were asleep in a few minutes. "Now, Bessy, we can have our talk." So saying, Rose drew the stools into a corner, out of the way of the wind, which came puffing in at the skylight in a style rather unpleasant for November, and the girls sat down together for a chat. "How go matters with you at Master Clere's, Bessy?" "Oh, middling. I go not about to complain, only that I would Mistress Amy were a bit steadier than she is." "She's a gadabout, isn't she?" "Nay, I've said all I need, and maybe more than I should." "Doth Master Clere go now to mass, Bessy?" "Oh, ay, as regular as any man in the town, and the mistress belike. The net's drawing closer, Rose. The time will soon come when even you and I, low down as we are, shall have to make choice, with death at the end of one way." "Ay, I'm afeard so," said Rose gravely. "Bessy, think you that you can stand firm?" "Firm as a rock, if God hold me up; weak and shifting as water, if He hold me not." "Ay, thou hast there the right. But we are only weak, ignorant maidens, Bessy." "Then is He the more likely to hold us up, since He shall see we need it rather. If thou be high up on the rock, out of reach of the waves, what matter whether thou be a stone weight or a crystal vessel? The waters beat upon the rock, not on thee." "But one sees them coming, Bess." "Well, what if thou dost? They'll not touch thee." "Eh, Bess, the fire 'll touch us, be sure!" "It'll touch our flesh--the outward case of us--that which can drop off and turn to dust. It can never meddle with Rose Allen and Elizabeth Foulkes." "Bessy, I wish I had thy good courage." "Why, Rose, art feared of death?" "Not of what comes after, thank God! But I'm feared of pain, Bessy, and of dying. It seems so shocking, when one looks forward to it." "Best not look forward. Maybe 'tis more shocking to think of than to feel. That's the way with many things." "O Bessy! I can't look on it calm, like that. It isn't nature." "Nay, dear heart, 'tis grace, not nature." "And thou seest, in one way, 'tis worser for me than for thee. Thou art thyself alone; but there's Father and Mother with me. How could I bear to see them suffer?" "The Lord will never call thee to anything, Rose, which He will not give thee grace to bear. Be sure of that. Well, I've no father--he's in Heaven, long years ago. But I've a good mother at Stoke Nayland, and I'd sooner hurt my own head than her little finger, any day I live. Dear maid, neither thou nor I know to what the Lord will call us. We do but know that on whatever journey He sendeth us, Himself shall pay the charges. Thou goest not a warfare at thine own cost. How many times in God's Word is it said, `Fear not?' Would the Lord have so oft repeated it, without He had known that we were very apt to fear?" "Ah!" said Rose, sighing, "and the `fearful' be among such as are left without the gate. O Bessy, if that fear should overcome me that I draw back! I cannot but think every moment shall make it more terrible to bear. And if one held not fast, but bought life, as soon as the fire were felt, by denying the truth! I am feared, dear heart! I'm feared." "It shall do thee no hurt to be feared of thyself, only lose not thine hold on God. `Hold _Thou_ me up, and I shall be safe.' But that should not be, buying life, Bessy, but selling it." "I know it should be bartering the life eternal, for the sake of a few years, at most, of this lower life. Yet life is main sweet, Bessy, and we are young. `All that a man hath will he give for his life.'" "Think not on the life, Rose, nor on what thou givest, but alone on Him for whom thou givest it. Is He not worth the pain and the loss? Couldst thou bear to lose _Him_?--Him, who endured the bitter rood [Cross] rather than lose thee. That must never be, dear heart." "I do trust not, verily; yet--" "What, not abed yet?" cried the cheery voice of Mrs Wade. "I came up but to see if you had all you lacked. Doll's on her way up. I reckon she shall be here by morning. A good maid, surely, but main slow. What! the little ones be asleep? That's well. But, deary me, what long faces have you two! Are you taking thought for your funeral, or what discourse have you, that you both look like judges?" "Something like it, Hostess," said Elizabeth, with her grave smile. "Truly, we were considering that which may come, and marvelling if we should hold fast." The landlady set her arms akimbo, and looked from one of the girls to the other. "Why, what's a-coming?" said she. "Nay, we know not what, but--" "Dear heart, then I'd wait till I did! I'll tell you what it is--I hate to have things wasted, even an old shoe-latchet; why, I pity to cast it aside, lest it should come in for something some day. Now, my good maids, don't waste your courage and resolution. Just you keep them till they're wanted, and then they'll be bright and ready for use. You're not going to be burned to-night; you're going to bed. And screwing up your courage to be burned is an ill preparation for going to bed, I can tell you. You don't know, and I don't, that any one of us will be called to glorify the Lord in the fires. If we are, depend upon it He'll show us how to do it. Now, then, say your prayers, and go to sleep." "I thank you, Hostess, but I must be going home." "Good-night, then, Bessy, and don't sing funeral dirges over your own coffin afore it comes from the undertaker. What, Doll, hast really got here? I scarce looked to see thee afore morning. Good-night, maids." And Mrs Wade bustled away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. At this time they used the word _meat_ in the sense of food of any kind--not butchers meat only. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. A DARK NIGHT'S ERRAND. "Must you be gone, Bessy?" said Dorothy Denny, sitting down on the side of her bed with a weary air. "Eh, I'm proper tired! Thought this day 'd never come to an end, I did. Couldn't you tarry a bit longer?" "I don't think I ought, Dorothy. Your mistress looked to see Rose abed by now, 'twas plain; and mine gave me leave but till eight o' the clock. I'd better be on my way." "Oh, you're one of that sort that's always thinking what they _ought_, are you? That's all very well in the main; but, dear heart! one wants a bit of what one would like by nows and thens." "One gets that best by thinking what one ought," said Elizabeth. "Ay, but it's all to come sometime a long way off; and how do I know it'll come to me? Great folks doesn't take so much note of poor ones, and them above 'll very like do so too." "There's only One above that has any right to bid aught," answered Elizabeth, "and He takes more note of poor than rich, Doll, as you'll find by the Bible. Good-night, Rose; good-night, Dorothy." And Elizabeth ran lightly down the stairs, and out so into the street. She had a few minutes left before the hour at which Mrs Clere had enjoined her to be back, so she did not need to hurry, and she went quietly on towards Balcon Lane, carrying her lantern--for there were no street lamps, and nobody could have any light on a winter evening except what he carried with him. Just before she turned the corner of the lane she met two women, both rather heavily laden. Elizabeth was passing on, when her steps were arrested by hearing one of them say,-- "I do believe that's Bess Foulkes; and if it be--" Elizabeth came to a standstill. "Yes, I'm Bess Foulkes," she said. "What of that?" "Why, then, you'll give me a lift, be sure, as far as the North Hill. I've got more than I can carry, and I was casting about for a face I knew." "I've not much time to spare," said Elizabeth; "but I'll give you a lift as far as Saint Peter's--I can't go further. Margaret Thurston, isn't it? I must be in by eight; I'll go with you till then." "I've only to go four doors past Saint Peter's, so that'll do well. You were at the preaching, weren't you, this even?" "Ay, and I thought I saw you." "Yes, I was there. He talked full bravely. I marvel if he'd stand if it came to it. I don't think many would." "I misdoubt if any would, without God held them up." "Margaret says she's sure she would," said the other woman. "Oh, ay, I don't doubt myself," said Margaret. "Then I cry you mercy, but I doubt you," replied Elizabeth. "I'm sure you needn't! I'd never flinch for pope nor priest." "Maybe not; but you might for rack or stake." "It'll ne'er come to that here. Queen Mary's not like to forget how Colchester folk all stood with her against Lady Jane." "She mayn't; but think you the priests shall tarry at that? and she'll do as the priests bid her." "Ay, they say my Lord of Winchester, when he lived, had but to hold up his finger, and she'd have followed him, if it were over London Bridge into the Thames," said the other woman. "And the like with my Lord Cardinal, that now is." By "my Lord of Winchester" she meant Bishop Gardiner, who had been dead rather more than a year. The Cardinal was Reginald Pole, the Queen's third cousin, who had lately been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, in the room of the martyred Cranmer, "Why, the Queen and my Lord Cardinal were ever friends, from the time they were little children," answered Margaret. "Ay, there was talk once of her wedding with him, if he'd not become a priest. But I rather reckon you're right, my maid: a priest's a priest, without he's a Gospeller; and there's few of them will think more of goodness and charity than of their own order and of the Church." "Goodness and charity? Marry, there's none in 'em!" cried Margaret. "Howbeit, here's the Green Sleeves, where I'm bound, and I'm beholden to you, Bessy, for coming with me. Good even." Elizabeth returned the greeting, and set off to walk back at a quick pace to Balcon Lane. She had not gone many steps when she was once more stopped, this time by a young man, named Robert Purcas, a fuller, who lived in the neighbouring village of Booking. "Bessy," said he. "It is thou, I know well, for I heard thee bid Margaret Thurston good den, and I should know thy voice among a thousand." "I cannot 'bide, Robin. I'm late, even now." "Tarry but one minute, Bessy. Trust me, thou wouldst if--" "Well, then, make haste," said Elizabeth, pausing. "Thou art friends with Alice Mount, of Bentley, and she knows Mistress Ewring, the miller's wife." "Ay; well, what so?" "Bid Alice Mount tell Master Ewring there's like to be a writ out against him for heresy and contumaciousness toward the Church. Never mind how I got to know; I know it, and that's enough. He, and Mistress Silverside, and Johnson, of Thorpe, be like enough to come into court. Bessy, take heed to thy ways, I pray thee, that thou be not suspect." No thought of herself had caused Elizabeth Foulkes to lay her hand suddenly on the buttress of Saint Peter's, beside her. The father who was so dear to little Cissy was in imminent danger; and Cissy had just been asking God to send somebody to see after him. Elizabeth's voice was changed when she spoke again. "They must be warned," she said. "Robin, thou and I must needs do this errand to-night. I shall be chidden, but that does not matter. Canst thou walk ten miles for the love of God?" "I'd do that for the love of thee, never name God." Elizabeth did not answer the words. There was too much at stake to lose time. "Then go thou to Thorpe, and bid Johnson get away ere they take him. Mistress Wade has the children, and she'll see to them, or Alice Mount will. I must--" "Thou'd best not put too much on Alice Mount, for Will Mount's as like as not to be in the next batch." "Lord, have mercy on us! I'll go warn them--they are with Mistress Ewring at the mill; and then I'll go on to Mistress Silverside. Make haste, Robin, for mercy's sake!" And, without waiting for anything more, Elizabeth turned and ran up the street as fast as she dared in the comparative darkness. Streets were very rough in those days, and lanterns would not light far. Old Mistress Silverside lived in Tenant's Lane, which was further off than the mill. Elizabeth ran across from the North Hill to Boucher's Street, and up that, towards the gate, beyond which the mill stood on the bank of the Colne. Mr Ewring, the miller, was a man who kept early hours; and, as Elizabeth ran up to the gate, she saw that the lights were already out in the windows of the mill. The gate was closed. Elizabeth rapped sharply on the window, and the shutter was opened, but, all being dark inside, she could not see by whom. "Prithee, let me through the gate. I've a message of import for Master Ewring, at the mill." "Gate's shut," said the gruff voice of the gatekeeper. "Can't let any through while morning." "Darnell, you'll let me through!" pleaded Elizabeth. "I'm servant to Master Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane, and I'm sent with a message of grave import to the mill." "Tell Master Clere, if he wants his corn ground, he must send by daylight." And the wooden shutter was flung to. Elizabeth stood for an instant as if dazed. "I can't get to them," she said to herself. "There's no chance that way. I must go to Tenant's Lane." She turned away from the gate, and went round by the wall to the top of Tenant's Lane. "Pray God I be in time to warn somebody! We are all in danger, we who were at the preaching to-night, and Mistress Wade most of all, for it was in her house. I'll go to the King's Head ere I go home." Thus thinking, Elizabeth reached Mrs Silverside's, and rapped at the door. Once--twice--thrice--four times. Not a sound came from inside, and she was at last sorrowfully compelled to conclude that nobody was at home. Down the lane she went, and came out into High Street at the bottom. "Then I can only warn Mistress Wade. I dare be bound she'll let the others know, as soon as morning breaks. I do trust that will be time enough." She picked her way across High Street, and had just reached the opposite side, when her arm was caught as if in an iron vice, and she felt herself held fast by greater strength than her own. "Hussy, what goest thou about?" said the stern voice of her master, Nicholas Clere. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. STOPPED ON THE WAY. Nicholas Clere was a man of one idea at once; and people of that sort do a great deal of good when they get hold of the right idea, and a great deal of harm when a wrong idea gets hold of them. Once let notion get into the head of Nicholas, and no reasoning nor persuasion would drive it out. He made no allowances and permitted no excuses. If a thing looked wrong, then wrong it must be, and it was of no use to talk to him about it. That he should have found Elizabeth, who had been ordered to come home at eight o'clock, running in the opposite direction at half-past eight, was in his eyes an enormity which admitted of no explanations. That she either had been in mischief, or was then on her way to it, were the only two alternatives possible to the mind of her master. And circumstances were especially awkward for Elizabeth, since she could not give any explanation of her proceedings which would clear her in the eyes of her employers. Nicholas Clere, like many other people of prejudiced minds and fixed opinions, had a mind totally unfixed in the one matter of religion. His religion was whatever he found it to his worldly advantage to be. During King Edward's reign, it was polite and fashionable to be a Protestant; now, under Queen Mary, the only way to make a man's fortune was to be a Roman Catholic. And though Nicholas did not say even to himself that it was better to have plenty of money than to go to Heaven when he died, yet he lived exactly as if he thought so. During the last few years, therefore, Nicholas had gradually been growing more and more of a Papist, and especially during the last few weeks. First, he left off attending the Protestant meetings at the King's Head; then he dropped family prayer. Papists, whether they be the genuine article or only the imitation, always dislike family prayer. They say that a church is the proper place to pray in, though our Lord's bidding is, "When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret." The third step which Nicholas took was to go to mass, and command all his household to follow him. This had Elizabeth hitherto, but quite respectfully, declined to do. She was ready to obey all orders of her earthly master which did not interfere with her higher duty to God Almighty. But His holy Word--not her fancy, nor the traditions of men-- forbade her to bow down to graven images; or to give His glory to any person or thing but Himself. And Elizabeth knew that she could not attend mass without doing that. A piece of consecrated bread would be held up, and she would be required to worship it as God. And it was not God: it could neither see, nor hear, nor speak; it was not even as like God as a man is. To worship a bit of bread because Christ likened His body to bread, would be as silly as to worship a stone because the Bible says, "That _Rock_ was Christ." It was evident that He was speaking figuratively, just as He spoke when He said, "I am the door of the sheep," and "I am the Morning Star." Who in his senses would suppose that Christ meant to say that He was a wooden door? It is important that we should have true ideas about this, because there are just now plenty of foolish people who will try to persuade us to believe that that poor, powerless piece of bread is God Himself. It is insulting the Lord God Almighty to say such a thing. Look at the 115th Psalm, from the fifth verse to the eight, and you will see how God describes an idol, which He forbids to be worshipped: and then look at the 26th and 27th verses of the 24th chapter of Saint Matthew, and you will see that the Lord Jesus distinctly says that you are not to believe anybody who tells you that He is come before you see Him. When He really does come, nobody will want any telling; we shall all see Him for ourselves. So we find from His own words in every way that the bread and wine in the Sacrament are just bread and wine, and nothing more, which we eat and drink "in remembrance of Him," just as you might keep and value your mother's photograph in remembrance of her. But I am sure you never would be so silly as to think that the photograph was her own real self! This was the reason why Elizabeth Foulkes would not go to mass. Every Sunday morning Mrs Clere ordered her to go, and Elizabeth quietly, respectfully, but firmly, told her that she could not do so. Elizabeth had God's Word to uphold her; God forbade her to worship idols. It was not simply that she did not like it, nor that somebody else had told her not to do it. Nothing can excuse us if we break the laws of our country, unless the law of our country has broken God's law; and Elizabeth would have done very wrong to disobey her mistress, except when her mistress told her to disobey God. What God said must be her rule; not what she thought. Generally speaking, Mrs Clere called Elizabeth some ugly names, and then let her do as she liked. Up to this time her master had not interfered with her, but she was constantly expecting that he would. She was not afraid of answering for herself; but she was terribly afraid for her poor friends. To tell him that she was on her way to warn them of danger, and beg them to escape, would be the very means of preventing their escape, for what he was likely to do was to go at once and tell the priests, in order to win their favour for himself. "Hussy, what goest thou about?" came sternly from Nicholas Clere, as he held her fast. "Master, I cry you mercy. I was on my way home, and I was turned out of it by one that prayed me to take a word of grave import to a friend." Elizabeth thought she might safely say so much as that. "I believe thee not," answered Nicholas. "All young maids be idle gadabouts, if they be not looked to sharply, and thou art no better than the rest. Whither wert thou going?" "I have told all I may, Master, and I pray you ask no further. The secret is not mine, but theirs that sent me and should have received my message." In those days, nothing was more usual than for secret messages to be sent from one person to another. It was not safe then, as it is now, for people to speak openly. Freedom always goes hand in hand with Protestantism. If England should ever again become a Roman Catholic country--which many people are trying hard to make her--Englishmen will be no longer free. Nicholas Clere hesitated a moment. Elizabeth's defence was not at all unlikely to be true. But he had made up his mind that she was in fault, and probabilities must not be allowed to interfere with it. "Rubbish!" said he. "What man, having his eyes in his head, should trust a silly maid with any matter of import? Women can never keep a secret, much less a young jade like to thee. Tell no more lies, prithee." And he began to walk towards Balcon Lane, still firmly holding Elizabeth by the arm. "Master, I beseech you, let me go on my way!" she pleaded earnestly. "I will tarry up all night, if it be your pleasure, to make up for one half-hour now. Truly as I am an honest maid, I have told you the truth, and I am about nothing ill." "Tush, jade! Hold thy tongue. Thou goest with me, and if not peaceably, then by force." "Will you, of your grace, Master, let me leave my message with some other to take instead of me? May I have leave to speak, but one moment, with Mistress Wade, of the King's Head? She would find a trusty messenger to go forward." "Tell me thy message, and if it be truly of any weight, then shall it be sent," answered Nicholas, still coldly, but less angrily than before. Could she tell him the message? Would it not go straight to the priest, and all hope of escape be thus cut off? Like Nehemiah, Elizabeth cried for wisdom. "Master, I cry you mercy yet again, but I may not tell the message." "Yet thou wouldst fain tell Mistress Wade! Thou wicked hussy, thou canst be after no good. What message is this, which thou canst tell Mistress Wade, but mayest not tell me? I crede thee not a word. Have forward, and thy mistress shall deal with thee." CHAPTER FIFTEEN. SILENCE UNDER DIFFICULTIES. Elizabeth Foulkes was almost in despair. Her master held her arm tight, and he was a strong man--to break away from him was simply impossible-- and to persuade him to release her seemed about as unlikely. Still she cried, "Master, let me go!" in tones that might have melted any softer heart than that of Nicholas Clere. "Step out!" was all he said, as he compelled Elizabeth to keep pace with him till they reached Balcon Lane. Mrs Clere was busy in the kitchen. She stopped short as they entered, with a gridiron in her hand which she had cleaned and was about to hang up. "Well, this is a proper time of night to come home, mistress! Marched in, too, with thy master holding of thee, as if the constable had thee in custody! This is our pious maid, that can talk nought but Bible, and says her prayers once a day oftener nor other folks! I always do think that sort no better than hypocrites. What hath she been about, Nicholas? what saith she?" "A pack o' lies!" said Nicholas, harshly. "Whined out a tale of some message of dread import that somebody, that must not be named, hath sent her on. I found her hasting with all speed across the High Street, the contrary way from what it should have been. You'd best give her the strap, wife. She deserves it, or will ere long." Nicholas sat down in the chimney-corner, leaving Mistress Clere to deal with the offender. Elizabeth well knew that the strap was no figure of speech, and that Mistress Clere when angry had no light hand. Girls were beaten cruelly in those days, and grown women too, when their mothers or mistresses chose to punish them for real or supposed offences. But Elizabeth Foulkes thought very little of the pain she might suffer, and very much of the needed warning which had not been given. And then, suddenly, the words flashed across her, "Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven." Then the warning was better let alone, if it were God's will. She rose with a calmer face, and followed Mistress Clere to the next room to receive her penalty. "There!" said that lady, when her arm began to ache with beating Elizabeth. "That'll do for a bit, I hope. Perhaps thou'lt not be so headstrong next time. I vow, she looks as sweet as if I'd given her a box of sugar plums! I'm feared thou'd have done with a bit more, but I'm proper tired. Now, speak the truth: who sent thee on this wild-goose chase?" "Mistress, I was trusted with a secret. Pray you, ask me not." "Secret me no secrets! I'll have it forth." "Not of me," said Elizabeth, quietly, but firmly. "Highty-tighty! and who art thou, my lady?" "I am your servant, mistress, and will do your bidding in everything that toucheth not my duty to God Almighty. But this I cannot." "I'll tell thee what, hussy! it was never good world since folks set up to think for themselves what was right and wrong, instead of hearkening to the priest, and doing as they were bid, Thou'rt too proud, Bess Foulkes, that's where it is, with thy pretty face and thy dainty ways. Go thou up and get thee abed--it's on the stroke of nine: and I'll come and lock thee in. Dear heart, to see the masterfulness of these maids!" "Mistress," said Elizabeth, pausing, "I pray you reckon me not disobedient, for in very deed I have ever obeyed you, and yet will, touching all concerns of yours: but under your good leave, this matter concerns you not, and I have no freedom to speak thereof." "In very deed, my lady," said Mistress Clere, dropping a mock courtesy, "I desire not to meddle with your ladyship's high matters of state, and do intreat you of pardon that I took upon me so weighty a matter. Go get thee abed, hussy, and hold thine idle tongue!" Elizabeth turned and went upstairs in silence. Words were of no use. Mistress Clere followed her. In the bedroom where they both slept, which was a loft with a skylight, was Amy, half undressed, and employed in her customary but very unnecessary luxury of admiring herself in the glass. "Amy, I'm going to turn the key. Here's an ill maid that I've had to take the strap to: see thou fall not in her ways. I'll let you out in the morning." So saying, Mistress Clere locked the door, and left the two girls together. Like most idle folks. Amy Clere was gifted with her full share of curiosity. The people who do the world's work, or who go about doing good, are not usually the people who want you to tell them how much Miss Smith gave for her new bonnet, or whom Mr Robinson had yesterday to dinner. They are a great deal too busy, and generally too happy, to give themselves the least trouble about the bonnet, or to feel the slightest interest in the dinner-party. But idle people--poor pitiable things!--who do not know what to do with themselves, are often very ready to discuss anything of that sort which considerately puts itself in their way. To have something to talk about is both a surprise and a delight to them. No sooner had Mrs Clere shut the door than Amy dropped her edifying occupation and came up to Elizabeth, who had sat wearily down on the side of the bed. "Why, Bess, what ails Mother? and what hast thou been doing? Thou mayest tell me; I'll not make no mischief, and I'd love dearly to hear all about it." If experience had assured Elizabeth Foulkes of anything, it was that she might as safely repeat a narrative to the town-crier as tell it to Amy Clere. "I have offenced Mistress," said she, "and I am sorry thereat: yet I did but what I thought was my duty. I can say no more thereanent, Mistress Amy." "But what didst thou, Bessy? Do tell me." Elizabeth shook her head. "Best not, Mistress Amy. Leave it rest, I pray you, and me likewise, for of a truth I am sore wearied." "Come, Bessy, don't be grumpy! let's know what it was. Life's monstrous tiresome, and never a bit of play nor show. I want to know all about it." "Maybe there'll be shows ere long for you, Mistress Amy," answered Elizabeth gravely, as a cold shiver ran through her to think of what might be the consequence of her untold message. Well! Cissy's father at any rate would be safe: thank God for that! "Why will there? Hast been at one to-night?" "No." Elizabeth checked herself from saying more. What a difference there was between Amy's fancies and the stern realities she knew! "There's no lugging nought out of thee!" said Amy with a pout. "Thou'rt as close shut as an oyster shell." And she went back to the mirror, and began to plait her hair, the more conveniently to tuck it under her night-cap. Oh, how Elizabeth longed for a safe confidant that night! Sometimes she felt as though she must pour out her knowledge and her fears--to Amy, if she could get no one else. But she knew too well that, without any evil intention, Amy would be certain to make mischief from sheer love of gossip, the moment she met with any one who would listen to her. "Mistress Amy, I'm right weary. Pray you, leave me be." "Hold thy tongue if thou wilt. I want nought with thee, not I," replied Amy, with equal crossness and untruth, since, as she would herself have expressed it, she was dying to know what Elizabeth could have done to make her mother so angry. But Amy was angry herself now. "Get thee abed, Mistress Glum-face; I'll pay thee out some day: see if I don't!" Elizabeth's reply was to kneel down for prayer. There was one safe Confidant, who could be relied upon for sympathy and secrecy: and He might be spoken to without words. It was well; for the words refused to come. Only one thing would present itself to Elizabeth's weary heart and brain: and that was the speech of little Cissy, that, "it would be all right if she asked God to see to it." A sob broke from her, as she sent up to Heaven the one petition of which alone she felt capable just then--"Lord, help me!" He would know how and when to help. Elizabeth dropped her trouble into the Almighty hands, and left it there. Then she rose, undressed, and lay down beside Amy, who was already in bed. Amy Clere was not an ill-natured girl, and her anger never lasted long. When she heard Elizabeth's sob, her heart smote her a little: but she said to herself, that she was "not going to humble herself to that crusty Bess," so she turned round and went to sleep. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE STORM BREAKS. When the morning came, Amy's good temper was restored by her night's rest, and she was inclined to look on her locking-in as a piece of amusement. "I vow, Bess, this is fun!" said she, "I've twenty minds to get out on the roof, and see if I can reach the next window. It would be right jolly to wake up Ellen Mallory--she's always lies abed while seven; and I do think I could. Wilt aid me?" Ellen Mallory was the next neighbour's daughter, a girl of about Amy's age; and seven o'clock was considered a shocking late hour for rising in 1556. "Mistress Amy, I do pray you never think of such a thing," cried Elizabeth, in horror. "You'll be killed!" "Well, I'm not wishful to be killed," answered Amy lightly: "I only want some fun while we are shut up here. I marvel when Mother shall come to let us out. She'll have to light the fire herself if she does not; that's one good thing!" Elizabeth thought it a very undutiful idea; but she was silent. If she had but had wings like a dove, how gladly would she have flown to warn her friends! She well knew that Mrs Clere was not likely to be in the mood to grant a favour and let her go, after what had happened the night before. To go without leave was a thing which Elizabeth never contemplated. That would be putting herself in the wrong. But her poor friends, would they escape? How if Robert Purcas had been stopped, as she had? I was strange, but her imagination did not dwell nearly so much upon her own friend, Rose, as on little Cissy. If Johnson were taken, if he were martyred, what would become of little Cissy? The child had crept into Elizabeth's heart, before she was aware. Suddenly Amy's voice broke in upon her thoughts. "Come, Bess, art in a better mood this morrow? I'll forgive thee thy miss-words last night, if thou'lt tell me now." All the cross words there had been the night before had come from Amy herself; but Elizabeth let that pass. "Mistress Amy," said she, "this matter is not one whereof I may speak to you or any other. I was charged with a secret, and bidden not to disclose the same. Think you I can break my word?" "Dear heart! I break mine many a time in the week," cried Amy, with a laugh. "I'm not _nigh_ so peevish as thou." "But, Mistress Amy, it is not right," returned Elizabeth earnestly. Before Amy could answer, Mrs Clere's heavy step was heard approaching the door, and the key turned in the lock. Amy, who sat on the side of the bed swinging her feet to and fro for amusement, jumped down. "Mother, you'll get nought from her. I've essayed both last night and this morrow, and I might as well have held my tongue." "Go and light the fire," said Mrs Clere sternly to Elizabeth. "I'll have some talk with thee at after." Elizabeth obeyed in silence. She lighted the fire and buttered the eggs, and swept the house, and baked the bread, and washed the clothes, and churned the butter--all with a passionate longing to be free, hidden in her heart, and constant ejaculatory prayers--silent ones, of course-- for the safely of her poor friends. Mrs Clere seemed to expect Elizabeth to run away if she could, and she did not let her go out of her sight the whole day. The promised scolding, however, did not come. Supper was over, and the short winter day was drawing to its close, when Nicholas Clere came into the kitchen. "Here's brave news, Wife!" said he, "What thinkest? Here be an half-dozen in the town arrest of heresy--and some without, too." "Mercy on us! Who?" demanded Mrs Clere. "Why, Master Benold, chandler, and Master Bongeor, glazier, and old Mistress Silverside, and Mistress Ewring at the mill--these did I hear. I know not who else." And suddenly turning to Elizabeth, he said, "Hussy, was this thine errand, or had it ought to do therewith?" All the passionate pain and the earnest longing died out of the heart of Elizabeth Foulkes. She stood looking as calm as a marble statue, and almost as white. "Master," she said, quietly enough, "mine errand was to warn these my friends. God may yet save them, if it be His will. And may He not lay to your charge the blood that will otherwise be shed!" "Mercy on us!" cried Mrs Clere again, dropping her duster. "Why, the jade's never a bit better than these precious friends of hers!" "I'm sore afeared we have been nourishing a serpent in our bosoms," said Nicholas, in his sternest manner. "I had best see to this." "Well, I wouldn't hurt the maid," said his wife, in an uneasy tone; "but, dear heart! we must see to ourselves a bit. We shall get into trouble if such things be tracked to our house." "So we shall," answered her husband. "I shall go, speak with the priest, and see what he saith. Without"--and he turned to Elizabeth--"thou wilt be penitent, and go to mass, and do penance for thy fault." "I am willing enough to do penance for my faults, Master," said Elizabeth, "but not for the warning that I would have given; for no fault is in it." "Then must we need save ourselves," replied Nicholas: "for the innocent must not suffer for the guilty. Wife, thou wert best lock up this hussy in some safe place; and, daughter, go thou not nigh her. This manner of heresy is infectious, and I would not have thee defiled therewith." "Nay, I'll have nought to do with what might get me into trouble," said Amy, flippantly. "Bessy may swallow the Bible if she likes; I shan't." Elizabeth was silent, quietly standing to hear her doom pronounced. She knew it was equivalent to a sentence of death. No priest, consulted on such a subject would dare to leave the heretic undenounced. And she had no friends save that widowed mother at Stoke Nayland--a poor woman, without money or influence; and that other Friend who would be sure to stand by her,--who, that He might save others, had not saved Himself. Nicholas took up his hat and marched out, and Mrs Clere ordered Elizabeth off to a little room over the porch, generally used as a lumber room, where she locked her up. "Now then, think on thy ways!" said she. "It'll mayhap do thee good. Bread and water's all thou'lt get, I promise thee, and better than thy demerits. Dear heart! to turn a tidy house upside-down like this, and all for a silly maid's fancies, forsooth! I hope thou feels ashamed of thyself; for I do for thee." "Mistress, I can never be ashamed of God's truth. To that will I stand, if He grant me grace." "Have done with thy cant! I've no patience with it." And Mistress Clere banged the door behind her, locked it, and left Elizabeth alone till dinner-time, when she carried up a slice of bread-- only one, and that the coarsest rye-bread--and a mug of water. "There!" said she. "Thou shouldst be thankful, when I've every bit of work on my hands in all this house, owing to thy perversity!" "I do thank you, Mistress," said Elizabeth, meekly. "Would you suffer me to ask you one favour? I have served you well hitherto, and I never disobeyed you till now." It was true, and Mrs Clere knew it. "Well, the brazen-facedness of some hussies!" cried she. "Prithee, what's your pleasure, mistress? Would you a new satin gown for your trial, and a pearl-necklace? or do you desire an hundred pounds given to the judges to set you free? or would you a petition to the Queen's Majesty, headed by Mr Mayor and my Lord of Oxenford?" Elizabeth let the taunts go by her like a summer breeze. She felt them keenly enough. Nobody enjoys being laughed at; but he is hardly worth calling a man who allows a laugh to turn him out of the path of duty. "Mistress," she said, quietly, "should you hear of any being arrested for heresy, would you do me so much grace as to let me know the name? and the like if you hear of any that have escaped?" Mrs Clere looked down into the eyes that were lifted to her, as Elizabeth stood before her. Quiet, meek, tranquil eyes, without a look of reproach in them, with no anxiety save that aroused for the fate of her friends. She was touched in spite of herself. "Thou foolish maid!" said she. "Why couldst thou not have done as other folks, and run no risks? I vow I'm well-nigh sorry for thee, for all thy perversity. Well, we'll see. Mayhap I will, if I think on't." "Thank you, Mistress!" said Elizabeth gratefully, as Mistress Clere took the mug from her, and left the little porch-chamber as before, locking her prisoner in the prison. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. ROSE HEARS THE NEWS. While Elizabeth Foulkes was passing through these experiences, the Mounts, Rose Allen, and the children, had gone back to Much Bentley as soon as morning broke. Rose took the little ones home to Thorpe, and they met Johnson just at the door of his own cottage. "Truly, friend, I am much beholden to you," said he to Rose, "for your kindly care of my little ones. But, I pray you, is it true what I heard, that Mistress Silverside is arrest for heresy?" Rose looked up in horrified astonishment. "Why, we left them right well," she said, "but five hours gone. I brought the children o'er to you so soon as they had had their dinner. Is it true, think you?" "Nay, that would I fain know of you, that were in town twelve hours later than I," answered Johnson. "Then, in very deed, we heard nought," said Rose. "I do trust it shall prove but an ill rumour." "May it be so! yet I cannot but fear it be true. Robin Purcas came to me last night, and I could not but think he should have told me somewhat an' he might: but he found Father Tye in mine house, and might not speak. They both tarried so long," added Johnson, with a laugh, "that I was fain to marvel if each were essaying to outsit the other; but if so, Father Tye won, for Love of the Heath came for Robin and took him away ere the priest were wearied out. If any straitness do arise against the Gospellers, Love had best look out." "Ay, they know him too well to leave him slip through their fingers again," replied Rose. "That do they, verily. Well, dear hearts, and have ye been good children?" "We've tried," said Cissy. "They've been as good as could be," answered Rose. "Father, did anybody come and see to you? I asked the Lord to see to it, because I knew you'd miss me sore," said Cissy anxiously, "and I want to know if He did." "Ay, my dear heart," replied Johnson, smiling as he looked down on her. "Ursula Felstede came in and dressed dinner for me, and Margaret Thurston looked in after, and she washed some matters and did a bit of mending; and at after I had company--Father Tye, and Robin Purcas, and Jack Love. So thou seest I was not right lonesome." "He took good care of you. Father," said Cissy, looking happy. It was evident that Cissy lived for and in her father. Whatever he was, for good or evil, that she was likewise. "Well, I've got to look in on Margaret Thurston," said Rose, "for I did a bit of marketing for her this morrow in the town, and I have a fardel to leave. She was not at home when we passed, coming. But now, I think I'd better be on my way, so I'll wish you good den, Johnson. God bless you, little ones!" "Good den, Rose!" said Cissy. "And you'll learn me to weave lace with those pretty bobbins?" "That will I, with a very good will, sweet heart," said Rose, stooping to kiss Cissy. "Weave lace!" commented her father. "What, what is the child thinking, that she would fain learn to weave lace?" "Oh, Father, please, you won't say nay!" pleaded Cissy, embracing her father's arm with both her own. "I want to bring you in some money." Cissy spoke with a most important air. "You know, of an even, I alway have a bit of time, after Will and Baby be abed, and at times too in the day, when Will's out with George Felstede, and I'm minding Baby; I can rock her with my feet while I make lace with my hands. And you know, Father, Will and Baby 'll be growing big by and bye, and you won't have enough for us all without we do something. And Rose says she'll learn me how, and that if I have a lace pillow--and it won't cost very much, Father!--I can alway take it up for a few minutes by nows and thens, when I have a bit of time, and then, don't you see, Father? I can make a little money for you. Please, _please_ don't say I mustn't!" cried Cissy, growing quite talkative in her eagerness. Johnson and Rose looked at each other, and Rose laughed; but though Cissy's father smiled too, he soon grew grave, and laid his hand on his little girl's head, as she stood looking up earnestly. "Nay, my little maid, I'll never say nought of the sort. If Rose here will be so good as to learn thee aught that is good, whether for body or soul, I will be truly thankful to her, and bid thee do the like and be diligent to learn. Good little maid! God bless thee!" Then, as Cissy trotted into the cottage, well pleased, Johnson added, "Bless the little maid's heart! she grows more like her mother in Heaven every day. I'll never stay the little fingers from doing what they can. It'll not bring much in, I reckon, but it'll be a pleasure to the child, and good for her to be ever busy at something, that she mayn't fall into idle ways. Think you not so, Rose?" "Indeed, and it so will, Johnson," answered Rose; "not that I think Cissy and idle ways 'll ever have much to do one with the other. She's not one of that sort. But I shouldn't wonder if lace-weaving brings in more than you think. I've made a pretty penny of it, and I wasn't so young as Cissy when I learned the work, and it's like everything else-- them that begin young have the best chance to make good workers. She'll be a rare comfort to you, Cissy, if she goes on as she's begun." Johnson did not reply for a moment. When he did, it was to say, "Well, God keep us all! I'm right thankful to you, Rose, for all your goodness to my little maid. Good den!" When she had returned the "good evening," Rose set off home, and walked rather fast till she came to Margaret Thurston's cottage. After the little business was transacted between her and Margaret, Rose inquired if they had heard of Mistress Silverside's arrest. Both Margaret and her husband seemed thunderstruck. "Nay, we know nought thereof," answered Thurston, "Pray God it be not true! There'll be more an' it so be." "I fear so much," said Rose. She did not tell her mother, for Alice had not been well lately, and Rose wished to spare her an apprehension which might turn out to be quite unfounded, or at least exaggerated. But she told her step-father, and old Mount looked very grave. "God grant it be not so!" said he. "But if it be, Rose, thou wist they have our names in their black list of heretics." "Ay, Father, I know they have." "God keep us all!" said William Mount, looking earnestly into the fire. And Rose knew that while he might intend to include being kept safe, yet he meant, far more than that, being kept true. When John Love called at Johnson's cottage to fetch Robert Purcas, the two walked about a hundred yards on the way to Bentley without either speaking a word. Then Robert suddenly stopped. "Look you, Love! what would you with me? I cannot go far from Thorpe to-night. I was sent with a message to Johnson, and I have not found a chance to deliver it yet." "Must it be to-night? and what chance look you for?" "Ay, it must!" answered Robert earnestly. "What I look for is yon black snake coming out of his hole, and then slip I in and deliver my message." Love nodded. He knew well enough who the black snake was. "Then maybe you came with the like word I did. Was it to warn Johnson to 'scape ere the Bailiff should be on him?" "Ay, it was. And you?" "I came to the same end, but not alone for Johnson. Robin, thou hadst best see to thyself. Dost know thou art on the black list." "I've looked for that, this many a day. But so art thou, Love; and thou hast a wife to care for, and I've none." "I'm in danger anyway, Rob, but there's a chance for thee. Think of thy old father, and haste thee, lad." Robert shook his head. "I promised to warn Johnson," he said; "and I gave my word for it to one that I love right dearly. I'll not break my word. No, Love; I tarry here till I've seen him. The Lord must have a care of my old father if they take me." Love found it impossible to move Robert from his resolution. He bade him good-night and turned away. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. WHAT BEFELL SOME OF THEM. For half-an-hour, safely hidden behind a hedge, Robert Purcas watched the door of Johnson's cottage, until at last he saw the priest come out, and go up the lane for a short distance. Then he stopped, looked round, and gave a low, peculiar whistle. A man jumped down from the bank on the other side of the lane, with whom the priest held a long, low-toned conversation. Robert knew he could not safely move before they were out of the way. At length they parted, and he just caught the priest's final words. "Good: we shall have them all afore the even." "That you shall not, if God speed me!" said Robert to himself. The priest went up the lane towards Bentley, and the man who had been talking with him took the opposite way to Thorpe. When his footsteps had died away, Robert crept out from the shelter of the hedge, and made his way in the dark to Johnson's cottage. A rap on the door brought Cissy. "Who is it, please?" she said, "because I can't see." "It is Robin Purcas, Cis. I want a word with thy father." "Come in, Robin!" called Johnson's voice from within. "I could see thou wert bursting with some news not to be spoken in the presence but just gone. What ails thee, man?" "Ay, I was, and I promised to tell you. Jack, thou must win away ere daylight, or the Bailiff shall be on thee. Set these little ones in safe guard, and hie thee away with all the speed thou mayest." "Is it come so near?" said Johnson, gravely. "Father, you're not going nowhere without me!" said Cissy, creeping up to him, and slipping her hand in his. "You can leave Will and Baby with Neighbour Ursula: but I'll not be left unless you bid me--and you won't Father? You can never do without me? I must go where you go." "She's safe, I reckon," said Robert, answering Johnson's look: "they'd never do no mischief to much as she. Only maybe she'd be more out of reach if I took her with me. They'll seek to breed her up in a convent, most like." Cissy felt her father's hand tighten upon hers. "I'm not going with you, nor nobody!" said she. "I'll go with Father. Nobody'll get me nowhere else, without they carry me." Johnson seemed to wake up, as if till then he had scarcely understood what it all meant. "God bless thee for the warning, lad!" he said. "Now hie thee quick, and get out of reach thyself Cis, go up and fetch a warm wrap for Baby, and all her clothes; I'll take her next door. I reckon Will must tarry there too. It'd be better for thee, Cis: but I'll not compel thee, if thy little heart's set on going with me. Thoul't have to rough it, little maid." "I'll not stop nowhere!" was Cissy's determination. Robert bade them good-bye with a smile, closed the door, and set off down the lane as fast as the darkness made it prudent. He did not think it wise to go through the village, so he made a _detour_ by some fields, and came into the road again on the other side of Thorpe. He had not gone many yards, when he became aware that a number of lights were approaching, accompanied by a noise of voices. Robert turned straight round. If he could get back to the stile which led into the fields, he would be safer: and if not, still it would be better to be overtaken than to meet a possible enemy face to face. He would be less likely to be noticed in the former case than in the latter--at least so he thought. There must be a good number of people coming behind him, judging from the voices. At length they came up with him. "Pray you, young man, how far be we from Thorpe?" "You are very nigh, straight on," was Robert's answer. "Do you belong there?" "No, I'm nigh a stranger to these parts: I'm from the eastern side of the county. I can't tell you much about folks, if that be your meaning." "And what do you here, if you be a stranger?" "I've a job o' work at Saint Osyth, at this present." "What manner of work?" "I'm a fuller by trade." Robert had already recognised that he was talking to the Bailiff's searching party. Every minute that he could keep them was a minute more for Johnson and the little ones. "Know you a man named Johnson?" "What, here?" "Ay, at Thorpe." Robert pretended to consider. "Well, let's see--there's Will Johnson the miller, and Luke Johnson the weaver, and--eh, there's ever so many Johnsons! I couldn't say to one or another, without I knew more." "John Johnson; he's a labouring man." "Well, there is Johnsons that lives up by the wood, but I'm none so sure of the man's name. I think it's Andrew, but I'll not say, certain. It may be John; I couldn't speak, not to be sure." "Let him be, Gregory; he knows nought," said the Bailiff. Robert touched his cap, and fell behind. The Bailiff suddenly turned round. "What's your own name?" It was a terrible temptation! If he gave a false name, the strong probability was that they would pass on, and he would very likely get safe away. It was Johnson of whom they were thinking, not himself. But that would enable them to reach Johnson's cottage a minute sooner, and it would be a cowardly lie. No! Robert Purcas had not so learned Christ. He gave his name honestly. "Robert Purcas! If that's not on my list--" said the Bailiff, feeling in his pocket. "Ay, here it is--stay! _William_, Purcas, of Booking, fuller, aged twenty, single; is that you?" "My name is Robert, not William," said the young man. "But thou art a fuller? and single? and aged twenty?" "Ay, all that is so." "Dost thou believe the bread of the sacred host to be transmuted after consecration into the body of Christ, so that no substance of bread is left there at all?" "I do not. I cannot, for I see the bread." "He's a heretic!" cried Simnel. "Robert or William, it is all one. Take the heretic!" And so Robert Purcas was seized, and carried to the Moot Hall in Colchester--a fate from which one word of falsehood would have freed him, but it would have cost him his Father's smile. The Moot Hall of Colchester was probably the oldest municipal building in England. It was erected soon after the Conquest, and its low circular arches and piers ornamented the High Street until 1843, when the town Vandals were pleased to destroy it because it impeded the traffic. Robert was taken into the dungeon, and the great door slammed to behind him. He could not see for a few minutes, coming fresh from the light of day: and before he was able to make anything out clearly, an old lady's voice accosted him. "Robert Purcas, if I err not?" she said. "I am sorry to behold thee here, friend." "Truly, Mistress, more than I am, that am come hither in Christ's cause." "Ay? Then thou art well come." "Methinks it is Mistress Silverside?" "Thou sayest well. I shall have company now," said the old lady with a smile. "Methought some of my brethren and sisters should be like to have after." "I reckon," responded Purcas, "we be sure at the least of our Father's company." The great door just then rolled back, and they heard the gaoler's voice outside. "Gramercy, but this is tidy work!" cried he. "Never had no such prisoners here afore. I don't know what to do with 'em. There, get you in! you aren't the first there." There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs Silverside and Robert, who were looking to see what uncommon sort of prisoners could be at hand, found that their eyes had to come down considerably nearer the floor, as the gaoler let in, hand in hand, Cissy and Will Johnson, followed by their father. CHAPTER NINETEEN. "FATHER'S COME TOO!" "Why, my dear hearts!" cried old Mrs Silverside, as the children came in. "How won ye hither?" "Please, we haven't been naughty," said Will, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. "Father's come too, so it's all right," added Cissy in a satisfied tone. Mrs Silverside turned to Robert Purcas. "Is not here a lesson for thee and me, my brother? Our Father is come too: God is with us, and thus it is all right." "Marry, these heretics beareth a good brag!" said Wastborowe the gaoler to his man. It is bad grammar now to use a singular verb with a plural noun; but in 1556 it was correct English over the whole south of England, and the use of the singular with the singular, or the plural with the plural, was a peculiarity of the northern dialect. "They always doth," answered the under-gaoler. "Will ye be of as good courage, think you," asked Wastborowe, "the day ye stand up by Colne Water?" "God knoweth," was the reverent answer of Mrs Silverside. "If He holds us up, then shall we stand." "They be safe kept whom He keepeth," said Johnson. "Please, Mr Wastborowe," said Cissy in a businesslike manner, "would you mind telling me when we shall be burned?" The gaoler turned round and stared at his questioner. "Thou aren't like to be burned, I reckon," said he with a laugh. "I must, if Father is," was Cissy's calm response. "It'll hurt a bit, I suppose; but you see when we get to Heaven afterwards, every thing will be so good and pleasant, I don't think we need care much. Do you, please, Mr Wastborowe?" "Marry come up, thou scrap of a chirping canary!" answered the gaoler, half roughly and half amused. "If babes like this be in such minds, 'tis no marvel their fathers and mothers stand to it." "But I'm not a baby, Mr Wastborowe!" said Cissy, rather affronted. "Will and Baby are both younger than me. I'm going in ten, and I takes care of Father." Mr Wastborowe, who was drinking ale out of a huge tankard, removed it from his lips to laugh. "Mighty good care thou'lt take, I'll be bound!" "Yes, I do, Mr Wastborowe," replied Cissy, quite gravely; "I dress Father's meat and mend his clothes, and love him. That's taking care of him, isn't it?" The gaoler's men, who were accustomed to see every body in the prison appear afraid of him, were evidently much amused by the perfect fearlessness of Cissy. Wastborowe himself seemed to think it a very good joke. "And who takes care of thee?" asked he. Cissy gave her usual answer. "God takes care of me." "And not of thy father?" said Wastborowe with a sneer. The sneer passed by Cissy quite harmlessly. "God takes care of all of us," she said. "He helps Father to take care of me, and He helps me to take care of Father." "He'll be taken goodly care of when he's burned," said the gaoler coarsely, taking another draught out of the tankard. Cissy considered that point. "Please, Mr Wastborowe, we mustn't expect to be taken better care of than the Lord Jesus; and He had to suffer, you know. But it won't signify when we get to Heaven, I suppose." "Heretics don't go to Heaven!" replied Wastborowe. "I don't know what heretics are," said Cissy; "but every body who loves the Lord Jesus is sure to get there. Satan would not want them, you know; and Jesus will want them, for He died for them. He'll look after us, I expect. Don't you think so, Mr Wastborowe?" "Hold thy noise!" said the gaoler, rising, with the empty jug in his hand. He wanted some more ale, and he was tired of amusing himself with Cissy. "Hush thee, my little maid!" said her father, laying his hand on her head. "Is he angry, Father?" asked Cissy, looking up. "I said nothing wrong, did I?" "There's somewhat wrong," responded he, "but it's not thee, child." Meanwhile Wastborowe was crossing the court to his own house, jug in hand. Opening the door, he set down the jug on the table, with the short command, "Fill that." "You may tarry till I've done," answered Audrey, calmly ironing on. She was the only person in the place who was not afraid of her husband. In fact, he was afraid of her when, as he expressed it, she "was wrong side up." "Come, wife! I can't wait," replied Wastborowe in a tone which he never used to any living creature but Audrey or a priest. Audrey coolly set down the iron on its stand, folded up the shirt which she had just finished, and laid another on the board. "You can, wait uncommon well, John Wastborowe," said she; "you've had as much as is good for you already, and maybe a bit to spare. I can't leave my ironing." "Am I to get it myself, then?" asked the gaoler, sulkily. "Just as you please," was the calm response. "I'm not going." Wastborowe took up his jug, went to the cellar, and drew the ale for himself, in a meek, subdued style, very different indeed from the aspect which he wore to his prisoners. He had scarcely left the door when a shrill voice summoned him to-- "Come back and shut the door, thou blundering dizzard! When will men ever have a bit of sense?" The gaoler came back to shut the door, and then, returning to the dungeon, showed himself so excessively surly and overbearing, that his men whispered to one another that "he'd been having it out with his mistress." Before he recovered his equanimity, the Bailiff returned and called him into the courtyard. "Hearken, Wastborowe: how many of these have you now in ward? Well-nigh all, methinks." And he read over the list. "Elizabeth Wood, Christian Hare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, Margaret Simson, Robert Purcas, Agnes Silverside, John Johnson, Elizabeth Foulkes." "Got 'em all save that last," said Wastborowe, "Who is she? I know not the name. By the same token, what didst with the babe? There were three of Johnson's children, and one in arms." "Left it wi' Jane Hiltoft," said the gaoler, gruffly. "I didn't want it screeching here." The Bailiff nodded. "Maybe she can tell us who this woman is," said he; and stepping a little nearer the porter's lodge, he summoned the porter's wife. Mrs Hiltoft came to the door with little Helen Johnson in her arms. "Well, I don't know," said she. "I'll tell you what: you'd best ask Audrey Wastborowe; she's a bit of a gossip, and I reckon she knows everybody in Colchester, by name and face, if no more. She'll tell you if anybody can." The Bailiff stepped across the court, and rapped at the gaoler's door. He was desired by a rather shrill voice to come in. He just opened the door about an inch, and spoke through it. "Audrey, do you know aught of one Elizabeth Foulkes?" "Liz'beth What-did-you-say?" inquired Mrs Wastborowe, hastily drying her arms on her apron, and coming forward. "Elizabeth Foulkes," repeated the Bailiff. "What, yon lass o' Clere's the clothier? Oh, ay, you'll find her in Balcon Lane, at the Magpie. A tall, well-favoured young maid she is-- might be a princess, to look at her. What's she been doing, now?" "Heresy," said the Bailiff, shortly. "Heresy! dear, dear, to think of it! Well, now, who could have thought it? But Master Clere's a bit unsteady in that way, his self, ain't he?" "Oh nay, he's reconciled." "Oh!" The tone was significant. "Why, was you wanting yon maid o' Mistress Clere's?" said the porter's wife. "You'll have her safe enough, for I met Amy Clere this even, and she said her mother was downright vexed with their Bess, and had turned the key on her. I did not know it was her you meant. I've never heard her called nought but Bess, you see." "Then that's all well," said Maynard. "I'll tarry for her till the morrow, for I'm well wearied to-night." CHAPTER TWENTY. LED TO THE SLAUGHTER. The long hours of that day wore on, and nobody came again to Elizabeth in the porch-chamber. The dusk fell, and she heard the sounds of locking up the house and going to bed, and began to understand that neither supper nor bed awaited her that night. Elizabeth quietly cleared a space on the floor in the moonlight, heaping boxes and baskets on one another, till she had room to lie down, and then, after kneeling to pray, she slept more peacefully than Queen Mary did in her Palace. She was awoke suddenly at last. It was broad daylight, and somebody was rapping at the street door. "Amy!" she heard Mistress Clere call from her bedchamber, "look out and see who is there." Amy slept at the front of the house, in the room next to the porch-chamber. Elizabeth rose to her feet, giving her garments a shake down as the only form of dressing just then in her power, and looked out of the window. The moment she did so she knew that one of the supreme moments of her life had come. Before the door stood Mr Maynard, the Bailiff of Colchester--the man who had marched off the twenty-three prisoners to London in the previous August. Everybody who knew him knew that he was a "stout Papist," to whom it was dear delight to bring a Protestant to punishment. Elizabeth did not doubt for an instant that she was the one chosen for his next victim. Just as Amy Clere put her head out of the window. Mr Maynard, who did not reckon patience among his chief virtues, and who was tired of waiting, signed to one of his men to give another sharp rap, accompanied by a shout of--"Open, in the Queen's name!" "Saints, love us and help us!" ejaculated Amy, taking her head in again. "Mother, it's the Queen's men!" "Go down and open to 'em," was Mrs Clere's next order. "Eh, I durstn't if it was ever so!" screamed Amy in reply. "May I unlock the door and send Bessy?" "Thee do as thou art bid!" came in the gruff tones of her father. "Come, I'll go with thee," said her mother. "Tell Master Bailiff we're at hand, or they'll mayhap break the door in." A third violent rap enforced Mrs Clere's command. "Have a bit of patience, Master Bailiff!" cried Amy from her window. "We're a-coming as quick as may be. Let a body get some clothes on, do!" Somebody under the window was heard to laugh. Then Mrs Clere went downstairs, her heavy tread followed by the light run of her daughter's steps; and then Elizabeth heard the bolts drawn back, and the Bailiff and his men march into the kitchen of the Magpie. "Good-morrow, Mistress Clere. I am verily sorry to come to the house of a good Catholic on so ill an errand. But I am in search of a maid of yours, by name Elizabeth Foulkes, whose name hath been presented a afore the Queen's Grace's Commission for heresy. Is this the maid?" Mr Maynard, as he spoke, laid his hand not very gently on Amy's shoulder. "Eh, bless me, no!" cried Amy, in terror. "I'm as good a Catholic as you or any. I'll say aught you want me, and I don't care what it is-- that the moon's made o' green cheese, if you will, and I'd a shive last night for supper. Don't take _me_, for mercy's sake!" "I'm not like," said Mr Maynard, laughing, and giving Amy a rough pat on the back. "You aren't the sort I want." "You're after Bess Foulkes, aren't you?" said Mrs Clere. "Amy, there's the key. Go fetch her down. I locked her up, you see, that she should be safe when wanted, I'm a true woman to Queen and Church, I am, Master Bailiff. You'll find no heresy here, outside yon jade of a Bessy." Mrs Clere knew well that suspicion had attached to her husband's name in time past, which made her more desirous to free herself from all complicity with what the authorities were pleased to call heresy. Amy ran upstairs and unlocked the door of the porch-chamber. "Bessy, the Bailiff's come for thee!" A faint flush rose to Elizabeth's face as she stood up. "Now do be discreet, Bessy, and say as he says. Bless you, it's only words! I told him I'd say the moon was made o' green cheese if he wanted. Why shouldn't you?" "Mistress Amy, it would be dishonour to my Lord, and I am ready for anything but that." "Good lack! couldst not do a bit o' penance at after? Bess, it's thy life that's in danger. Do be wise in time, lass." "It is only this life," said Elizabeth quietly, "and `he that saveth his life shall lose it.' They that be faithful to the end shall have the crown of life.--Master Bailiff, I am ready." The Bailiff looked up at the fair, tall, queenly maiden who stood before him. "I trust thou art ready to submit to the Church," he said. "It were sore pity thou shouldst lose life and all things." "Nay, I desire to win them," answered Elizabeth. "I am right ready to submit to all which it were good for me to submit to." "Come, well said!" replied the Bailiff; and he tied the cord round her hands, and led her away to the Moot Hall. Just stop and think a moment, what it would be to be led in this way through the streets of a town where nearly everybody knew you, as if you had been a thief or a murderer!--led by a cord like an animal about to be sold--nay, as our Master, Christ, was led, like a sheep to the slaughter! Fancy what it would be, to a girl who had always been respectable and well-behaved to be used in this way: to hear the rough, coarse jokes of the bystanders and of the men who were leading her, and not to have one friend with her--not one living creature that cared what became of her, except that Lord who had once died for her, and for whom she was now, for aught she knew, upon her way to die! And even He _seemed_ as if He did not care. Men did these things, and He kept silence. Don't you think it was hard to bear? When Elizabeth reached the Moot Hall and was taken to the prison, for an instant she felt as if she had reached home and friends. Mrs Silverside bade her welcome with a kindly smile, and Robert Purcas came up and kissed her--people kissed each other then instead of shaking hands as we do now,--and Elizabeth felt their sympathy a true comfort. But she was calm under her suffering until she caught sight of Cissy. Then an exclamation of pain broke from her. "O Cissy, Cissy; I am so sorry for thee!" "O Bessy, but I'm so glad! Don't say you're sorry." "Why, Cissy, how canst thou be glad? Dost know what it all signifieth?" "I know they've taken Father, and I'm sorry enough for that; but then Father always said they would some day. But don't you see why I'm glad? They've got me too. I was always proper 'feared they'd take Father and leave me all alone with the children; and he'd have missed us dreadful! Now, you see, I can tend on him, and do everything for him; and that's why I'm glad. If it had to be, you know." Elizabeth looked up at Cissy's father, and he said in a husky voice,-- "`Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.'" CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. BEFORE THE COMMISSIONERS. "Bessy," said Cissy in a whisper, "do you think they'll burn us all to-day?" "I reckon, sweet heart, they be scarce like to burn thee." "But they'll have to do to me whatever they do to Father!" cried Cissy, earnestly. "Dear child, thou wist not what burning is." "Oh, but I've burnt my fingers before now," said Cissy, with an air of extensive experience which would have suited an old woman. "It's not proper pleasant: but the worst's afterwards, and there wouldn't be any afterwards, would there? It would be Heaven afterwards, wouldn't it? I don't see that there's so much to be 'feared of in being burnt. If they didn't burn me, and did Will and Baby, and--and Father"--and Cissy's voice faltered, and she began to sob--"that would be dreadful--dreadful! O Bessy, won't you ask God not to give them leave? They couldn't, could they, unless He did?" "Nay, dear heart, not unless He did," answered Elizabeth, feeling her own courage strengthened by the child's faith. "Then if you and I both ask Him _very_ hard,--O Bessy! don't you think He will?" Before Elizabeth could answer, Johnson said--"I wouldn't, Cis." "You wouldn't, Father! Please why?" "Because, dear heart, He knoweth better than we what is good for us. Sometimes, when folk ask God too earnestly for that they desire, He lets them have it, but in punishment, not in mercy. It would have been a sight better for the Israelites if they hadn't had those quails. Dost thou mind how David saith, `He gave them their desire, but sent leanness withall into their souls?' I'd rather be burnt, Cis, than live with a lean soul, and my Father in Heaven turning away His face from me." Cissy considered. "Father, I could never get along a bit, if you were so angry you wouldn't look at me!" "Truly, dear heart, and I would not have my Father so. Ask the Lord what thou wilt, Cis, if it be His will; only remember that His will is best for us--the happiest as well as the most profitable." "Wilt shut up o' thy preachment?" shouted Wastborowe, with a severe blow to Johnson. "Thou wilt make the child as ill an heretic as thyself, and we mean to bring her up a good Catholic Christian!" Johnson made no answer to the gaoler's insolent command. A look of great pain came into his face, and he lifted his head up towards the sky, as if he were holding communion with his Father in Heaven. Elizabeth guessed his thoughts. If he were to be martyred, and his little helpless children to be handed over to the keeping of priests who would teach them to commit idolatry, and forbid them to read the Bible-- that seemed a far worse prospect in his eyes than even the agony of seeing them suffer. That, at the worst, would be an hour's anguish, to be followed by an eternity of happy rest: but the other might mean the loss of all things--body and soul alike. Little Will did not enter into the matter. He might have understood something if he had been paying attention, but he was not attending, and therefore he did not. But Cissy, to whom her father was the centre of the world, and who knew his voice by heart, understood his looks as readily as his words. "Father!" she said, looking at him, "don't be troubled about us. I'll never believe nobody that says different from what you've learned us, and I'll tell Will and Baby they mustn't mind them neither." And Elizabeth added softly--"`I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee.' `Leave thy fatherless children; I will preserve them alive.'" "God bless you both!" said Johnson, and he could say no more. The next day the twelve prisoners accused of heresy were had up for examination before the Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, Mr Roper, and Mr Boswell, the Bishop's scribe. Six of them--Elizabeth Wood, Christian Hare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, and Margaret Simson--were soon disposed of. They had been in prison for a fortnight or more, they were terribly frightened, and they were not strong in the faith. They easily consented to be reconciled to the Church--to say whatever the priests bade them, and to believe--or pretend to believe-- all that they were desired. Robert Purcas was the next put on trial. The Bishop's scribe called him (in the account he wrote to his master) "obstinate, and a glorious prating heretic." What this really meant was that his arguments were too powerful to answer. He must have had considerable ability, for though only twenty years of age, and a village tradesman, he was set down in the charge-sheet as "lettered," namely, a well-educated man, which in those days was most extraordinary for a man of that description. "When confessed you last?" asked the Commissioners of Purcas. "I have not confessed of long time," was the answer, "nor will I; for priests have no power to remit sin." "Come you to church, to hear the holy mass?" "I do not, nor will I; for all that is idolatry." "Have you never, then, received the blessed Sacrament of the altar?" "I did receive the Supper of the Lord in King Edward's time, but not since: nor will I, except it be ministered to me as it was then." "Do you not worship the sacred host?" That is, the consecrated bread in the Lord's Supper. "Those who worship it are idolaters!" said Robert Purcas, without the least hesitation: "that which there is used is bread and wine only." "Have him away!" cried Sir John Kingston. "What need to question further so obstinate a man?" So they had him away--not being able to answer him--and Agnes Silverside was called in his stead. She was very calm, but as determined as Purcas. "Come hither, Mistress!" said Boswell, roughly. "Why, what have we here in the charge-sheet? `Agnes Silverside, _alias_ Smith, _alias_ Downes, _alias_ May!' Hast thou had four husbands, old witch, or how comest by so many names?" "Sir," was the quiet answer, "my name is Smith from my father, and I have been thrice wed." The Commissioners, having first amused themselves by a little rough joking at the prisoner's expense, inquired which of her husbands was the last. "My present name is Silverside," she replied. "And what was he, this Silverside?--a tanner or a chimney-sweep?" "Sir, he was a priest." The Commissioners--who knew it all beforehand--professed themselves exceedingly shocked. God never forbade priests to marry under the Old Testament, nor did He ever command Christian ministers to be unmarried men: but the Church of Rome has forbidden her priests to have any wives, as Saint Paul told Timothy would be done by those who departed from the faith: [see One Timothy four 3.] thus "teaching for doctrines the commandments of men." [See Matthew fifteen verse 9.] CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. GENTLY HANDLED. When the Commissioners had tormented the priest's widow as long as they thought proper, they called on her to answer the charges brought against her. "Dost thou believe that in the blessed Sacrament of the altar the bread and wine becometh the very body and blood of Christ, so soon as the word of consecration be pronounced?" "Nay: it is but bread and wine before it is received; and when it is received in faith and ministered by a worthy minister, then it is Christ flesh and blood spiritually, and not otherwise." "Dost though worship the blessed Sacrament?" "Truly, nay: for ye make the Sacrament an idol. It ought not to be worshipped with knocking, kneeling or holding up of hands." "Wilt thou come to church and hear mass?" "That will I not, so long as ye do worship to other than God Almighty. Nothing that is made can be the same thing as he that made it. They must needs be idolators, and of the meanest sort, that worship the works of their own hands." "Aroint thee, old witch! Wilt thou go to confession?" "Neither will I that, for no priest hath power to remit sin that is against God. To Him surely will I confess: and having so done, I have no need to make confession to men." "Take the witch away!" cried the chief Commissioner. "She's a froward, obstinate heretic, only fit to make firewood." The gaoler led her out of the court, and John Johnson was summoned next. "What is thy name, and how old art thou?" "My name is John Johnson; I am a labouring man, of the age of four and thirty years." "Canst read?" "But a little." "Then how darest thou set thee up against the holy doctors of the Church, that can read Latin?" "Cannot a man be saved without he read Latin?" "Hold thine impudent tongue! It is our business to question, and thine to answer. Where didst learn thy pestilent doctrine?" "I learned the Gospel of Christ Jesus, if that be what you mean by pestilent doctrine, from Master Trudgeon at the first. He learned me that the Sacrament, as ye minister it, is an idol, and that no priest hath power to remit sin." "Dost thou account of this Trudgeon as a true prophet?" "Ay, I do." "What then sayest thou to our Saviour Christ's word to His Apostles, `Whosesoever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them'?" "Marry, I say nought, without you desire it." "What meanest by that?" "Why, you are not apostles, nor yet the priests that be now alive. He said not, `Whosesoever sins Sir Thomas Tye shall remit, they are remitted unto them.'" "Thou foolish man, Sir Thomas Tye is successor of the apostles." "Well, but it sayeth not neither, `Whosesoever sins ye and your successors do remit.' I'll take the words as they stand, by your leave. To apostles were they said, and to apostles will I leave them." "The man hath no reason in him!" said Kingston. "Have him away likewise." "Please your Worships," said the gaoler, "here be all that are indicted. There is but one left, and she was presented only for not attending at mass nor confession." "Bring her up!" And Elizabeth Foulkes stepped up to the table, and courtesied to the representatives of the Queen. "What is thy name?" "Elizabeth Foulkes." "How old art thou?" "Twenty years." "Art thou a wife?" Girls commonly married then younger than they do now. The usual length of human life was shorter: people who reached sixty were looked upon as we now regard those of eighty, and a man of seventy was considered much as one of ninety or more would be at the present time. "Nay, I am a maid," said Elizabeth. The word maid was only just beginning to be used instead of servant; it generally meant an unmarried woman. "What is thy calling?" "I am servant to Master Nicholas Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane." "Art Colchester-born?" "I was born at Stoke Nayland, in Suffolk." "And wherefore dost thou not come to mass?" "Because I hold the Sacrament of the altar to be but bread and wine, which may not be worshipped under peril of idolatry." "Well, and why comest not to confession?" "Because no priest hath power to remit sins." "Hang 'em! they are all in a story!" said the chief Commissioner, wrathfully. "But she's a well-favoured maid, this: it were verily pity to burn her, if we could win her to recant." What a poor, weak, mean thing human nature is! The men who had no pity for the white hair of Agnes Silverside, or the calm courage of John Johnson, or even the helpless innocence of little Cissy: such things as these did not touch them at all--these very men were anxious to save Elizabeth Foulkes, not because she was good, but because she was beautiful. It is a sad, sad blunder, which people often make, to set beauty above goodness. Some very wicked things have been done in this world, simply by thinking too much of beauty. Admiration is a good thing in its proper place; but a great deal of mischief comes when it gets into the wrong one. Whenever you admire a bad man because he is clever, or a foolish woman because she is pretty, you are letting admiration get out of his place. If we had lived when the Lord Jesus was upon earth, we should not have found people admiring Him. He was not beautiful. "His face was marred more than any man, and His form more than the sons of men." And would it not have been dreadful if we had admired Pontius Pilate and Judas Iscariot, and had seen no beauty in Him who is "altogether lovely" to the hearts of those whom the Holy Ghost has taught to love Him? So take care what sort of beauty you admire, and make sure that goodness goes along with it. We may be quite certain that however much men thought of Elizabeth's beautiful face, God thought very little of it. The beauty which He saw in her was her love to the Lord Jesus, and her firm stand against what would dishonour Him. This sort of beauty all of us can have. Oh, do ask God to make you beautiful in _His_ eyes! No sooner had the chief Commissioner spoken than a voice in the Court called out,-- "Pray you, Worshipful Sirs, save this young maid! I am her mother's brother, Thomas Holt of Colchester, and I do you to wit she is of a right good inclination, and no wise perverse. I do entreat you, grant her yet another chance." Then a gentleman stepped forward from the crowd of listeners. "Worshipful Sirs," said he, "may I have leave to take charge of this young maiden, to the end that she may be reconciled to the Church, and obtain remission of her errors? Truly, as Master Commissioner saith, it were pity so fair a creature were made food for the fire." "Who are you?--and what surety give you?" asked Sir John. Sir Thomas Tye rose from his seat on the Bench. "Please it, your Worships, that is Master Ashby of this town, a good Catholic man, and well to be trusted. If your Worships be pleased to show mercy to the maid, as indeed I would humbly entreat you to do, there were no better man than he to serve you in this matter." The priest having spoken in favour of Mr Ashby the Commissioners required no further surety. "Art thou willing to be reformed?" they asked Elizabeth. "Sirs," she answered cautiously, "I am willing to be shown God's true way, if so be I err from it." This was enough for the Commissioners. They wanted to get her free, and they therefore accepted from her words which would probably have been used in vain by the rest. Mr Ashby was charged to keep and "reconcile" her, which he promised to do, or to feed her on barley bread if she proved obstinate. As Elizabeth turned to follow him she passed close by Robert Purcas, whom the gaoler was just about to take back to prison. "`Thou hast set them in slippery places,'" whispered Purcas as she passed him. "Keep thou true to Christ. O Elizabeth, mine own love, keep true!" The tears rose to Elizabeth's eyes. "Pray for me, Robin," she said. And then each was led away. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. RESPITE. The Commissioners who tried these prisoners were thoroughly worldly men, who really cared nothing about the doctrines which they burned people for not believing. Had it been otherwise, when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, less than two years afterwards, these men would have shown themselves willing to suffer in their turn. But most of them did not do this--seldom even to the extent of losing promotion, scarcely ever to that of losing life. They simply wheeled round again to what they had been in the reign of Edward the Sixth. It is possible to respect men who are willing to lose their lives for the sake of what they believe to be true, even though you may think them quite mistaken. But how can you respect a man who will not run the risk of losing a situation or a few pounds in defence of the truth? It is not possible. After the trial of the Colchester prisoners, the Commissioners passed on to other places, and the town was quiet for a time. Mrs Silverside, Johnson and the children, and Purcas, remained in prison in the Moot Hall, and Elizabeth Foulkes was as truly a prisoner in the house of Henry Ashby. At first she was very kindly treated, in the hope of inducing her to recant. But as time went on, things were altered. Mr Ashby found that what Elizabeth understood by "being shown God's true way," was not being argued with by a priest, nor being commanded to obey the Church, but being pointed to some passage in the Bible which agreed with what he said; and since what he said was not in accordance with the Bible, of course he could not show her any texts which agreed with it. The Church of Rome herself admits that people who read the Bible for themselves generally become Protestants. Does not common sense show that in that case the Protestant doctrines must be the doctrines of the Bible? Why should Rome be so anxious to shut up the Bible if her own doctrines are to be found there? Above four months passed on, and no change came to the prisoners, but there had not been any fresh arrests. The other Gospellers began to breathe more freely, and to hope that the worst had come already. Mrs Wade was left at liberty; Mr Ewring had not been taken; surely all would go well now! How often we think the worst must be over, just a minute before it comes upon us! A little rap on Margaret Thurston's door brought her to open it. "Why, Rose! I'm fain to see thee, maid. Come in." "My mother bade me tell you, Margaret," said Rose, when the door was shut, "that there shall be a Scripture reading in our house this even. Will you come?" "That will we, right gladly, dear heart. At what hour?" "Midnight. We dare not afore." "We'll be there. How fares thy mother to-day?" "Why, not over well. She seems but ill at ease. Her hands burn, and she is ever athirst. 'Tis an ill rheum, methinks." "Ay, she has caught a bad cold," said Margaret. "Rose, I'll tell you what--we'll come a bit afore midnight, and see if we cannot help you. My master knows a deal touching herbs; he's well-nigh as good as any apothecary, though I say it, and he'll compound an herb drink that shall do her good, with God's blessing, while I help you in the house. What say you? Have I well said?" "Indeed, Margaret, and I'd be right thankful if you would, for it'll be hard on Father if he's neither Mother nor me to do for him--she, sick abed, and me waiting on her." "Be sure it will! But I hope it'll not be so bad as that. Well, then, look you, we'll shut up the hut and come after you. You haste on to her, and when I've got things a bit tidy, and my master's come from work--he looked to be overtime to-night--we'll run over to Bentley, and do what we can." Rose thanked her again, and went on with increased speed. She found her mother no better, and urged her to go to bed, telling her that Margaret was close at hand. It was now about five in the afternoon. Alice agreed to this, for she felt almost too poorly to sit up. She went to bed, and Rose flew about the kitchen, getting all finished that she could before Margaret should arrive. It was Saturday night, and the earliest hours of the Sabbath were to be ushered in by the "reading." Only a few neighbours were asked, for it was necessary now to be very careful. Half-a-dozen might be invited, as if to supper; but the times when a hundred or more had assembled to hear the Word of God were gone by. Would they ever come again? They dared not begin to read until all prying eyes and ears were likely to be closed in sleep; and the reader's voice was low, that nobody might be roused next door. Few people could read then, especially among the labouring class, so that, except on these occasions, the poorer Gospellers had no hope of hearing the words of the Lord. The reading was over, and one after another of the guests stole silently out into the night--black, noiseless shadows, going up the lane into the village, or down it on the way to Thorpe. At length the last was gone except the Thurstons, who offered to stay for the night. John Thurston lay down in the kitchen, and Margaret, finding Alice Mount apparently better, said she would share Rose's bed. Alice Mount's malady was what we call a bad feverish cold, and generally we do not expect it to do anything more than make the patient very uncomfortable for a week. But in Queen Mary's days they knew very much less about colds than we do, and they were much more afraid of them. It was only six years since the last attack of the terrible sweating sickness--the last ever to be, but they did not know that--and people were always frightened of anything like a cold turning to that dreadful epidemic wherein, as King Edward the Sixth writes in his diary, "if one took cold he died within three hours, and if he escaped, it held him but nine hours, or ten at the most." It was, therefore, a relief to hear Alice say that she felt better, and urge Rose to go to bed. "Well, it scarce seems worth while going to bed," said Margaret. "What time is it? Can you see the church clock, Rose?" "We can when it's light," said Rose; "but I think you'll not see it now." Margaret drew back the little curtain, but all was dark, and she let it drop again. "It'll be past one, I reckon," said she. "Oh, ay; a good way on toward two," was Rose's answer. "Rose, have you heard aught of Bessy Foulkes of late?" "Nought. I've tried to see her, but they keep hot so close at Master Ashby's there's no getting to her." "And those poor little children of Johnson's. They're yet in prison, trow?" "Oh, ay. I wish they'd have let us have the baby Jane Hiltoft has it. She'll care it well enough for the body: but for the soul--" "Oh, when Johnson's burned--as he will be, I reckon--the children 'll be bred up in convents, be sure," was Margaret's answer. "Nay! I'll be sure of nought so bad as that, as long as God's in heaven." "There's no miracles now o' days, Rose." "There's God's care, just as much as in Elijah's days. And, Margaret, they've burned little children afore now." "Eh, don't, Rose! you give me the cold chills!" "What's that?" Rose was listening intently. "What's what?" said Margaret, who had heard nothing. "That! Don't you hear the far-off tramp of men?" They looked at each other fearfully. Margaret knew well enough of what Rose thought--the Bailiff and his searching party. They stopped their undressing. Nearer and nearer came that measured tread of a body of men. It paused, went on, came close under the window, and paused again. Then a thundering rattle came at the door. "Open, in the Queen's name!" Then they knew it had come--not the worst, but that which led to it--the beginning of the end. Rose quietly, but quickly, put her gown on again. Before she was ready, she heard her step-father's heavy tread as he went down the stairs; heard him draw the bolt, and say, as he opened the door, in calm tones-- "Good-morrow, Master Bailiff. Pray you enter with all honour, an' you come in the Queen's name." Just then the church clock struck two. Two o'clock on the Sabbath morning! CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. ROSE'S FIERY ORDEAL. "Art thou come, dear heart?" said Alice Mount, as her daughter ran hurriedly into her bedchamber. "That is well. Rose, the Master is come, and calleth for us, and He must find us ready." There was no time to say more, for steps were ascending the stairs, and in another minute Master Simnel entered--the Bailiff of Colchester Hundred, whose office it was to arrest criminals within his boundaries. He was a rough, rude sort of man, from whom women were wont to shrink. "Come, mistress, turn out!" said he. "We'll find you other lodgings for a bit." "Master, I will do mine utmost," said Alice Mount, lifting her aching head from the pillow; "but I am now ill at ease, and I pray you, give leave for my daughter to fetch me drink ere I go hence, or I fear I may scarce walk." We must remember that they had then no tea, coffee, or cocoa; and they had a funny idea that cold water was excessively unwholesome. The rich drank wine, and the poor thin, weak ale, most of which they brewed themselves from simple malt and hops--not at all like the strong, intoxicating stuff which people drink in public-houses now. Mr Simnel rather growlingly assented to the request. Rose ran down, making her way to the dresser through the rough men of whom the kitchen was full, to get a jug and a candlestick. As she came out of the kitchen, with the jug in her right hand and the candle in her left, she met a man--I believe he called himself a gentleman--named Edmund Tyrrel, a relation of that Tyrrel who had been one of the murderers of poor Edward the Fifth and his brother. Rose dropped a courtesy, as she had been taught to do to her betters in social position. Mr Tyrrel stopped her. "Look thou, maid! wilt thou advise thy father and mother to be good Catholic people?" Catholic means _general_; and for any one Church to call itself the Catholic Church, is as much as to say that it is the only Christian Church, and that other people who do not belong to it are not Christians. It is, therefore, not only untrue, but most insulting to all the Christians who belong to other Churches. Saint Paul particularly warned the Church of Rome not to think herself better than other Churches, as you will see in the eleventh chapter of the Epistle to the Romans, verses 17 to 22. But she took no heed, and keeps calling herself _the_ Catholic Church, as if nobody could be a Christian who did not belong to her. No Protestant Church has ever committed this sin, though some few persons in several denominations may have done so. However, Rose was accustomed to the word, and she knew what Mr Tyrrel meant. So she answered, gently-- "Master, they have a better instructor than I, for the Holy Ghost doth teach them, I hope, which I trust shall not suffer them to err." [See Note 1.] Mr Tyrrel grew very angry. He remembered that Rose had been before the magistrates before on account of Protestant opinions, "Why art thou still in that mind, thou naughty hussy?" cried he. "Marry, it is time to look upon such heretics indeed." Naughty was a much stronger word then than it is now. It meant, utterly worthless and most wicked. Brave Rose Allen! she lifted her eyes to the face of her insulter, and replied,--"Sir, with that which you call heresy, do I worship my Lord God, I tell you truth." "Then I perceive you will burn, gossip, with the rest for company's sake," said Mr Tyrrel, making a horrible joke. "No, sir, not for company's sake," said Rose, "but for my Christ's sake, if so be I be compelled; and I hope in His mercies, if He call me to it, He will enable me to bear it." Never did apostle or martyr answer better, nor bear himself more bravely, than this girl! Mr Tyrrel was in the habit of looking with the greatest reverence on certain other young girls, whom he called Saint Agnes, Saint Margaret, and Saint Katherine--girls who had made such answers to Pagan persecutors, twelve hundred years or so before that time: but he could not see that the same scene was being enacted again, and that he was persecuting the Lord Jesus in the person of young Rose Allen. He took the candle from her hand, and she did not resist him. The next minute he was holding her firmly by the wrist, with her hand in the burning flame, watching her face to see what she would do. She did nothing. Not a scream, not a word, not even a moan, came from the lips of Rose Allen. All that could be seen was that the empty jug which she held in the other hand trembled a little as she stood there. "Wilt thou not cry?" sneered Tyrrel as he held her,--and he called her some ugly names which I shall not write. The answer was as calm as it could be. "I have no cause, thank God," said Rose tranquilly; "but rather to rejoice. You have more cause to weep than I, if you consider the matter well." When people set to work to vex you, nothing makes them more angry than to take it quietly, and show no vexation. That is, if they are people with mean minds. If there be any generosity in them, then it is the way to make them see that they are wrong. There was no generosity, nor love of justice, in Edmund Tyrrel. When Rose Allen stood so calmly before him, with her hand on fire, he was neither softened nor ashamed. He burned her till "the sinews began to crack," and then he let go her hand and pushed her roughly away, calling her all the bad names he could think of while he did so. "Sir," was the meek and Christlike response, "have you done what you will do?" Surely few, even among martyrs, have behaved with more exquisite gentleness than this! The maiden's hand was cruelly burnt, and her tormentor was adding insult to injury by heaping false and abominable names upon her: and the worst thing she had to say to him was simply to ask whether he wished to torture her any more! "Yes," sneered Tyrrel. "And if thou think it not well, then mend it!" "`Mend it'!" repeated Rose. "Nay! the Lord mend you, and give you repentance, if it be His will. And now, if you think it good, begin at the feet, and burn to the head also. For he that set you a-work shall pay you your wages one day, I warrant you." And with this touch of sarcasm--only just enough to show how well she could have handled that weapon if she had chosen to fight with it--Rose calmly went her way, wetted a rag, and bound up her injured hand, and then drew the ale and carried it to her mother. "How long hast thou been, child!" said her mother, who of course had no notion what had been going on downstairs. "Ay, Mother; I am sorry for it," was the quiet reply. "Master Tyrrel stayed me in talk for divers minutes." "What said he to thee?" anxiously demanded Alice. "He asked me if I did mean to entreat you and my father to be good Catholics; and when I denied the same, gave me some ill words." Rose said nothing about the burning, and as she dexterously kept her injured hand out of her mother's sight, all that Alice realised was that the girl was a trifle less quick and handy than usual. "She's a good, quick maid in the main," said she to herself: "I'll not fault her if she's upset a bit." While Rose was helping her mother to dress, the Bailiff was questioning her step-father whether any one else was in the house. "I'm here," said John Thurston, rising from the pallet-bed where he lay in a corner of the little scullery. "You'd best take me, if you want me." "Take them all!" cried Tyrrel. "They be all in one tale, be sure." "Were you at mass this last Sunday?" said the Bailiff to Thurston. He was not quite so bad as Tyrrel. "No, that was I not," answered Thurston firmly. "Wherefore?" "Because I will not worship any save God Almighty." "Why, who else would we have you to worship?" "Nay, it's not who else, it's what else. You would have me to worship stocks and stones, that cannot hear nor see; and cakes of bread that the baker made overnight in his oven. I've as big a throat as other men, yet can I not swallow so great a notion as that the baker made Him that made the baker." "Of a truth, thou art a naughty heretic!" said the Bailiff; "and I must needs carry thee hence with the rest. But where is thy wife?" Ay, where was Margaret? Nobody had seen her since the Bailiff knocked at the door. He ordered his men to search for her; but she had hidden herself so well that some time passed before she could be found. At length, with much laughter, one of the Bailiff's men dragged her out of a wall-closet, where she crouched hidden behind an old box. Then the Bailiff shouted for Alice Mount and Rose to be brought down, and proceeded to tie his prisoners together, two and two,--Rose contriving to slip back, so that she should be marched behind her parents. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. This part of the story is all quite true, and I am not putting into Rose's lips, in her conversation with Mr Tyrrel, one word which she did not really utter. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. IN COLCHESTER CASTLE. The whole population of Much Bentley seemed to have turned out to witness the arrest at the Blue Bell. Some were kindly and sympathising, some bitter and full of taunts; but the greater number were simply inquisitive, neither friendly nor hostile, but gossipping. It was now four o'clock, a time at which half the people were up in the village, and many a woman rose an hour earlier than her wont, in order to see the strange sight. There were the carpenters with baskets of tools slung over their shoulders; the gardeners with rake or hoe; the labourers with their spades; the fishermen with their nets. The Colne oyster-fishery is the oldest of all known fisheries in England, and its fame had reached imperial Rome itself, nearly two thousand years ago, when the Emperor Caligula came over to England partly for the purpose of tasting the Colchester oyster. The oysters are taken in the Colne and placed in pits, where they are fattened till they reach the size of a silver oyster preserved among the town treasures. In April or May, when the baby oyster first appears in the river, it looks like a drop from a tallow candle; but in twenty-four hours the shell begins to form. The value of the oyster spawn (as the baby oysters are called) in the river, is reckoned at twenty thousand pounds; and from five to ten thousand pounds' worth of oysters is sold every year. "Well, Master Mount, how like you your new pair o' bracelets?" said one of the fishermen, as William Mount was led out, and his hands tied with a rough cord. "Friend, I count it honour to bear for my Lord that which He first bare for me," was the meek answer. "Father Tye 'll never preach a better word than that," said a voice in the crowd. Mr Simnel looked up as if to see who spoke. "Go on with thy work, old cage-maker!" cried another voice. "We'll not find thee more gaol-birds to-day than what thou hast." "You'd best hold your saucy tongues," said the nettled Bailiff. "Nay, be not so tetchy, Master Simnel!" said another. The same person never seemed to speak twice; a wise precaution, since the speaker was less likely to be arrested if he did not repeat the offence. "Five slices of meat be enough for one man's supper." This allusion to the number of the prisoners, and the rapacity of the Bailiff, was received with laughter by the crowd. The Bailiff's temper, never of the best, was quite beyond control by this time. He relieved it by giving Mount a heavy blow, as he pushed him into line after tying his wife to him. "Hit him back, Father Mount!" cried one of the voices. William Mount shook his head with a smile. "I'll hit some of you--see if I don't!" responded the incensed Bailiff, who well knew his own unpopularity. "Hush, fellows!" said an authoritative voice. "Will ye resist the Queen's servants?" John Thurston and his wife were next tied together, and placed behind the Mounts, the crowd remaining quiet while this was being done. Then they brought Rose Allen, and fastened her, by a cord round her wrists, to the same rope. "Eh, Lord have mercy on the young maid!" said a woman's voice in a compassionate tone. "Young witch, rather!" responded a man, roughly. "Hold thy graceless tongue, Jack Milman!" replied a woman's shrill tones. "Didn't Rose Allen make broth for thee when we were both sick, and go out of a cold winter night a-gathering herbs to ease thy pain? Be shamed to thee, if thou knows what shame is, casting ill words at her in her trouble!" Just as the prisoners were marched off, another voice hitherto silent seemed to come from the very midst of the crowd. It said,-- "Be ye faithful unto death, and Christ shall give you a crown of life." "Take that man!" said the Bailiff, stopping. But the man was not to be found. Nobody knew--at least nobody would own--who had uttered those fearless words. So the prisoners were marched away on the road to Colchester. They went in at Bothal's Gate, up Bothal Street, and past the Black Friars' monastery to the Castle. Colchester Castle is one of the oldest castles in England, for it was built by King Edward the Elder, the son of Alfred the Great. It is a low square mass, with the largest Norman keep, or centre tower, in the country. The walls are twelve feet thick, and the whole ground floor, and two of the four towers, are built up perfectly solid from the bottom, that it might be made as strong as possible. It was built with Roman bricks, and the Roman mortar still sticks to some of them. Builders always know Roman mortar, for it is so much harder than any mortar people know how to make now--quite as hard as stone itself. The chimneys run up through the walls. The prisoners were marched up to the great entrance gate, on the south side of the Castle. The Bailiff blew his horn, and the porter opened a little wicket and looked out. "Give you good-morrow, Master Bailiff. Another batch, I reckon?" "Ay, another batch, belike. You'll have your dungeons full ere long." "Oh, we've room enough and to spare!" said the porter with a grin. "None so many, yet. Two men fetched in yestereven for breaking folks' heads in a drunken brawl; and two or three debtors; and a lad for thieving, and such; then Master Maynard brought an handful in this morrow--Moot Hall was getting too full, he said." "Ay so? who brought he?" "Oh, Alegar o' Thorpe, and them bits o' children o' his, that should be learning their hornbooks i' school sooner than be here, trow." "You'd best teach 'em, Tom," suggested Mr Simnel with a grim smile. "Now then, in with you!" And the prisoners were marched into the Castle dungeon. In the corner of the dungeon sat John Johnson, his Bible on his knee, and beside him, snuggled close to him, Cissy. Little Will was seated on the floor at his father's feet, playing with some bits of wood. Johnson looked up as his friends entered. "Why, good friends! Shall I say I am glad or sorry to behold you here?" "Glad," answered William Mount, firmly, "if so we may glorify God." "I'm glad, I know," said Cissy, jumping from the term, and giving a warm hug to Rose. "I thought God would send somebody. You see, Father was down a bit when we came here this morning, and left everybody behind us; but you've come now, and he'll be ever so pleased. It isn't bad, you know--not bad at all--and then there's Father. But, Rose, what have you done to your hand? It's tied up." "Hush, dear! Only hurt it a bit, Cissy. Don't speak of it," said Rose in an undertone; "I don't want mother to see it, or she'll trouble about it, maybe. It doesn't hurt much now." Cissy nodded, with a face which said that she thoroughly entered into Rose's wish for silence. "Eh dear, dear! that we should have lived to see this day!" cried Margaret Thurston, melting into tears as she sat down in the corner. "Rose!" said her father suddenly, "thy left hand is bound up. Hast hurt it, maid?" Rose's eyes, behind her mother's back, said, "Please don't ask me anything about it!" But Alice turned round to look, and she had to own the truth. "Why, maid! That must have been by the closet where I was hid, and I never heard thee scream," said Margaret. "Nay, Meg, I screamed not." "Lack-a-day! how could'st help the same?" "Didn't it hurt sore, Rose?" asked John Thurston. "Not nigh so much as you might think," answered Rose, brightly. "At the first it caused me some grief; but truly, the more it burned the less it hurt, till at last it was scarce any hurt at all." "But thou had'st the pot in thine other hand, maid; wherefore not have hit him a good swing therewith?" "Truly, Meg, I thank God that He held mine hand from any such deed. `The servant of the Lord must not strive.' I should thus have dishonoured my Master." "Marry, but that may be well enough for angels and such like. _We_ dwell in this nether world." "Rose hath the right," said William Mount. "We may render unto no man railing for railing. `If we suffer as Christians, happy are we; for the Spirit of glory and of God resteth upon us.' Let us not suffer as malefactors." "You say well, neighbour," added John Thurston. "We be called to the defence of God's truth, but in no wise to defend ourselves." "Nay, the Lord is the avenger of all that have none other," said Alice. "But let me see thine hand, child, maybe I can do thee some ease." "Under your good leave, Mother, I would rather not unlap it," replied Rose. "Truly, it scarce doth me any hurt now; and I bound it well with a wet rag, that I trow it were better to let it be. It shall do well enough, I cast no doubt." She did not want her mother to see how terribly it was burned. And in her heart was a further thought which she would not put into words--If they shortly burn my whole body, what need is there to trouble about this little hurt to my hand? CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. SHUTTING THE DOOR. Once more the days wore on, and no fresh arrests were made; but no help came to the prisoners in the Castle and the Moot Hall, nor to Elizabeth Foulkes in the keeping of Mr Ashby. Two priests had talked to Elizabeth, and the authorities were beginning to change their opinion about her. They had fancied from her quiet, meek appearance, that she would be easily prevailed upon to say what they wanted. Now they found that under that external softness there was a will of iron, and a power of endurance beyond anything they had imagined. The day of examination for all the prisoners--the last day, when they would be sentenced or acquitted--was appointed to be the 23rd of June. On the previous day the Commissioners called Elizabeth Foulkes before them. She came, accompanied by Mr Ashby and her uncle; and they asked her only one question. "Dost thou believe in a Catholic Church of Christ, or no?" Of course Elizabeth replied "Yes," for the Bible has plenty to say of the Church of Christ, though it never identifies it with the Church of Rome. They asked her no more, for Boswell, the scribe, interposed, and begged that she might be consigned to the keeping of her uncle. The Commissioners assented, and Holt took her away. It looks very much as if Boswell had wanted her to escape. She was much more carelessly guarded in her uncle's house than in Mr Ashby's, and could have got away easily enough if she had chosen. She was more than once sent to open the front door, whence she might have slipped out after dark with almost a certainty of escape. It was quite dark when she answered the last rap. "Pray you," asked an old man's voice, "is here a certain young maid, by name Elizabeth Foulkes?" "I am she, master. What would you with me?" "A word apart," he answered in a whisper. "Be any ears about that should not be?" Elizabeth glanced back into the kitchen where her aunt was sewing, and her two cousins gauffering the large ruffs which both men and women then wore. "None that can harm. Say on, my master." "Bessy, dost know my voice?" "I do somewhat, yet I can scarce put a name thereto." "I am Walter Purcas, of Booking." "Robin's father! Ay, I know you well now, and I cry you mercy that I did no sooner." "Come away with me, Bessy!" he said, in a loud whisper. "I have walked all the way from Booking to see if I might save thee, for Robin's sake, for he loves thee as he loveth nought else save me. Mistress Wade shall lend me an horse, and we can be safe ere night be o'er, in the house of a good man that I know in a place unsuspect. O Bessy, my dear lass, save thyself and come with me!" "Save thyself!" The words had been addressed once before, fifteen hundred years back, to One who did not save Himself, because He came to save the world. Before the eyes of Elizabeth rose two visions--one fair and sweet enough, a vision of safety and comfort, of life and happiness, which might be yet in state for her. But it was blotted out by the other--a vision of three crosses reared on a bare rock, when the One who hung in the midst could have saved Himself at the cost of the glory of the Father and the everlasting bliss of His Church. And from that cross a voice seemed to whisper to her--"If any man serve Me, let him follow Me." "Verily, I am loth you should have your pain for nought," said she, "but indeed I cannot come with you, though I do thank you with all my heart. I am set here in ward of mine uncle, and for me to 'scape away would cause penalty to fall on him. I cannot save myself at his cost. And should not the Papists take it to mean that I had not the courage to stand to that which they demanded of me? Nay, Father Purcas, this will I not do, for so should I lose my crown, and dim the glory of my Christ." "Bessy!" cried her aunt from the kitchen, "do come within and shut the door, maid! Here's the wind a-blowing in till I'm nigh feared o' losing my ears, and all the lace like to go up the chimney, while thou tarriest chatting yonder. What gossip hast thou there? Canst thou not bring her in?" "Bessy, _come_!" whispered Purcas earnestly. But Elizabeth shook her head. "The Lord bless you! I dare not." And she shut the door, knowing that by so doing, she virtually shut it upon life and happiness--that is, happiness in this life. Elizabeth went quietly back to the kitchen, and took up an iron. She scarcely knew what she was ironing, nor how she answered her cousin Dorothy's rather sarcastic observations upon the interesting conversation which she seemed to have had. A few minutes later her eldest cousin, a married woman, who lived in a neighbouring street, lifted the latch and came in. "Good even, Mother!" said she. "Well, Doll, and Jenny! So thou gave in at last, Bess? I'm fain for thee. It's no good fighting against a stone wall." "What dost thou mean, Chrissy?" "What mean I? Why, didn't thou give in? Lots o' folks is saying so. Set thy name, they say, to a paper that thou'd yield to the Pope, and be obedient in all things. I hope it were true." "True! that I yielded to the Pope, and promised to obey him!" cried Elizabeth in fiery indignation. "It's not true, Christian Meynell! Tell every soul so that asks thee! I'll die before I do it. Where be the Commissioners?" "Thank the saints, they've done their sitting," said Mrs Meynell, laughing: "or I do believe this foolish maid should run right into the lion's den. Mother, lock her up to-morrow, won't you, without she's summoned?" "Where are they?" peremptorily demanded Elizabeth. "Sitting down to their supper at Mistress Cosin's," was the laughing answer. "Don't thou spoil it by rushing in all of a--" "I shall go to them this minute," said Elizabeth tying on her hood, which she had taken down from its nail. "No man nor woman shall say such words of me. Good-night, Aunt; I thank you for all your goodness, and may the good Lord bless you and yours for ever Farewell!" And amid a shower of exclamations and entreaties from her startled relatives, who never expected conduct approaching to this, Elizabeth left the house. She had not far to go on that last walk in this world. The White Hart, where the Commissioners were staying, was full of light and animation that night when she stepped into it from the dark street, and asked leave to speak a few words to the Queen's Commissioners. "What would you with them?" asked a red-cheeked maid who came to her. "That shall they know speedily," was the answer. The Commissioners were rather amused to be told that a girl wanted to see them: but when they heard who it was, they looked at each other with raised eyebrows, and ordered her to be called in. They had finished supper, and were sitting over their wine, as gentlemen were then wont to do rather longer than was good for them. Elizabeth came forward to the table and confronted them. The Commissioners themselves were two in number, Sir John Kingston and Dr Chedsey; but the scribe, sheriff, and bailiffs were also present. "Worshipful Sirs," she said in a clear voice, "I have been told it is reported in this town that I have made this day by you submission and obedience to the Pope. And since this is not true, nor by God's grace shall never be, I call on you to do your duty, and commit me to the Queen's Highness' prison, that I may yet again bear my testimony for my Lord Christ." There was dead silence for a moment. Dr Chedsey looked at the girl with admiration which seemed almost reverence. Sir John Kingston knit his brows, and appeared inclined to examine her there and then. Boswell half rose as if he would once more have pleaded with or for her. But Maynard, the Sheriff, whom nothing touched, and who was scarcely sober, sprang to his feet and dashed his hand upon the table, with a cry that "the jibbing jade should repent kicking over the traces this time!" He seized Elizabeth, marched her to the Moot Hall, and thrust her into the dungeon: and with a bass clang as if it had been the very gate of doom, the great door closed behind her. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. AT THE BAR. The great hall of the Moot Hall in Colchester was filling rapidly. Every townsman, and every townswoman, wanted to hear the examination, and to know the fate of the prisoners--of whom there were so many that not many houses were left in Colchester where the owners had not some family connection or friend among them. Into the hall, robed in judicial ermine, filed the Royal Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, and Dr Chedsey, followed by Boswell, the scribe, Robert Maynard and Robert Brown the Sheriffs, several priests, and many magistrates and gentlemen of the surrounding country. Having opened the Court, they first summoned before them William Bongeor, the glazier, of Saint Michael's parish, aged sixty, then Thomas Benold, the tallow-chandler, and thirdly, Robert Purcas. They asked Purcas "what he had to say touching the Sacrament." "When we receive the Sacrament," he answered, "we receive bread in an holy use, that preacheth remembrance that Christ died for us." The three men were condemned to death: and then Agnes Silverside was brought to the bar. She was some time under examination, for she answered all the questions asked her so wisely and so firmly, that the Commissioners themselves were disconcerted. They took refuge, as such men usually did, in abuse, calling her ugly names, and asking "if she wished to burn her rotten old bones?" Helen Ewring, the miller's wife, followed: and both were condemned. Then the last of the Moot Hall prisoners, Elizabeth Foulkes, was placed at the bar. "Dost thou believe," inquired Dr Chedsey, "that in the most holy Sacrament of the altar, the body and blood of Christ is really and substantially present?" Elizabeth's reply, in her quiet, clear voice, was audible in every part of the hall. "I believe it to be a substantial lie, and a real lie." "Shame! shame!" cried one of the priests on the bench. "Horrible blasphemy!" cried another. "What is it, then, that there is before consecration?" asked Dr Chedsey. "Bread." "Well said. And what is there after consecration?" "Bread, still." "Nothing more?" "Nothing more," said Elizabeth firmly. "The receiving of Christ lies not in the bread, but is heavenly and spiritual only." "What say you to confession?" "I will use none, seeing no priest hath power to remit sin." "Will you go to mass?" "I will not, for it is idolatry." "Will you submit to the authority of the Pope?" Elizabeth's answer was even stronger than before. "I do utterly detest all such trumpery from the bottom of my heart!" They asked her no more. Dr Chedsey, for the sixth and last time, assumed the black cap, and read the sentence of death. "Thou shalt be taken from here to the place whence thou earnest, and thence to the place of execution, there to be burned in the fire till thou art dead." Never before had Chedsey's voice been known to falter in pronouncing that sentence. He had spoken it to white-haired men, and delicate women, ay, even to little children; but this once, every spectator looked up in amazement at his tone, and saw the judge in tears. And then, turning to the prisoner, they saw her face "as it were the face of an angel." Before any one could recover from the sudden hush of awe which had fallen upon the Court, Elizabeth Foulkes knelt down, and carried her appeal from that unjust sentence to the higher bar of God Almighty. "O Lord our Father!" she said, "I thank and praise and glorify Thee that I was ever born to see this day--this most blessed and happy day, when Thou hast accounted me worthy to suffer for the testimony of Christ. And, Lord, if it be Thy will, forgive them that thus have done against me, for they know not what they do." How many of us would be likely to thank God for allowing us to be martyrs? These were true martyrs who did so, men and women so full of the Holy Ghost that they counted not their lives dear unto them,--so upheld by God's power that the shrinking of the flesh from that dreadful pain and horror was almost forgotten. We must always remember that it was not by their own strength, or their own goodness, but by the blood of the Lamb, that Christ's martyrs have triumphed over Death and Satan. Then Elizabeth rose from her knees, and turned towards the Bench. Like an inspired prophetess she spoke--this poor, simple, humble servant-girl of twenty years--astonishing all who heard her. "Repent, all ye that sit there!" she cried earnestly, "and especially ye that brought me to this prison: above all thou, Robert Maynard, that art so careless of human life that thou wilt oft sit sleeping on the bench when a man is tried for his life. Repent, O ye halting Gospellers! and beware of blood-guiltiness, for that shall call for vengeance. Yea, if ye will not herein repent your wicked doings,"--and as Elizabeth spoke, she laid her hand upon the bar--"this very bar shall be witness against you in the Day of Judgment, that ye have this day shed innocent blood!" Oh, how England needs such a prophetess now! and above all, those "halting Gospellers," the men who talk sweetly about charity and toleration, and sit still, and will not come to the help of the Lord against the mighty! They sorely want reminding that Christ has said, "He that is not with us is against us." It is a very poor excuse to say, "Oh, I am not doing any harm." Are you doing any good? That is the question. If not, a wooden post is as good as you are. And are you satisfied to be no better than a wooden post? What grand opportunities there are before boys and girls on the threshold of life! What are you going to do with your life? Remember, you have only one. And there are only two things you can do with it. You must give it to somebody--and it must be either God or Satan. All the lives that are not given to God fall into the hands of Satan. There are very few people who say to themselves deliberately, Now, I will not give my life to God. They only say, Oh, there's plenty of time; I won't do it just now; I want to enjoy myself. They don't know that there is no happiness on earth like that of deciding for God. And so they go on day after day, not deciding either way, but just frittering their lives away bit by bit, until the last day comes, and the last bit of life, and then it is too late to decide. Would you like such a poor, mean, valueless thing as this to be the one life which is all you have? Would you not rather have a bright, rich, full life, with God Himself for your best friend on earth, and then a triumphal entry into the Golden City, and the singer's harp, and the victor's palm, and the prince's crown, and the King's "Well done, good and faithful servant?" Do you say, Yes. I would choose that, but I do not know how? Well, then, tell the Lord that. Say to Him, "Lord, I want to be Thy friend and servant, and I do not know how." Keep on saying it till He shows you how. He is sure to do it, for He cares about it much more than you do. Never fancy for one minute that God does not want you to go to Heaven, and that it will be hard work to persuade Him to let you in. He wants you to come more than you want it. He gave His own Son that you might come. "Greater love hath no man than this." Now, will you not come to Him--will you not say to Him, "Lord, here am I; take me"? Are you going to let the Lord Jesus feel that all the cruel suffering which He bore for you was in vain? He is ready to save you, if you will let Him; but He will not do it against your will. How shall it be? CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. THE SONG OF TRIUMPH. Elizabeth Foulkes was the last prisoner tried in the Moot Hall. The Commissioners then adjourned to the Castle. Here there were six prisoners, as before. The first arraigned was William Mount. He was asked, as they all were--it was the great test question for the Marian martyrs--what he had to say of the Sacrament of the altar, which was another name for the mass. "I say that it is an abominable idol," was his answer. "Wherefore comest thou not to confession?" "Sirs, I dare not take part in any Popish doings, for fear of God's vengeance," said the brave old man. Brave! ay, for the penalty was death. But what are they, of whom there are so many, whose actions if not words say that they dare not refuse to take part in Popish doings, for fear of man's scorn and ridicule? Poor, mean cowards! It was not worth while to go further. William Mount was sentenced to death, and John Johnson was brought to the bar. Neither were they long with him, for he had nothing to say but what he had said before. He too was sentenced to die. Then Alice Mount was brought up. She replied to their questions exactly as her husband had done. She was satisfied with his answers: they should be hers. Once more the sentence was read, and she was led away. Then Rose Allen was placed at the bar. So little had the past daunted her, that she did more than defy the Commissioners: she made fun of them. Standing there with her burnt hand still in its wrappings, she positively laughed Satan and all his servants to scorn. They asked her what she had to say touching the mass. "I say that it stinketh in the face of God! [see Note 1] and I dare not have to do therewith for my life." "Are you not a member of the Catholic Church?" "I am no member of yours, for ye be members of Antichrist, and shall have the reward of Antichrist." "What say you of the see of the Bishop of Rome?" "I am none of his. As for his see, it is for crows, kites, owls, and ravens to swim in, such as you be; for by the grace of God I will not swim in that sea while I live, neither will I have any thing to do therewith." Nothing could overcome the playful wit of this indomitable girl. She punned on their words, she laughed at their threats, she held them up to ridicule. This must be ended. For the fourth time Dr Chedsey assumed the black cap. Rose kept silence while she was condemned to death. But no sooner had his voice ceased than, to the amazement of all who heard her, she broke forth into song. It was verily: "The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast." She was led out of the court and down the dungeon steps, singing, till her voice filled the whole court. "Yea, though I walk through death's dark vale, Yet will I fear none ill; Thy rod, Thy staff doth comfort me, And Thou art with me still." Which was the happier, do you think, that night? Dr Chedsey, who had read the sentence of death upon ten martyrs? or young Rose Allen, who was to be burned to death in five weeks? When Rose's triumphant voice had died away, the gaoler was hastily bidden to bring the other two prisoners. The Commissioners were very much annoyed. It was a bad thing for the people who stood by, they thought, when martyrs insisted on singing in response to a sentence of execution. They wanted to make the spectators forget such scenes. "Well, where be the prisoners?" said Sir John Kingston. "Please, your Worships, they be at the bar!" answered the gaolor, with a grin. "At the bar, man? But I see nought. Be they dwarfs?" "Something like," said the gaoler. He dragged up a form to the bar, and lifted on it, first, Will Johnson, and then Cissy. "Good lack! such babes as these!" said Sir John, in great perplexity. He felt it really very provoking. Here was a girl of twenty who had made fun of him in the most merciless manner, and had the audacity to sing when condemned to die, thus setting a shocking example, and awakening the sympathy of the public: and here, to make matters worse, were two little children brought up as heretics! This would never do. It was the more awkward from his point of view, that Cissy was so small that he took her to be much younger than she was. "I cannot examine these babes!" said he to Chedsey. Dr Chedsey, in answer, took the examination on himself. "How old art thou, my lad?" said he to Will. Will made no answer, and his sister spoke up for him. "Please, sir, he's six." "And what dost thou believe?" asked the Commissioner, half scornfully, half amused. "Please, we believe what Father told us." "Who is their father?" was asked of the gaoler. "Johnson, worshipful Sirs: Alegar, of Thorpe, that you have sentenced this morrow." "Gramercy!" said Sir John. "Take them down, Wastborowe,--take them down, and carry them away. Have them up another day. Such babes!" Cissy heard him, and felt insulted, as a young woman of her age naturally would. "Please, Sir, I'm not a baby! Baby's a baby, but Will's six, and I'm going in ten. And we are going to be as good as we can, and mind all Father said to us." "Take them away--take them away!" cried Sir John. Wastborowe lifted Will down. "But please--" said Cissy piteously--"isn't nothing to be done to us? Mayn't we go 'long of Father?" "Ay, for the present," answered Wastborowe, as he took a hand of each to lead them back. "But isn't Father to be burned?" "Come along! I can't stay," said the gaoler hastily. Even his hard heart shrank from answering yes to that little pleading face. "But please, oh please, they mustn't burn Father and not us! We _must_ go with Father." "Wastborowe!" Sir John's voice called back. "Take 'em down, Tom," said Wastborowe to his man,--not at all sorry to go away from Cissy. He ran back to court. "We are of opinion, Wastborowe," said Dr Chedsey rather pompously, "that these children are too young and ignorant to be put to the bar. We make order, therefore, that they be discharged, and set in care of some good Catholic woman, if any be among their kindred; and if not, let them be committed to the care of some such not akin to them." "Please, your Worships, I know nought of their kindred," said the gaoler scratching his head. "Jane Hiltoft hath the babe at this present." "What, is there a lesser babe yet?" asked Dr Chedsey, laughing. "Ay, there is so: a babe in arms." "Worshipful Sirs, might it please you to hear a poor woman?" "Speak on, good wife." "Sirs," said the woman who had spoken, coming forward out of the crowd, "my name is Ursula Felstede, and I dwell at Thorpe, the next door to Johnson. The babes know me, and have been in my charge aforetime. May I pray your good Worships to set them in my care? I have none of mine own, and would bring them up to mine utmost as good subjects and honest folks." "Ay so? and how about good Catholics?" "Sirs, Father Tye will tell you I go to mass and confession both." "So she doth," said the priest: "but I misdoubt somewhat if she be not of the `halting Gospellers' whereof we heard this morrow in the Moot Hall." "Better put them in charge of the Black Sisters of Hedingham," suggested Dr Chedsey. "Come you this even, good woman, to the White Hart, and you shall then hear our pleasure. Father Tye, I pray you come with us to supper." Dr Chedsey had quite recovered from his emotions of the morning. "Meanwhile," said Sir John, rising, "let the morrow of Lammas be appointed for the execution of those sentenced." [See note 2.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Rose's words are given as she spoke them: but it must be remembered that they would not sound nearly so strong to those who heard them as they do to us. Note 2. Lammas is the second of August. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. MAN PROPOSES. Mrs Cosin, the landlady of the White Hart, prepared a very good supper for the Commissioners. These gentlemen did not fare badly. First, they had a dish of the oysters for which the town was famous, then some roast beef and a big venison pasty, then some boiled pigeons, then two or three puddings, a raspberry pie, curds and whey, cheese, with a good deal of Malmsey wine and old sack, finishing up with cherries and sweet biscuits. They had reached the cherry stage before they began to talk beyond mere passing remarks. Then the priest said:-- "I am somewhat feared, Master Commissioners, you shall reckon Colchester an infected place, seeing there be here so many touched with the poison of heresy." "It all comes of self-conceit," said Sir John. "Nay," answered Dr Chedsey. "Self-conceit is scarce wont to bring a man to the stake. It were more like to save him from it." "Well, but why can't they let things alone?" inquired Sir John, helping himself to a biscuit. "They know well enough what they shall come to if they meddle with matters of religion. Why don't they leave the priest to think for them?" Dr Chedsey was silent: not because he did not know the answer. The time was when he, too, had been one of those now despised and condemned Gospellers. In Edward the Sixth's day, he had preached the full, rich Gospel of the grace of God: and now he was a deserter to the enemy. Some of such men--perhaps most--grew very hard and stony, and seemed to take positive pleasure in persecuting those who were more faithful than themselves: but there were a few with whom the Spirit of God continued to strive, who now and then remembered from whence they had fallen, and to whom that remembrance brought poignant anguish when it came upon them. Dr Chedsey appears to have been one of this type. Let us hope that these wandering sheep came home at last in the arms of the Good Shepherd who sought them with such preserving tenderness. But the sad truth is that we scarcely know with certainty of one who did so. On the accession of Elizabeth, when we might have expected them to come forward and declare their repentance if it were sincere, they did no such thing: they simply dropped into oblivion, and we lose them there. It is a hard and bitter thing to depart from God: how hard, and how bitter, only those know in this world who try to turn round and come back. It will be known fully in that other world whence there is no coming back. Dr Chedsey, then, was silent: not because he did not understand the matter, but because he knew it too well. Sir John had said the Protestants "knew what they would come to": that was the stake and the fire. But those who persecuted Christ in the person of His elect--what were they going to come to? It was not pleasant to think about that. Dr Chedsey was very glad that it was just then announced that a woman begged leave to speak with their Worships. "It shall be yon woman that would fain take the children, I cast no doubt," said Sir John: "and we have had no talk thereupon. Shall she have them or no?" "What say you, Father Tye?" "Truly, that I have not over much trust in Felstede's wife. She was wont of old time to have Bible-readings and prayer-meetings at her house; and though she feigneth now to be reconciled and Catholic, yet I doubt her repentance is but skin deep. The children were better a deal with the Black Nuns. Yet--there may be some time ere we can despatch them thither, and if you thought good, Felstede's wife might have them till then." "Good!" said Sir John. "Call the woman in." Ursula Felstede was called in, and stood courtesying at the door. Sir John put on his stern and pompous manner in speaking to her. "It seemeth best to the Queen's Grace's Commission," said he, "that these children were sent in the keeping of the Sisters of Hedingham: yet as time may elapse ere the Prioress cometh to town, we leave them in thy charge until she send for them. Thou shalt keep them well, learn them to be good Catholics, and deliver them to the Black Nuns when they demand it." Ursula courtesied again, and "hoped she should do her duty." "So do I hope," said the priest. "But I give thee warning, Ursula Felstede, that thy duty hath not been over well done ere this: and 'tis high time thou shouldst amend if thou desire not to be brought to book." Ursula dropped half-a-dozen courtesies in a flurried way. "Please it, your Reverence, I am a right true Catholic, and shall learn the children so to be." "Mind thou dost!" said Sir John. Dr Chedsey meanwhile had occupied himself in writing out an order for the children to be delivered to Ursula, to which he affixed the seal of the Commission. Armed with this paper, and having taken leave of the Commissioners, with many protests that she would "do her duty," Ursula made her way to the Castle gate. "Who walks so late?" asked the porter, looking out of his little wicket to see who it was. "Good den, Master Style. I am James Felstede's wife of Thorpe, and I come with an order from their Worships the Commissioners to take Johnson's children to me; they be to dwell in my charge till the Black Sisters shall send for them." "Want 'em to-night?" asked the porter rather gruffly. "Well, what say you?--are they abed? I'm but a poor woman, and cannot afford another walk from Thorpe. I'd best take 'em with me now." "You're never going back to Thorpe to-night?" "Well, nay. I'm going to tarry the night at my brother's outside East Gate." "Bless the woman! then call for the children in the morning, and harry not honest folk out o' their lives at bed-time." And Style dashed the wicket to. "Now, then, Kate! be those loaves ready? The rogues shall be clamouring for their suppers," cried he to his wife. Katherine Style, who baked the prison bread, brought out in answer a large tray, on which three loaves of bread were cut in thick slices, with a piece of cheese and a bunch of radishes laid on each. These were for the supper of the prisoners. Style shouted for the gaoler, and he came up and carried the tray into the dungeon, followed by the porter, who was in rather a funny mood, and--as I am sorry to say is often the case--was not, in his fun, careful of other people's feelings. "Now, Johnson, hast thou done with those children?" said he. "Thou'd best make thy last dying speech and confession to 'em, for they're going away to-morrow morning." Johnson looked up with a grave, white face. Little Cissy, who was sitting by Rose Allen, at once ran to her father, and twined her arm in his, with an uneasy idea of being parted from him, though she did not clearly understand what was to happen. "Where?" was all Johnson seemed able to say. "Black Nuns of Hedingham," said the porter. He did not say anything about the temporary sojourn with Ursula Felstede. Johnson groaned and drew Cissy closer to him. "Don't be feared, Father," said Cissy bravely, though her lips quivered till she could hardly speak. "Don't be feared: we'll never do anything you've told us not." "God bless thee, my darling, and God help thee!" said the poor father. "Little Cissy, He must be thy Father now." And looking upwards, he said, "Lord, take the charge that I give into Thine hands this night! Be Thou the Father to these fatherless little ones, and lead them forth by a smooth way or a rough, so it be the right way, whereby they shall come to Thy holy hill, and to Thy tabernacle. Keep them as the apple of Thine eye; hide them under the covert of Thy wings! I am no more in the world; but these are in the world: keep them through Thy Name. Give them back safe to my Helen and to me in the land that is very far-off, whereinto there shall enter nothing that defileth. Lord, I trust them to no man, but only unto Thee! Here me, O Lord my God, for I rest on Thee. Let no man prevail against Thee. I have no might against this company that cometh against me, neither know I what to do; but mine eyes are upon Thee." CHAPTER THIRTY. "THEY WON'T MAKE ME!" "What! Agnes Bongeor taken to the Moot Hall? Humph! they'll be a-coming for me next. I must get on with my work. Let's do as much as we can for the Lord, ere we're called to suffer for Him. Thou tookest my message to Master Commissary, Doll?" Dorothy Denny murmured something which did not reach the ear of Mrs Wade. "Speak up, woman! I say, thou tookest my message?" "Well, Mistress, I thought--" "A fig for thy thought! Didst give my message touching Johnson's children?" "N-o, Mistress, I,--" "Beshrew thee for an unfaithful messenger. Dost know what the wise King saith thereof? He says it is like a foot out of joint. Hadst ever thy foot out o' joint? I have, and I tell thee, if thou hadst the one foot out of joint, thou wouldst not want t'other. I knew well thou wert an ass, but I did not think thee unfaithful. Why didst not give my message?" There were tears in Dorothy's eyes. "Mistress," said she, "forgive me, but I will not help you to run into trouble, though you're sore set to do it. It shall serve no good purpose to keep your name for ever before the eyes of Master Commissary and his fellows. Do, pray, let them forget you. You'll ne'er be safe, an' you thrust yourself forward thus." "Safe! Bless the woman! I leave the Lord to see to my safety. I've no care but to get His work done." "Well, then He's the more like to have a care of you; but, Mistress, won't you let Dorothy Denny try to see to you a bit too?" "Thou'rt a good maid, Doll, though I'm a bit sharp on thee at times; and thou knows thou art mortal slow. Howbeit, tell me, what is come of those children? If they be in good hands, I need not trouble." "Ursula Felstede has them, Mistress, till the Black Nuns of Hedingham shall fetch them away." "Ursula Felstede! `Unstable as water.' That for Ursula Felstede. Black Nuns shall not have 'em while Philippa Wade's above ground. I tell thee, Dorothy, wherever those little ones go, the Lord's blessing 'll go with them. Dost mind what David saith? `I have been young, and now am old; and yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.' And I want them, maid,--part because I feel for the little ones, and part because I want the blessing. Why, that poor little Cicely 'll be crying her bits of eyes out to part with `Father.' Doll, I'll go down this even, if I may find leisure, to Ursula Felstede, and see if I cannot win her to give me the children. I shall tell her my mind first, as like as not: and much good may it do her! But I'll have a try for 'em--I will." "Folks saith, Mistress, the prisoners be in as good case as may be: always reading and strengthening one another, and praising God." "I'm fain to hear it, Dorothy. Ah, they be not the worst off in this town. If the Lord were to come to judge the earth this even, I'd a deal liefer be one of them in the Moot Hall than be of them that have them in charge. I marvel He comes not. If he had been a man and not God, He'd have been down many a time afore now." About six o'clock on a hot July evening, Ursula Felstede heard a tap at her door. "Come in! O Mistress Wade, how do you do? Will you sit? I'm sure you're very welcome," said Ursula, in some confusion. "I'm not quite so sure of it, Ursula Felstede: but let be. You've Johnson's children here, haven't you?" "Ay, I have so: and I tell you that Will's a handful! Seems to me he's worser to rule than he used. He's getting bigger, trow." "And Cicely?" "Oh, she's quiet enough, only a bit obstinate. Won't always do as she's told. I have to look after her sharp, or she'd be off, I do believe." "I'd like to see her, an't please you." "Well, to be sure! I sent 'em out to play them a bit. I don't just know where they are." "Call that looking sharp after 'em?" Ursula laughed a little uneasily. "Well, one can't be just a slave to a pack of children, can one? I'll look out and see if they are in sight." "Thank you, I'll do that, without troubling you. Now, Ursula Felstede, I've one thing to say to you, so I'll say it and get it over. Those children of Johnson's have the Lord's wings over them: they'll be taken care of, be sure: but if you treat them ill, or if you meddle with what their father learned them, you'll have to reckon with Him instead of the Queen's Commissioners. And I'd a deal sooner have the Commissioners against me than have the Lord. Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that they can do but fear Him which after He hath killed, hath power to cast into Hell. Yea, I say unto thee, Fear Him!" And Mrs Wade walked out of the door without saying another word. She was going to look for the children. The baby she had already seen asleep on Ursula's bed. Little Will she found in the midst of a group of boys down by the brook, one of whom, a lad twice his size, was just about to fight him when Mrs Wade came up. "Now, Jack Tyler, if thou dost not want to be carried to thy father by the scuff of thy neck, like a cat, and well thrashed to end with, let that lad alone.--Will, where's thy sister?" Little Will, who looked rather sheepish, said,-- "Over there." "Where's _there_?" "On the stile. She's always there when we're out, except she's looking after me." "Thou lackest looking after." "Philip Tye said he'd see to me: and then he went off with Jem Morris, bird-nesting." "Cruel lads! well, you're a proper lot! It'd do you good, and me too, to give you a caning all round. I shall have to let be to-night, for I want to find Cicely." "Well, you'll see her o' top o' the stile." Little Will turned back to his absorbing amusement of bulrush-plaiting, and Mrs Wade went up to the stile which led to the way over the fields towards Colchester. As she came near, sheltered by the hedge, she heard a little voice. "Yea, though I walk in vale of death, Yet will I fear no ill: Thy rod, Thy staff, doth comfort me, And Thou art with me still." Mrs Wade crept softly along till she could see through the hedge. The stile was a stone one, with steps on each side, such as may still be seen in the north of England: and on the top step sat Cissy, resting her head upon her hand, and looking earnestly in the direction of Colchester. "What dost there, my dear heart?" Mrs Wade asked gently. "I'm looking at Father," said Cissy, rather languidly. She spoke as if she were not well, and could not care much about anything. "`Looking at Father'! What dost thou mean, my child?" "Well, you see that belt of trees over yonder? When the sun shines, I can see All Hallows' tower stand up against it. You can't see it to-day: it does not shine; but it's there for all that. And Father's just behind in the Castle: so I haven't any better way to look at him. Only God looks at him, you know; they can't bar Him out. So I come here, and look as far as I can, and talk to God about Father. I can't see Father, but he's there: and I can't see God, but He's there too: and He's got to see to Father now I can't." The desolate tone of utter loneliness in the little voice touched Mrs Wade to the core of her great warm heart. "My poor little Cicely!" she said. "Doth Ursula use thee well?" "Yes, I suppose so," said Cissy, in a quiet matter-of-fact way; "only when I won't pray to her big image, she slaps me. But she can't make me do it. Father said not. It would never do for God to see us doing things Father forbade us, because he's shut up and can't come to us. I'm not going to pray to that ugly thing: never! And if it was pretty, it wouldn't make any difference, when Father said not." "No, dear heart, that were idolatry," said Mrs Wade. "Yes, I know," replied Cissy: "Father said so. But Ursula says the Black Sisters will make me, or they'll put me in the well. I do hope God will keep away the Black Sisters. I ask Him every day, when I've done talking about Father. I shouldn't like them to put me in the well!" and she shuddered. Evidently Ursula had frightened her very much with some story about this. "But God would be there, in the well, wouldn't He? They won't make me do it when Father said not!" CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. SUMPTUOUS APARTMENTS. "Well, be sure! who ever saw such a lad? Sent out to play at four o' the clock, and all o'er mud at five! Where hast thou been, Will? Speak the truth, now!" "Been down by the brook rush-plaiting," said little Will, looking as if his mind were not quite made up whether to cry or to be sulky. "The mischievousness of lads! Didn't I tell thee to mind and keep thy clothes clean?" "You're always after clothes! How could I plait rushes and keep 'em clean?" "And who told you to plait rushes, Master Impudence? Take that." _That_ was a sound box on the ear which Ursula delivered by way of illustration to her remarks. "What's become o' Phil Tye? I thought he was going to look after thee." "Well, he did, a bit: then he and Jem Morris went off bird-nesting." "I'll give it him when I see him! Where's Cicely?" "She's somewhere," said Will, looking round the cottage, as if he expected to see her in some corner. "I reckon I could have told thee so much. Did Mistress Wade find you?" "She was down at the brook: but she went after Cis." "Well, thou'lt have to go to bed first thing, for them clothes must be washed." Will broke into a howl. "It isn't bed-time nor it isn't washing-day!" "It's bed-time when thou'rt bidden to go. As to washing-day, it's always washing-day where thou art. Never was such a boy, I do believe, for getting into the mud. Thou'rt worser ten times o'er than thou wert. I do wish lads 'd stop babes till they're men, that one could tuck 'em in the cradle and leave 'em! There's never a bit of peace! I would the Black Ladies 'd come for you. I shall be mighty thankful when they do, be sure." "Mistress Wade 'll have us," suggested Master William, briskly, looking up at Ursula. "Hold that pert tongue o' thine! Mistress Wade's not like to have you. You're in my care, and I've no leave to deliver you to any save the Black Ladies." "Well! I wouldn't mind camping out a bit, if you're so set to be rid of us," said Will, reflectively. "There's a blanket you've got rolled up in the loft, that 'd make a tent, and we could cut down poles, if you'll lend us an axe; and--" "You cut down poles! Marry come up! You're not about to have any of my blankets, nor my axes neither." "It wouldn't be so bad," Will went on, still in a meditative key, "only for dinner. I don't see where we should get that." "I see that you're off to bed this minute, and don't go maundering about tents and axes. You cut down poles! you'd cut your fingers off, more like. Now then, be off to the loft! Not another word! March!" Just as Ursula was sweeping Will upstairs before her, a rap came on the door. "There! didn't I say a body never had a bit of peace?--Go on, Will, and get to bed; and mind thou leaves them dirty clothes on the floor by theirselves: don't go to dirt everything in the room with 'em.--Walk in, Mistress Wade! So you found Cis?" "Ay, I found her," said the landlady, as she and Cissy came in together. "Cis, do thou go up, maid, and see to Will a bit. He's come in all o'er mud and mire, and I sent him up to bed, but there's no trusting him to go. See he does, prithee, and cast his clothes into the tub yonder, there's a good maid." Cissy knew very well that Ursula spoke so amiably because Mrs Wade was there to hear her. She went up to look after her little brother, and the landlady turned to Ursula. "Now, Ursula Felstede, I want these children." "Then you must ask leave from the Queen's Commissioners, Mistress Wade. Eh, I couldn't give 'em up if it were ever so! I daren't, for the life o' me!" Mrs Wade begged, coaxed, lectured, and almost threatened her, but for once Ursula was firm. She dared not give up the children, and she was quite honest in saying so. Mrs Wade had to go home without them. As she came up, very weary and unusually dispirited, to the archway of the King's Head, she heard voices from within. "I tell you she's not!" said Dorothy Denny's voice in a rather frightened tone; "she went forth nigh four hours agone, and whither I know not." "That's an inquiry for me," said Mrs Wade to herself, as she sprang down from her old black mare, and gave her a pat before dismissing her to the care of the ostler, who ran up to take her. "Good Jenny! good old lass!--Is there any company, Giles?" she asked of the ostler. "Mistress, 'tis Master Maynard the Sheriff and he's making inquiration for you. I would you could ha' kept away a bit longer!" "Dost thou so, good Giles? Well, I would as God would. The Sheriff had best have somebody else to deal with him than Doll and Bab." And she went forward into the kitchen. Barbara, her younger servant, who was only a girl, stood leaning against a dresser, looking very white and frightened, with the rolling-pin in her hand; she had evidently been stopped in the middle of making a pie. Dorothy stood on the hearth, fronting the terrible Sheriff, who was armed with a writ, and evidently did not mean to leave before he had seen the mistress. "I am here, Mr Maynard, if you want me," said Mrs Wade, quite calmly. "Well said," answered the Sheriff, turning to her. "I have here a writ for your arrest, my mistress, and conveyance to the Bishop's Court at London, there to answer for your ill deeds." "I am ready to answer for all my deeds, good and ill, to any that have a right to question me. I will go with you.--Bab, go and tell Giles to leave the saddle on Jenny.--Doll, here be my keys; take them, and do the best thou canst. I believe thee honest and well-meaning, but I'm feared the house shall ne'er keep up its credit. Howbeit, that cannot be helped. Do thy best, and the Lord be with you! As to directions, I were best to leave none; maybe they should but hamper thee, and set thee in perplexity. Keep matters clean, and pay as thou goest--thou wist where to find the till; and fear God--that's all I need say. And if it come in thy way to do a kind deed for any, and in especial those poor little children that thou wist of, do it, as I would were I here: ay, and let Cissy know when all's o'er with her father. And pray for me, and I'll do as much for thee--that we may do our duty and please God, and for bodily safety let it be according to His will.--Now, Master Maynard, I am ready." Four days later, several strokes were rang on the great bell of the Bishop's Palace at Fulham. The gaoler came to his gate when summoned by the porter. "Here's a prisoner up from Colchester--Philippa Wade, hostess of the King's Head there. Have you room?" "Room and to spare. Heresy, I reckon?" "Ay, heresy,--the old tale. There must be a nest of it yonder down in Essex." "There's nought else all o'er the country, methinks," said the gaoler with a laugh. "Come in, Mistress; I'll show you your lodging. His Lordship hath an apartment in especial, furnished of polished black oak, that he keepeth for such as you. Pray you follow me." Mrs Wade followed the jocose gaoler along a small paved passage between two walls, and through a low door, which the gaoler barred behind her, himself outside, and then opened a little wicket through which to speak. "Pray you, sit down, my mistress, on whichsoever of the chairs you count desirable. The furniture is all of one sort, fair and goodly; far-fetched and dear-bought, which is good for gentlewomen, and liketh them: fast colours the broidery, I do ensure you." Mrs Wade looked round, so far as she could see by the little wicket, everything was black--even the floor, which was covered with black shining lumps of all shapes and sizes. She touched one of the lumps. There, could be no doubt of its nature. The "polished black oak" furniture was cobs of coal, and the sumptuous apartment wherein she was to--lodged was Bishop Bonner's coal-cellar. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. "READY! AY, READY!" It was the evening of the first of August. The prisoners in the Castle, now reduced to four--the Mounts, Rose, and Johnson--had held their Bible-reading and their little evening prayer-meeting, and sat waiting for supper. John and Margaret Thurston, who had been with them until that day, were taken away in the morning to undergo examination, and had not returned. The prisoners had not yet heard when they were to die. They only knew that it would be soon, and might be any day. Yet we are told they remained in their dungeons "with much joy and great comfort, in continual reading and invocating the name of God, ever looking and expecting the happy day of their dissolution." We should probably feel more inclined to call it a horrible day. But they called it a happy day. They expected to change their prison for a palace, and their prison bonds for golden harps, and the prison fare for the fruit or the Tree of Life, and the company of scoffers and tormentors for that of Seraphim and Cherubim, and the blessed dead: and above all, to see His Face who had laid down His life for them. Supper was late that evening. They could hear voices outside, with occasional exclamations of surprise, and now and then a peal of laughter. At length the door was unlocked, and the gaoler's man came in with four trenchers, piled on each other, on each of which was laid a slice of rye-bread and a piece of cheese. He served out one to each prisoner. "Want your appetites sharpened?" said he with a sarcastic laugh. "Because, if you do, there's news for you." "Prithee let us hear it, Bartle," answered Mount, quietly. "Well, first, writs is come down. Moot Hall prisoners suffer at six to-morrow, on the waste by Lexden Road, and you'll get your deserving i' th' afternoon, in the Castle yard." "God be praised!" solemnly responded William Mount, and the others added an Amen. "Well, you're a queer set!" said Bartle, looking at them. "I shouldn't want to thank nobody for it, if so be I was going to be hanged: and that's easier of the two." "We are only going Home," answered William Mount. "The climb may be steep, but there is rest and ease at the end thereof." "Well, you seem mighty sure on't. I know nought. Priests say you'll find yourselves in a worser place nor you think." "Nay! God is faithful," said Johnson. "Have it your own way. I wish you might, for you seem to me a deal tidier folks than most that come our way. Howbeit, my news isn't all told. Alegar, your brats be gone to Hedingham." "God go with them!" replied Johnson; but he seemed much sadder to hear this than he had done for his own doom. "And Margaret Thurston's recanted. She's reconciled and had to better lodging." It was evident, though to Bartle's astonishment, that the prisoners considered this the worst news of all. "And John Thurston?" "Ah, they aren't so sure of him. They think he'll bear a faggot, but it's not certain yet." "God help and strengthen him!" "And Mistress Wade, of the King's Head, is had up to London to the Bishop." "God grant her His grace!" "I've told you all now. Good-night." The greeting was returned, and Bartle went out. He was commissioned to carry the writ down to the Moot Hall. Not many minutes later, Wastborowe entered the dungeon with the writ in his hand. The prisoners were conversing over their supper, but the sight of that document brought silence without any need to call for it. "Hearken!" said Wastborowe. "At six o'clock in the morning, on the waste piece by Lexden Road, shall suffer the penalty of the law these men and women underwritten:--William Bongeor, Thomas Benold, Robert _alias_ William Purcas, Agnes Silverside _alias_ Downes _alias_ Smith _alias_ May, Helen Ewring, Elizabeth Foulkes, Agnes Bowyer." With one accord, led by Mr Benold, the condemned prisoners stood up and thanked God. "`Agnes Bowyer'," repeated Wastborowe in some perplexity. "Your name's not Bowyer; it's Bongeor." "Bongeor," said its bearer. "Is my name wrong set down? Pray you, Mr Wastborowe, have it put right without delay, that I be not left out." "I should think you'd be uncommon glad if you were!" said he. "Nay, but in very deed it should grieve me right sore," she replied earnestly. "Let there not be no mistake, I do entreat you." "I'll see to it," said Wastborowe, as he left the prison. The prisoners had few preparations to make. Each had a garment ready--a long robe of white linen, falling straight from the neck to the ankles, with sleeves which buttoned at the wrist. There were many such robes made during the reign of Mary--types of those fairer white robes which would be "given to every one of them," when they should have crossed the dark valley, and come out into the light of the glory of God. Only Agnes Bongeor and Helen Ewring had something else to part with. With Agnes in her prison was a little baby only a few weeks old, and she must bid it good-bye, and commit it to the care of some friend. Helen Ewring had to say farewell to her husband, who came to see her about four in the morning; and to the surprise of Elizabeth Foulkes, she found herself summoned also to an interview with her widowed mother and her uncle Holt. "Why, Mother!" exclaimed Elizabeth in astonishment, "I never knew you were any where nigh." "Didst thou think, my lass, that aught 'd keep thy mother away from thee when she knew? I've been here these six weeks, a-waiting to hear. Eh, my pretty mawther, [see note 1] but to see this day! I've looked for thee to be some good man's wife, and a happy woman,--such a good maid as thou always wast!--and now! Well, well! the will of the Lord be done!" "A happy woman, Mother!" said Elizabeth with her brightest smile. "In all my life I never was so happy as this day! This is my wedding day-- nay, this is my crowning day! For ere the sun be high this day, I shall have seen the Face of Christ, and have been by Him presented faultless before the light of the glory of God. Mother, rejoice with me, and rejoice for me, for I can do nothing save rejoice. Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, good-will towards men!" There was glory to God, but little good-will towards men, when the six prisoners were marched out into High Street, on their way to martyrdom. Yet only one sorrowful heart was in the dungeon of the Moot Hall, and that was Agnes Bongeor's, who lamented bitterly that owing to the mis-spelling of her name in the writ, she was not allowed to make the seventh. She actually put on her robe of martyrdom, in the _hope_ that she might be reckoned among the sufferers. Now, when she learned that she was not to be burned that day, her distress was poignant. "Let me go with them!" she cried. "Let me go and give my life for Christ! Alack the day! The Lord counts me not worthy." The other six prisoners were led, tied together, two and two, through High Street and up to the Head Gate. First came William Bongeor and Thomas Benold; then Mrs Silverside and Mrs Ewring; last, Robert Purcas and Elizabeth Foulkes. They were led out of the Head Gate, to "a plot of ground hard by the town wall, on the outward side," beside the Lexden Road. There stood three great wooden stakes, with a chain affixed to each. The clock of Saint Mary-at-Walls struck six as they reached the spot. Around the stakes a multitude were gathered to see the sight. Mr Ewring, with set face, trying to force a smile for his wife's encouragement; Mrs Foulkes, gazing with clasped hands and tearful eyes on her daughter; Thomas Holt and all his family; Mr Ashby and all his; Ursula Felstede, looking very unhappy; Dorothy Denny, looking very sad; old Walter Purcas, leaning on his staff, from time to time shaking his white head as if in bitter lamentation; a little behind the others, Mrs Clere and Amy; and in front, busiest of the busy, Sir Thomas Tye and Nicholas Clere. There they all were, ready and waiting, to see the Moot Hall prisoners die. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Girl. This is a Suffolk provincialism. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. HOW THEY WENT HOME. Arrived at the spot where they were to suffer, the prisoners knelt down to pray: "but not in such sort as they would, for the cruel tyrants would not suffer them." Foremost of their tormentors at this last moment was Nicholas Clere, who showed an especial spite towards Elizabeth Foulkes, and interrupted her dying prayers to the utmost of his power. When Elizabeth rose from her knees and took off her outer garments--underneath which she wore the prepared robe--she asked the Bailiff's leave to give her petticoat to her mother; it was all the legacy in her power to leave. Even this poor little comfort was denied her. The clothes of the sufferers were the perquisite of the Sheriffs' men, and they would not give them up. Elizabeth smiled--she did nothing but smile that morning--and cast the petticoat on the ground. "Farewell, all the world!" she said. "Farewell, Faith! farewell, Hope!" Then she took the stake in her arms and kissed it. "Welcome, Love!" Ay, faith and hope were done with now. A few moments, and faith would be lost in sight; hope would be lost in joy; but love would abide for ever and ever. Her mother came up and kissed her. "My blessed dear," she said, "be strong in the Lord!" They chained the two elder men at one stake; the two women at another: Elizabeth and Robert together at the last. The Sheriff's men put the chain round them both, and hammered the other end fast, so that they should not attempt to escape. Escape! none of them dreamed of such a thing. They cared neither for pain nor shame. To their eyes Heaven itself was open, and the Lord Christ, on the right hand of the Father, would rise to receive His servants. Nor did they say much to each other. There would be time for that when all was over! Were they not going the journey together? would they not dwell in happy company, through the long years of eternity? The man who was nailing the chain close to where Elizabeth stood accidentally let his hammer slip. He had not intended to hurt her; but the hammer came down heavily upon her shoulder and made a severe wound. She turned her head to him and smiled on him. Then she lifted up her eyes to heaven and prayed. Her last few moments were spent in alternate prayer and exhortation of the crowd. The torch was applied to the firewood and tar-barrels heaped around them. As the flame sprang up, the six martyrs clapped their hands: and from the bystanders a great cry rose to heaven,-- "The Lord strengthen them! the Lord comfort them! the Lord pour His mercies upon them!" Ah, it was not England, but Rome, who burned those Marian martyrs! The heart of England was sound and true; she was a victim, not a persecutor. Just as the flame reached its fiercest heat, there was a slight cry in the crowd, which parted hither and thither as a girl was borne out of it insensible. She had fainted after uttering that cry. It was no wonder, said those who stood near: the combined heat of the August sun and the fire was scarcely bearable. She would come round shortly if she were taken into the shade to recover. Half-an-hour afterwards nothing could be seen beside the Lexden Road but the heated and twisted chains, with fragments of charred wood and of grey ashes. The crowd had gone home. And the martyrs had gone home too. No more should the sun light upon them, nor any heat. The Lamb in the midst of the Throne had led them to living fountains of water, and they were comforted for evermore. "Who was that young woman that swooned and had to be borne away?" asked a woman in the crowd of another, as they made their way back into the town. The woman appealed to was Audrey Wastborowe. "Oh, it was Amy Clere of the Magpie," said she. "The heat was too much for her, I reckon." "Ay, it was downright hot," said the neighbour. Something beside the heat had been too much for Amy Clere. The familiar face of Elizabeth Foulkes, with that unearthly smile upon it, had gone right to the girl's heart. For Amy had a heart, though it had been overlaid by a good deal of rubbish. The crowd did not disperse far. They were gathered again in the afternoon in the Castle yard, when the Mounts and Johnson and Rose Allen were brought out to die. They came as joyfully as their friends had done, "calling upon the name of God, and exhorting the people earnestly to flee from idolatry." Once more the cry rose up from the whole crowd,-- "Lord, strengthen them, and comfort them, and pour Thy mercy upon them!" And the Lord heard and answered. Joyfully, joyfully they went home and the happy company who had stood true, and had been faithful unto death, were all gathered together for ever in the starry halls above. To two other places the cry penetrated: to Agnes Bongeor weeping in the Moot Hall because she was shut out from that blessed company; and to Margaret Thurston in her "better lodging" in the Castle, who had shut herself out, and had bought life by the denial of her Lord. The time is not far-off when we too shall be asked to choose between these two alternatives. Not, perhaps, between earthly life and death (though it may come to that): but between faith and unfaithfulness, between Christ and idols, between the love that will give up all and the self-love that will endure nothing. Which shall it be with you? Will you add your voice to the side which tamely yields the priceless treasures purchased for us by these noble men and women at this awful cost? or will you meet the Romanising enemy with a firm front, and a shout of "No fellowship with idols!--no surrender of the liberty which our fathers bought with their heart's blood!" God grant you grace to choose the last! When Mrs Clere reached the Magpie, she went up to Amy's room, and found her lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall. "Amy! what ailed thee, my maid?--art better now?" "Mother, we're all wrong!" "Dear heart, what does the child mean?" inquired the puzzled mother. "Has the sun turned thy wits out o' door?" "The sun did nought to me, mother. It was Bessie's face that I could not bear. Bessie's face, that I knew so well--the face that had lain beside me on this pillow over and over again--and that smile upon her lips, as if she were half in Heaven already--Mother it was dreadful! I felt as if the last day were come, and the angels were shutting me out." "Hush thee, child, hush thee! 'Tis not safe to speak such things. Heretics go to the ill place, as thou very well wist." "Names don't matter, do they, Mother? It is truth that signifies. Whatever names they please to call Bessie Foulkes, she had Heaven and not Hell in her face. That smile of hers never came from Satan. I know what his smiles are like: I've seen them on other faces afore now. He never had nought to do with her." "Amy, if thy father hears thee say such words as those, he'll be proper angry, be sure!" Amy sat up on the bed. "Mother, you know that Bessie Foulkes loved God, and feared Him, and cared to please Him, as you and I never did in all our lives. Do folks that love God go to Satan? Does He punish people because they want to please Him? I know little enough about it, alack-the-day! but if an angel came from Heaven to tell me Bessie wasn't there this minute, I could not believe him." "Well, well! think what you will, child, only don't say it! I've nothing against Bess being in Heaven, not I! I hope she may be, poor lass. But thou knowest thy father's right set against it all, and the priests too; and, Amy, I don't want to see _thee_ on the waste by Lexden Road. Just hold thy tongue, wilt thou? or thou'lt find thyself in the wrong box afore long." "Mother, I don't think Bessie Foulkes is sorry for what happened this morning." "Maybe not, but do hold thy peace!" "I can hold my peace if you bid me, Mother. I've not been a good girl, but I mean to try and be better. I don't feel as if I should ever care again for the gewgaws and the merrymakings that I used to think all the world of. It's like as if I'd had a glimpse into Heaven as she went in, and the world had lost its savour. But don't be feared, Mother; I'll not vex you, nor Father neither, if you don't wish me to talk. Only-- nobody 'll keep me from trying to go after Bessie!" CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. DOROTHY TAKES A MESSAGE. "Now then, attend, can't you? How much sugar?" "Please, Sister Mary, my head does ache so!" "No excuses, Cicely! Answer at once." A long sobbing sigh preceded the words--"Half a pound." "Now get to your sewing. Cicely, I must be obeyed; and you are a right perverse child as one might look for with the training you have had. Let me hear no more about headache: it's nothing but nonsense." "But my head does ache dreadfully, Sister." "Well, it is your own fault, if it do. Two mortal hours were you crying last night,--the stars know what for!" "It was because I didn't hear nothing about Father," said poor Cissy sorrowfully. "Mistress Wade promised she--" "Mistress Wade--who is that?" "Please, she's the hostess of the King's Head: and she said she would let me know when--" "When what?" "When Father couldn't have any pain ever any more." "Do you mean that you wish to hear your Father is dead, you wicked child?" Cissy looked up wearily into the nun's face. "He's in pain now," she said; "for he is waiting, and knows he will have more. But when it has come, he will have no more, never, but will live with God and be happy for ever and ever. I want to know that Father's happy." "How can these wicked heretics fall into such delusions?" said Sister Mary, looking across the room at Sister Joan, who shook her head in a way which seemed to say that there was no setting any bounds to the delusions of heretics. "Foolish child, thy father is a bad man, and bad men do not go to Heaven." "Father's not a bad man," said Cissy, not angrily, but in a tone of calm persuasion that nothing would shake. "I cry you mercy, Sister Mary, but you don't know him, and somebody has told you wrong. Father's good, and loves God; and people are not bad when they love God and do what He says to them. You're mistaken, please, Sister." "But thy father does not obey God, child, because he does not obey the Church." "Please, I don't know anything about the Church. Father obeys the Bible, and that is God's own Word which He spoke Himself. The Church can't be any better than that." "The Church, for thee, is the priest, who will tell thee how to please God and the Holy Mother, if thou wilt hearken." "But the priest's a man, Sister: and God's Book is a great deal better than that." "The priest is in God's stead, and conveys His commands." "But I've got the commands, Sister Mary, in the Book; and God hasn't written a new one, has He?" "Silly child! the Church is above any Book." "Oh no, it can't be, Sister, please. What Father bade me do his own self must be better than what other people bid me; and so what God says in His own Book must be better than what other people say, and the Church is only people." "Cicely, be silent! Thou art a very silly, perverse child." "I dare say I am, Sister, but I am sure that's true." Sister Joan was on the point of bidding Cissy hold her tongue in a still more authoritative manner, when one of the lay Sisters entered the room, to say that a woman asked permission to speak with one of the teaching Sisters. "What is her name?" "She says her name is Denny." "Denny! I know nobody of that name." "Oh, please, is her name Dorothy?" asked Cissy, eagerly. "If it's Dorothy Denny, Mrs Wade has sent her--she's Mrs Wade's servant. Oh, do let me--" "Silence!" said Sister Mary. "I will go and speak with the woman." She found in the guest-chamber a woman of about thirty, who stood dropping courtesies as if she were very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable Dorothy Denny was. She did not know what "nervous" meant, but she was exceedingly nervous for all that. In the first place, she felt extremely doubtful whether if she trusted herself inside a convent, she would ever have a chance of getting out again; and in the second she was deeply concerned about several things, of which one was Cissy. "What do you want, good woman?" "Please you, Madam, I cry you mercy for troubling of you, but if I might speak a word with the dear child--" "What dear child?" asked the nun placidly. Dorothy's fright grew. Were they going to deny Cissy to her, or even to say that she was not there? "Please you, good Sister, I mean little Cis--Cicely Johnson, an' it like you, that I was sent to with a message from my mistress, the hostess of the King's Head in Colchester." "Cicely Johnson is not now at liberty. You can give the message to me." "May I wait till I can see her?" Plainly, Dorothy was no unfaithful messenger when her own comfort only was to be sacrificed. Sister Mary considered a moment; and then said she would see if Cicely could be allowed to have an interview with her visitor. Bidding Dorothy sit down, she left the room. For quite an hour Dorothy sat waiting, until she began to think the nuns must have forgotten her existence, and to look about for some means of reminding them of it. There were no bells in sitting-rooms at that time, except in the form of a little hand-bell on a table, and for this last Dorothy searched in vain. Then she tried to go out into the passage, in the hope of seeing somebody; but she was terrified to find herself locked in. She did not know what to do. The window was barred with an iron grating; there was no escape that way. Poor Dorothy began to wonder whether, if she found herself a prisoner, she could contrive to climb the chimney, and what would become of her after doing so, when she heard at last the welcome sound of approaching steps, and the key was turned in the lock. The next minute Cissy was in Dorothy's arms. "O Dorothy! dear Dorothy! tell me quick--Father--" Cissy could get no further. "He is at rest, my dear heart, and shall die no more." Cissy was not able to answer for the sobs that choked her voice, and Dorothy smoothed her hair and petted her. "Nay, grieve not thus, sweet heart," she said. "Oh no, it is so wicked of me!" sobbed poor Cissy. "I thought I should have been so glad for Father: and I can only think of me and the children. We've got no father now!" "Nay, my dear heart, thou hast as much as ever thou hadst. He is only gone upstairs and left you down. He isn't dead, little Cissy: he's alive in a way he never was before, and he shall live for ever and ever." Neither Dorothy nor Cissy had noticed that a nun had entered with her, and they were rather startled to hear a voice out of the dark corner by the door. "Take heed, good woman, how thou learn the child such errors. That is only true of great saints; and the man of whom you speak was a wicked heretic." "I know not what sort of folks your saints are," said Dorothy bravely: "but my saints are folks that love God and desire to please Him, and that John Johnson was, if ever a man were in this evil world. An _evil_ tree cannot bring forth good fruit." The nun crossed herself, but she did not answer. "It would be as well if folks would be content to set the bad folks in prison, and let the good ones be," said Dorothy. "Cissy, our mistress is up to London to the Bishop." "Will they do somewhat to her?" "God knoweth!" said Dorothy, shaking her head sorrowfully. "I shall be fain if I may see her back; oh, I shall!" "Oh, I hope they won't!" said Cissy, her eyes filling again with tears. "I love Mistress Wade." CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. NOBODY LEFT FOR CISSY. "Please, Dorothy, what's become of Rose Allen? and Bessy Foulkes? and Mistress Mount, and all of them?" "All gone, my dear heart--all with thy father." "Are they all gone?" said Cissy with another sob, "Isn't there one left?" "Not one of them." "Then if we came out, we shouldn't find nobody?" "Prithee reckon not, Cicely," said the nun, "that thou art likely to come out. There is no such likelihood at all whilst our good Queen reigneth; and if it please God, she shall have a son after her that shall be true to the Catholic faith, as she is, and not suffer evil courses and naughty heretics to be any more in the realm. Ye will abide here till it be plainly seen whether God shall grant to thee and thy sister the grace of a vocation; and if not, it shall be well seen to that ye be in care of good Catholic folk, that shall look to it ye go in the right way. So prithee, suffer not thy fancy to deceive thee with any thought of going forth of this house of religion. When matters be somewhat better established, and the lands whereof the Church hath been robbed are given back to her, and all the religious put back in their houses, or new ones built, then will England be an Isle of Saints as in olden time, and men may rejoice thereat." Cissy listened to this long speech, which she only understood in part, but she gathered that the nuns meant to keep her a prisoner as long as they could. "But Sister Joan," said she, "you don't know, do you, what God is going to do? Perhaps he will give us another good king or queen, like King Edward. I ask Him to do, every day. But, please, what is a vocation?" "Thou dost, thou wicked maid? I never heard thee." "But I don't ask you, Sister Joan. I ask God. And I think He'll do it, too. What is a vocation, please?" "What I'm afeared thou wilt never have, thou sinful heretic child--the call to become a holy Sister." "Who is to call me? I am a sister now; I'm Will's and Baby's sister. Nobody can't call me to be a sister to nobody else," said Cissy, getting very negative in her earnestness. Sister Joan rose from her seat. "The time is up," said she. "Say farewell to thy friend." "Farewell, Dorothy dear," said Cissy, clinging to the one person she knew, who seemed to belong to her past, as she never would have thought of doing to Dorothy Denny in bygone days. "Please give Mistress Wade my duty, when she comes home, and say I'm trying to do as Father bade me, and I'll never, never believe nothing he told me not. You see they couldn't do nothing to me save burn me, as they did Father, and then I should go to Father, and all would be right directly. It's much better for them all that they are safe there, and I'll try to be glad--thought here's nobody left for me. Father'll have company: I must try and think of that. I thought he'd find nobody he knew but Mother, but if they've all gone too, there'll be plenty. And I suppose there'll be some holy angels to look after us, because God isn't gone away, you see: He's there and here too. He'll help me still to look after Will and Baby, now I haven't"--a sob interrupted the words--"haven't got Father. Good-bye, Dolly! Kiss me, please. Nobody never kisses me now." "Thou poor little dear!" cried Dorothy, fairly melted, and sobbing over Cissy as she gave her half-a-dozen kisses at least. "The Lord bless thee, and be good to thee! I'm sure He'll take proper vengeance on every body as isn't. I wouldn't like to be them as ill-used thee. They'll have a proper bill to pay in the next world, if they don't get it in this. Poor little pretty dear!" "You will drink a cup of ale and eat a manchet?" asked Sister Joan of Dorothy. A manchet was a cake of the best bread. "No, I thank you, Sister, I am not a-hungered," was the answer. "But, Dolly, you did not come all the way from Colchester?" said Cissy. "Ay, I did so, my dear, in the miller's cart, and I'm journeying back in the same. I covenanted to meet him down at the end of yonder lane at three o'clock, and methinks I had best be on my way." "Ay, you have no time to lose," responded Sister Joan. Dorothy found Mr Ewring waiting for her at the end of the lane. "Have you had to eat, Dorothy?" was his first question when she had climbed up beside him. "Never a bite or sup in _that_ house, Master, I thank you," was Dorothy's rejoinder. "If I'd been starving o' hunger, I wouldn't have touched a thing." "Have you seen the children?" "I've seen Cissy. That was enough and to spare." "What do they with her?" "They are working hard with both hands to make an angel of her at the soonest--that's what they are doing. It's not what they mean to do. They want to make her a devil, or one of the devil's children, which comes to the same thing: but the Lord 'll not suffer that, or I'm a mistaken woman. They are trying to bend her, and they never will. She'll break first. So they'll break her, and then there'll be no more they can do. That's about where it is, Master Ewring." "Why, Dorothy, I never saw you thus stirred aforetime." "Maybe not. It takes a bit to stir me, but I've got it this even, I can tell you." "I could well-nigh mistake you for Mistress Wade," said Mr Ewring with a smile. "Eh, poor Mistress! but if she could see that poor little dear, it would grieve her to her heart. Master Ewring, how long will the Lord bear with these sons of Satan!" "Ah, Dorothy, that's more than you or I can tell. `Many shall be purified, and made white, and tried': that is all we know." "How much is many?" asked Dorothy almost bitterly. "Not one too many," said the miller gravely: "and not one too few. We are called to wait until our brethren be accomplished that shall suffer. It may be shorter than we think. But, Dorothy, who set you among the prophets? I rather thought you had not over much care for such things." "Master Ewring, I've heard say that when a soldier's killed in battle, another steppeth up behind without delay to fill his place. There's some places wants filling at Colchester, where the firing's been fierce of late: and when most of the old warriors be killed, they'll be like to fill the ranks up with new recruits. And if they be a bit awkward, and don't step just up to pace, maybe they'll learn by and by, and meantime the others must have patience." "The Lord perfect that which concerneth thee!" said the miller, with much feeling. "Dorothy, was your mistress not desirous to have brought up these little ones herself?" "She was so, Master Ewring, and I would with all my heart she could. Poor little dears!" "I would have taken the lad, if it might have been compassed, when he was a bit older, and have bred him up to my own trade. The maids should have done better with good Mistress Wade." "Eh, Master, little Cicely's like to dwell in other keeping than either, and that's with her good father and mother above." "The Lord's will be done!" responded Mr Ewring. "If so be, she at least will have little sorrow." CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. INTO THE LION'S MOUTH. "Give you good den, Master Hiltoft! May a man have speech of your prisoner, Mistress Bongeor?" "You're a bold man, Master Ewring." "Wherefore?" "Wherefore! Sotting your head in the lion's mouth! I should have thought you'd keep as far from Moot Hall as you could compass. Yourself not unsuspected, and had one burned already from your house--I marvel at you that you hide not yourself behind your corn-measures and flour-sacks, and have a care not to show your face in the street. And here up you march as bold as Hector, and desire to have speech of a prisoner! Well--it's your business, not mine." "Friend, mine hearth is desolate, and I have only God to my friend. Do you marvel that I haste to do His work whilst it is day, or that I desire to be approved of Him?" "You go a queer way about it. I reckon you think with the old saw, [Proverb.] `The nearer the church the further from Heaven'!" "That is true but in some sense. Verily, the nearer some churches, and some priests, so it is. May I see Mistress Bongeor?" "Ay, you would fain not commit yourself, I see, more than may be. Come, you have a bit of prudence left. So much the better for you. Come in, and I'll see if Wastborowe's in a reasonable temper, and that hangs somewhat on the one that Audrey's in." The porter shut the gate behind Mr Ewring, and went to seek Wastborowe. Just then Jane Hiltoft, coming to her door, saw him waiting, and invited him to take a seat. "Fine morning, Master." "Ay, it is, Jane. Have you yet here poor Johnson's little maid?" "I haven't, Master, and I feel fair lost without the dear babe. A rare good child she was--never see a better. The Black Ladies of Hedingham has got her, and I'm all to pieces afeard they'll not tend her right way. How should nuns (saving their holy presences) know aught about babes and such like? Eh dear! they'd better have left her with me. I'd have taken to her altogether, if Simon'd have let me--and I think he would after a bit. And she'd have done well with me, too." "Ay, Jane, you'd have cared her well for the body, I cast no doubt." "Dear heart, but it's sore pity, Master Ewring, such a good man as you cannot be a good Catholic like every body else! You'd save yourself ever so much trouble and sorrow. I cannot think why you don't." "We should save ourselves a little sorrow, Jane; but we should have a deal more than we lost." "But how so, Master? It's only giving up an opinion." "Maybe so, with some: but not with us. They that have been taught this way by others, and never knew Christ for themselves--with them, as you say, it were but the yielding of opinion: but to us that know Him, and have heard His voice, it would be the betraying of the best Friend in earth or Heaven. And we cannot do that, Jane Hiltoft--not even for life." "Nay, that stands to reason if it were so, Master Ewring; but, trust me, I know not what you mean, no more than if you spake Latin." "Read God's Book, and pray for His Spirit, and you shall find out, Jane.--Well, Hiltoft?" "Wastborowe says you may see Mistress Bongeor if you'll give him a royal farthing, but he won't let you for a penny less. He's had words with their Audrey, and he's as savage as Denis of Siccarus." "Who was he, Hiltoft?" answered Mr Ewring with a smile, as he felt in his purse for the half-crown which was to be the price of his visit to Agnes Bongeor. "Eh, I don't know: I heard Master Doctor say the other day that his dog was as fierce as him." "Art sure he said not `Syracuse'?" "Dare say he might. Syracuse or Siccarus, all's one to me." At the door of the dungeon stood the redoubtable Wastborowe, his keys hanging from his girdle, and looking, to put it mildly, not particularly amiable. "Want letting out again by and by?" he inquired with grim satire, as Mr Ewring put the coin in his hand. "If you please, Wastborowe. You've no writ to keep me, have you?" "Haven't--worse luck! Only wish I had. I'll set a match to the lot of you with as much pleasure as I'd drink a pot of ale. It'll never be good world till we're rid of heretics!" "There'll be Satan left then, methinks, and maybe a few rogues and murderers to boot." "Never a one as bad as you Lutherans and Gospellers! Get you in. You'll have to wait my time to come out." "Very well," said Mr Ewring quietly, and went in. He found Agnes Bongeor seated in a corner of the window recess, with her Bible on her knee; but it was closed, and she looked very miserable. "Well, my sister, and how is it with you?" "As 'tis like to be, Master Ewring, with her whom the Lord hath cast forth, and reckons unworthy to do Him a service." "Did he so reckon Abraham, then, at the time of the offering up of Isaac? Isaac was not sacrificed: he was turned back from the same. Yet what saith the Lord unto him? `Because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thou shalt be blessed, because thou hast obeyed My voice.' See you, his good will thereto is reckoned as though he had done the thing. `The Lord looketh on the heart.' Doubt thou not, my good sister, but firmly believe, that to thee also faith is counted for righteousness, and the will passeth for the deed, with Him who saith that `if thou be Christ's then art thou Abraham's seed.'" "That's comforting, in truth," said poor Agnes. "But, Master Ewring, think you there is any hope that I may yet be allowed to witness for my Lord before men in very deed? To have come so near, and be thrust back! Is there no hope?" Agnes Bongeor was not the only one of the sufferers in this persecution who actually coveted and longed for martyrdom. If the imperial crown of all the world had been laid at their feet, they would have reckoned it beneath contempt in comparison with that crown of life promised to such as are faithful unto death. Not faithful _till_ death, but _unto_ it. "I know not what the Lord holds in reserve for thee, my sister. I only know that whatsoever it be, it is that whereby thou mayest best glorify Him. Is that not enough? If more glory should come to Him by thy dying in this dungeon after fifty years' imprisonment, than by thy burning, which wouldst thou choose? Speak truly." Agnes dropped her face upon her hands for a moment. "You have the right, Master Ewring," said she, when she looked up again. "I fear I was over full of myself. Let the Lord's will be done, and His glory ensured, by His doing with me whatsoever He will. I will strive to be patient, and not grieve more than I should." "Therein wilt thou do well, my sister. And now I go--when as it shall please Wastborowe," added Mr Ewring with a slight smile of amusement, and then growing grave,--"to visit one in far sorer trouble than thyself." "Eh, Master, who is that?" "It is Margaret Thurston, who hath not been, nor counted herself, rejected of the Lord, but hath of her own will rejected Him. She bought life by recanting." "Eh, poor soul, how miserable must she be! Tell her, if it like you, that I will pray for her. Maybe the Lord will grant to both of us the grace yet to be His witnesses." Mr Ewring had to pass four weary hours in the dungeon before it pleased Wastborowe to let him out. He spent it in conversing with the other prisoners,--all of whom, save Agnes Bongeor, were arrested for some crime,--and trying to do them good. At last the heavy door rolled back, and Wastborowe's voice was heard inquiring, in accents which did not sound particularly sober,-- "Where's yon companion that wants baking by Lexden Road?" "I am here, Wastborowe," said Mr Ewring, rising. "Good den, friends. The Lord bless and comfort thee, my sister!" And out he went into the summer evening air, to meet the half-tipsy gaoler's farewell of,-- "There! Take to thy heels, old shortbread, afore thou'rt done a bit too brown. Thou'lt get it some of these days!" CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. "REMEMBER!" Mr Ewring only returned Wastborowe's uncivil farewell by a nod, as he walked up High Street towards East Gate. At the corner of Tenant's Lane he turned to the left, and went up to the Castle. A request to see the prisoner there brought about a little discussion between the porter and the gaoler, and an appeal was apparently made to some higher authority. At length the visitor was informed that permission was granted, on condition that he would not mention the subject of religion. The condition was rejected at once. Mr Ewring had come to talk about that and nothing else. "Then you'd best go home," said Bartle. "Can't do to have matters set a-crooked again when they are but now coming straight. Margaret Thurston's reconciled, and we've hopes for John, though he's been harder of the two to bring round. Never do to have folks coming and setting 'em all wrong side up. Do you want to see 'em burned, my master?" "I want to see them true," was Mr Ewring's answer, "The burning doesn't much matter." "Oh, doesn't it?" sneered Bartle. "You'll sing another tune, Master Ewring, the day you're set alight." "Methinks, friend, those you have burned sang none other. But how about a thousand years hence? Bartholomew Crane, what manner of tune wilt thou be singing then?" "Time enough to say when I've got it pricked, Master," said Bartle: but Mr Ewring saw from his uneasiness that the shot had told. People were much more musical in England three hundred years ago than now. Nearly everybody could sing, or read music at sight: and a lady was thought very poorly educated if she could not "set"--that is, write down a tune properly on hearing it played. Writing music they called "pricking" it. Mr Ewring did not stay to talk with Bartle; he bade him good-bye, and walked up Tenant's Lane on his way home. But before he had gone many yards, an idea struck him, and he turned round and went back to the Castle. Bartle was still in the court, and he peeped through the wicket to see who was there. "Good lack! you're come again!" "I'm come again," said Mr Ewring, smiling. "Bartle, wilt take a message to the Thurstons for me?" "Depends," said Bartle with a knowing nod. "What's it about? If you want to tell 'em price of flour, I don't mind." "I only want you to say one word to either of them." "Come, that's jolly! What's the word?" "Remember!" Bartle scratched his head. "Remember what? There's the rub!" "Leave that to them," said Mr Ewring. "Well,--I--don't--know," said Bartle very slowly. "Mayhap _I_ sha'n't remember." "Mayhap that shall help you," replied the miller, holding up an angelet, namely, a gold coin, value 3 shillings 4 pence--the smallest gold coin then made. "Shouldn't wonder if that strengthened my wits," said Bartle with a grin, as the little piece of gold was slipped through the wicket. "That's over a penny a letter, bain't it?" "Fivepence. It's good pay." "It's none so bad. I'm in hopes you'll have a few more messages, Master Ewring. They're easy to carry when they come in a basket o' that metal." "Ah, Bartle! wilt thou do that for a gold angelet which thou wouldst not for the love of God or thy neighbour? Beware that all thy good things come not to thee in this life--which can only be if they be things that pertain to this life alone." "This life's enough for me, Master: it's all I've got." "Truth, friend. Therefore cast it not away in folly." "In a good sooth, Master Ewring, I love your angelets better than your preachment, and you paid me not to listen to a sermon, but to carry a message. Good den!" "Good den, Bartle. May the Lord give thee good ending!" Bartle stood looking from the wicket until the miller had turned the corner. "Yon's a good man, I do believe," said he to himself. "I marvel what they burn such men for! They're never found lying or cheating or murdering. Why couldn't folks let 'em alone? We shouldn't want to hurt 'em, if the priests would let us alone. Marry, this would be a good land if there were no priests!" Bartle shut the wicket, and prepared to carry in supper to his prisoners. John and Margaret Thurston were not together. The priests were afraid to let them be so, lest John, who stood more firmly of the two, should talk over Margaret. They occupied adjoining cells. Bartle opened a little wicket in the first, and called John to receive his rations of brown bread, onions, and weak ale. "I promised to give you a message," said he, "but I don't know as it's like to do you much good. It's only one word." "Should be a weighty one," said John. "What is it?" "`Remember!'" "Ah!" John Thurston's long-drawn exclamation, which ended with a heavy sigh, astonished Bartle. "There's more in it than I reckoned, seemingly," said he as he turned to Margaret's cell, and opened her wicket to pass in the supper. "Here's a message for you, Meg, from Master Ewring the miller. Let's see what _you'll_ say to it--`Remember!'" "`Remember!'" cried Margaret in a pained tone. "Don't I always remember? isn't it misery to me to remember? And can't I guess what he means--`Remember from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works'? Eh, then there's repentance yet for them that have fallen! `I will fight against thee, _except_ thou repent.' God bless you, Bartle: you've given me a buffet and yet a hope." "That's a proper powerful word, is that!" said Bartle. "Never knew one word do so much afore." There was more power in that one word from Holy Writ than Bartle guessed. The single word, sent home to their consciences by the Holy Ghost, brought quit different messages to the two to whom it was sent. To John Thurston it did not say, "Remember from whence thou hast fallen." That was the message with which it was charged for Margaret. But to John it said, "Call to remembrance the former days, in which, after that ye were illuminated, ye endured a great flight of afflictions ... knowing in yourselves that ye have in Heaven a better and an enduring substance. Cast not away therefore your confidence, which hath great recompense of reward." That was John's message, and it found him just on the brink of casting his confidence away, and stopped him. Mr Ewring had never spent an angelet better than in securing the transmission of that one word, which was the instrument in God's hand to save two immortal souls. As he reached the top of Tenant's Lane, he met Ursula Felstede, carrying a large bundle, with which she tried to hide her face, and to slink past. The miller stopped. "Good den, Ursula. Wither away?" "Truly, Master, to the whitster's with this bundle." The whitster meant what we should now call a dyer and cleaner. "Do you mind, Ursula, what the Prophet Daniel saith, that `many shall be purified and made white'? Methinks it is going on now. White, as no fuller on earth can white them! May you and I be so cleansed, friend! Good den." Ursula courtesied and escaped, and Mr Ewring passed through the gate, and went up to his desolated home. He stood a moment in the mill-door, looking back over the town which he had just left. "`The night cometh, when no man can work,'" he said to himself. "Grant me, Lord, to be about Thy business until the Master cometh!" And he knew, while he said it, that in all likelihood to him that coming would be in a chariot of fire, and that to be busied with that work would bring it nearer and sooner. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. FILLING THE RANKS. As Mr Ewring stood looking out, he saw somebody coming up from the gate towards the mill--a girl, who walked slowly, as if she felt very hot or very tired. The day was warm, but not oppressively so; and he watched her coming languidly up the road, till he saw that it was Amy Clere. What could she want at the mill? Mr Ewring waited to see. "Good den, Mistress Amy," said he, as she came nearer. Amy looked up as if it startled her to be addressed. "Good den, Master Ewring. Father's sending some corn to be ground, and he desired you to know the last was ground a bit too fine for his liking: would you take the pains to have it coarser ground, an' it please you?" "I will see to it, Mistress Amy. A fine even, methinks?" "Ay, right fair," replied Amy in that manner which shows that the speaker's thoughts are away elsewhere. But she did not offer to go; she lingered about the mill-door, in the style of one who has something to say which she is puzzled or unwilling to bring out. "You seem weary," said Mr Ewring, kindly; "pray you, sit and rest you a space in the porch." Amy took the seat suggested at once. "Master Clere is well, I trust?--and Mistress Clere likewise?" "They are well, I thank you." Mr Ewring noticed suddenly that Amy's eyes were full of tears. "Mistress Amy," said he, "I would not by my good-will be meddlesome in matters that concern me not, but it seemeth me all is scarce well with you. If so be that I can serve you any way, I trust you will say so much." "Master Ewring, I am the unhappiest maid in all Colchester." "Truly, I am right sorry to hear it." "I lack one to help me, and I know not to whom to turn. You could, if--" "Then in very deed I will. Pray give me to wit how?" Amy looked up at him. "Master Ewring, I set out for Heaven, and I have lost the way." "Why, Mistress Amy! surely you know well enough--" "No, I don't," she said, cutting him short. "Lack-a-day! I never took no heed when I might have learned it: and now have I no chance to learn, and everything to hinder. I don't know a soul I could ask about it." "The priest," suggested Mr Ewring a little constrainedly. This language astonished him from Nicholas Clere's daughter. "I don't want the priest's way. He isn't going himself; or if he is, it's back foremost. Master Ewring, help me! I mean it. I never wist a soul going that way save Bessy Foulkes: and she's got there, and I want to go _her_ way. What am I to do?" Mr Ewring did not speak for a moment. He was thinking, in the first place, how true it was that "the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church"; and in the second, what very unlikely subjects God sometimes chooses as the recipients of His grace. One of the last people in Colchester whom he would have expected to fill Elizabeth Foulkes' vacant place in the ranks was the girl who sat in the porch, looking up at him with those anxious, earnest eyes. "Mistress Amy," he said, "you surely know there is peril in this path? It were well you should count the cost afore you enter on it." "Where is there not peril?" was the answer. "I may be slain of lightning to-morrow, or die of some sudden malady this next month. Can you say surely that there is more peril of burning than of that? If not, come to mine help. I must find the way somehow. Master Ewring, I want to be _safe_! I want to feel that it will not matter how or when I go, because I know whither it shall be. And I have lost the way. I thought I had but to do well and be as good as I could, and I should sure come out safe. And I have tried that way awhile, and it serves not. First, I can't be good when I would: and again, the better I am-- as folks commonly reckon goodness--the worser I feel. There's somewhat inside me that won't do right; and there's somewhat else that isn't satisfied when I have done right; it wants something more, and I don't know what it is. Master Ewring, you do. Tell me!" "Mistress Amy, what think you religion to be?" "Nay, I always thought it were being good. If it's not that, I know not what it is." "But being good must spring out of something. That is the flower. What is the seed--that which is to make you `be good,' and find it easy and pleasant?" "Tell me!" said Amy's eyes more than her words. "My dear maid, religion is fellowship; living fellowship with the living Lord. It is neither being good nor doing good, though both will spring out of it. It is an exchange made between you and the Lord Christ: His righteousness for your iniquity; His strength for your weakness; His rich grace for your bankrupt poverty of all goodness. Mistress Amy, you want Christ our Lord, and the Holy Ghost, which He shall give you--the new heart and the right spirit which be His gift, and which He died to purchase for you." "That's it!" said Amy, with a light in her eyes. "But how come you by them?" "You may have them for the asking--if you do truly wish it. `Whosoever _will_, let him take the water of life.' Know you what Saint Austin saith? `Thou would'st not now be setting forth to find God, if He had not first set forth to find thee.' `For by grace ye are saved, through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God.' Keep fast hold of that, Mistress Amy." "That 'll do!" said Amy, under her breath. "I've got what I want now-- if He'll hearken to me. But, O Master Ewring, I'm not fit to keep fellowship with Him!" "Dear maid, you are that which the best and the worst man in the world are--a sinner that needeth pardon, a sinner that can be saved only through grace. Have you the chance to get hold of a Bible, or no?" "No! Father gave up his to the priest, months agone. I never cared nought about it while I had it, and now I've lost the chance." "Trust the Lord to care for you. He shall send you, be sure, either the quails or the manna. He'll not let you starve. He has bound Himself to bring all safe that trust in Him. And--it looks not like it, verily, yet it may be that times of liberty shall come again." "Master Ewring, I've given you a deal of trouble," said Amy, rising suddenly, "and taken ever so much time. But I'm not unthankful, trust me." "My dear maid, how can Christian men spend time better than in helping a fellow soul on his way towards Heaven? It's not time wasted, be sure." "No, it's not time wasted!" said Amy, with more feeling than Mr Ewring had ever seen her show before. "Farewell, dear maid," said he. "One thing I pray you to remember: what you lack is the Holy Ghost, for He only can show Christ unto you. I or others can talk of Him, but the Spirit alone can reveal Him to your own soul. And the Spirit is promised to them that ask Him." "I'll not forget, Master. Good even, and God bless you!" Mr Ewring stood a moment longer to watch Amy as she ran down the road, with a step tenfold more light and elastic than the weary, languid one with which she had come up. "God bless the maid!" he said half aloud, "and may He `stablish, strengthen, settle' her! `He hath mercy on whom He will have mercy.' But we on whom He has had it aforetime, how unbelieving and hopeless we are apt to be! Verily, the last recruit that I looked to see join Christ's standard was Nicholas Clere's daughter." CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. THE LAST MARTYRDOM. "Good-morrow, Mistress Clere! Any placards of black velvet have you?" A placard with us means a large handbill for pasting on walls: in Queen Mary's time they meant by it a double stomacher,--namely an ornamentation for the front of a dress, put on separate from it, which might either be plain silk or velvet, or else worked with beautiful embroidery, gold twist, sometimes even pearls and precious stones. Mrs Clere came in all haste and much obsequiousness, for it was no less a person than the Mayoress of Colchester who thus inquired for a black velvet placard. "We have so, Madam, and right good ones belike. Amy, fetch down yonder box with the bettermost placards." Amy ran up the little ladder needful to reach the higher shelves, and brought down the box. It was not often that Mrs Clere was asked for her superior goods, for she dealt chiefly with those whose purses would not stretch so far. "Here, Madam, is a fine one of carnation velvet--and here a black wrought in gold twist; or what think you of this purple bordered in pearls?" "That liketh me the best," said the Mayoress taking up the purple velvet. "What cost it, Mistress Clere?" "Twenty-six and eightpence, Madam, at your pleasure." "'Tis dear." "Nay, Madam! Pray you look on the quality--velvet of the finest, and pearls of right good colour. You shall not find a better in any shop in the town." And Mrs Clere dexterously turned the purple placard to the light in such a manner that a little spot on one side of it should not show. "Or if this carnation please you the better--" "No, I pass not upon that," said the Mayoress; which meant, that she did not fancy it. "Will you take four-and-twenty shillings, Mistress Clere?" It was then considered almost a matter of course that a shopkeeper must be offered less than he asked; and going from shop to shop to "cheapen" the articles they wanted was a common amusement of ladies. Mrs Clere looked doubtful. "Well, truly, Madam, I should gain not a penny thereby; yet rather than lose your good custom, seeing for whom it is--" "Very good," said the Mayoress, "put it up." Amy knew that the purple placard had cost her mother 16 shillings 8 pence, and had been slightly damaged since it came into her hands. She knew also that Mrs Clere would confess the fraud to the priest, would probably be told to repeat the Lord's Prayer three times over as a penance for it, would gabble through the words as fast as possible, and would then consider her sin quite done away with, and her profit of 7 shillings 4 pence cheaply secured. She knew also that the Mayoress, in all probability, was aware that Mrs Clere's protestation about not gaining a single penny was a mere flourish of words, not at all meant to be accepted as a fact. "Is there aught of news stirring, an' it like you, Madam?" asked Mrs Clere, as she rolled up the placard inside out, and secured it with tape. "I know of none, truly," answered the Mayoress, "save to-morrow's burning, the which I would were over for such spectacles like me not-- not that I would save evil folks from the due penalty of their sins, but that I would some less displeasant manner of execution might be found. Truly, what with the heat, and the dust, and the close crowds that gather, 'tis no dainty matter to behold." "You say truth, Madam. Indeed, the last burning we had, my daughter here was so close pressed in the crowd, and so near the fire, she fair swooned, and had to be borne thence. But who shall suffer to-morrow, an' it like you? for I heard nought thereabout." Mrs Clere presented the little parcel as she spoke. "Only two women," said the Mayoress, taking her purchase: "not nigh so great a burning as the last--so very likely the crowd shall be less also." The crowd was not much less on the waste place by the Lexden Road, when on the 17th of September, 1557, those two martyrs were brought forth to die: Agnes Bongeor, full of joy and triumph, praising God that at length she was counted worthy to suffer for His Name's sake; Margaret Thurston, the disciple who had denied Him, and for whom therefore there could be no triumph; yet, even now, a meek and fervent appeal from the heart's core, of "Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee!" As the chain was being fastened around them a voice came from the crowd--one of those mysterious voices never to be traced to a speaker, perpetually heard at martyrdoms. "`He remembered that they were but flesh.' `He hath remembered His covenant forever.' `According to Thy mercy, remember Thou me!'" Only Margaret Thurston knew who spoke three times that word never to be forgotten, once a terrible rebuke, now and evermore a benediction. So went home the last of the Colchester martyrs. As Mr Ewring turned back, he caught sight of Dorothy Denny, and made his way back to her. "You come to behold, do you, Dorothy?" said he, when they had turned into a quiet side street, safe from hostile ears. "Ay, Master, it strengthens me," she said. "Thou'rt of the right stuff, then," he answered. "It weakens such as be not." "Eh, I'm as weak as any one," replied Dorothy. "What comforts me is to see how the good Lord can put strength into the very feeblest lamb of all His flock. It seems like as if the Shepherd lifted the lamb into His arms, so that it had no labour to carry itself." "Ay, 'tis easy to bear a burden, when you and it be borne together," said Mr Ewring. "Dorothy, have you strength for that burden?" "Master Ewring, I've given up thinking that I've any strength for any thing, and then I just go and ask for it for everything, and methinks I get along best that way." "Ay, so? You are coming on fast, Dorothy. Many Christian folks miss that lesson half their lives." "Well, I don't know but they do the best that are weak," said Dorothy. "Look you, they know it, and know they must fetch better strength than their own; so they don't get thinking they can manage the little things themselves, and only need ask the Lord to see to the greet ones." "It's true, Dorothy. I can't keep from thinking of poor Jack Thurston; he must be either very hard or very miserable. Let us pray for him, Dorothy. I'm afeared it's a bad sign that he isn't with them this morrow." "You think he's given in, Master Ewring?" "I'm doubtful of it, Dorothy." They walked on for a few minutes without speaking. "I'll try to see Jack again, or pass in a word to him," said Mr Ewring reflectively. "Eh, Master Ewring don't you go into peril! The Lord's cause can't afford to lose you. Don't 'ee, now!" "Dorothy," said Mr Ewring with a smile, "if the Lord's cause can't afford to lose me, you may be very sure it won't lose me. `The Lord reigneth, be the people never so impatient.' He is on the throne, not the priests. But in truth, Dorothy, the Lord can afford anything: He is able of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham. `He Himself knew what He would do,' touching the miracle of the loaves: Andrew didn't know, and Philip hadn't a notion. Let us trust Him, Dorothy, and just go forward and do our duty. We shall not die one moment before the Master calleth us." CHAPTER FORTY. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! "Come and sit a bit with me, Will. I scarce ever see you now." Will Johnson, a year older and bigger, scrambled up on the garden seat, and Cissy put her arm round him. From having been very small of her age, Cissy was suddenly shooting up into a tall, slim, lily-like girl, nearly as white as a lily, and as delicate-looking. "How are you getting on with the ladies, Will?" "Oh, middling." "You know you must learn as much as you can, Will, of aught they teach you that is good. We're being better learned than Father could have learned us, in book-learning and such; and we must mind and pay heed, the rather because maybe we sha'n't have it long." "I wish you wouldn't talk so about--Father. You're for ever talking about him," said Will uneasily, trying to wriggle himself out of his sister's clasp. "Not talk about Father!" exclaimed Cissy indignantly. "Will, whatever do you mean? I couldn't bear not to talk about Father! It would seem like as we'd forgotten him. And you must never forget him--never!" "I don't like talking about dead folks. And--well it's no use biding it. Look here. Cissy--I'm going to give up." "Give up what?" Cissy's voice was very low. There might be pain and disappointment in it, but there was no weakness. "Oh, all this standing out against the nuns. You can go on, if you like being starved and beaten and made to kneel on the chapel floor, and so forth; but I've stood it as long as I can. And--wait a bit, Cis; let me have my say out--I can't see what it signifies, not one bit. What can it matter whether I say my prayers looking at yon image or not? If I said them looking at the moon, or at you, you wouldn't say I was praying to you or the moon. I'm not praying to _it_; only, if they think I am, I sha'n't get thrashed and sent to bed hungred. Don't you see? That can't be idolatry." Cissy was silent till she had felt her way through the mist raised by Will's subterfuge into the clear daylight of truth. "Shall I tell you what it would be, Will?" "Well? Some of your queer notions, I reckon." "Idolatry, with lying and cheating on the top of it. Do you think they make it better?" "Cis, don't say such ugly words!" "Isn't it best to call ugly things by their right names?" "Well, any way, it won't be my fault: it'll be theirs who made me do it." "Theirs and yours too, Will, if you let them make you." "I tell you, Cissy, I can't stand it!" "Father stood more than that," said Cissy in that low, firm voice. "Oh, don't be always talking about Father! He was a man and could bear things. I've had enough of it. God Almighty won't be hard on me, if I do give in." "Hard, Will! Do you call it hard when people are grieved to the heart because you do something which they'd lay down their lives you shouldn't do? The Lord did lay down His life for you: and yet you say that you can't bear a little hunger and a few stripes for Him!" "Cis, you don't know what it is. You're a maid, and I dare say they don't lay on so hard on you. It's more than a little, I can tell you." Cissy knew what it was far better than Will, for he was a strong boy, on whom hardships fell lightly, while she had to bear the blows and the hunger with a delicate and enfeebled frame. But she only said,-- "Will, don't you care for me?" "Of course I do, Cis." "I think the only thing in the world that could break my heart would be to see you or Nell `giving in', as you call it. I couldn't stand that, Will. I can stand anything else. I hoped you cared for God and Father: but if you won't heed them, I must see if you will listen to me. It would kill me, Will." "Oh, come, Cis, don't talk so." "Won't you go on trying a bit longer, Will? Any day the tide may turn. I don't know how, but God knows. He can bring us out of this prison all in a minute. You know He keeps count of the hairs on our heads. Now, Will, you know as well as I do what God said,--He did not say only, `Thou shalt not worship them,' but `Thou shalt not bow down to them.' Oh Will, Will! have you forgotten all the texts Father taught us?--are you forgetting Father himself?" "Cis, I wish you wouldn't!" "I wish _you_ wouldn't, Will." "You don't think Father can hear, do you?" asked Will uncomfortably glancing around. "I hope he can't, indeed, or he'll be sore grieved, even in Heaven, to think what his little Will's coming to." "Oh, well--come, I'll try a bit longer, Cis, if you--But I say, I do hope it won't be long, or I _can't_ stand it." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ That night, or rather in the early hours of the following morning, a horseman came spurring up to the Head Gate of Colchester. He alighted from his panting horse, and threw the reins on its neck. "Gate, ho!" Nothing but silence came in answer. "Gate, ho!" cried the horseman in a louder voice. "Somebody there?" asked the gatekeeper in a very sleepy voice. "Tarry a minute, will you? I'll be with you anon." "Tarry!" repeated the horseman with a contemptuous laugh. "Thou'd not want me to tarry if thou knewest what news I bring." "Good tidings, eh? let's have 'em!" said the gatekeeper in a brisker voice. "Take them. `God save the Queen!'" "Call that tidings? We've sung that this five year." "Nay you've never sung it yet--not as you will. How if it be `God save Queen Elizabeth'?" The gate was dashed open in the unsleepiest way that ever gate was moved. "You never mean--is the Queen departed?" "Queen Mary is gone to her reward," replied the horseman gravely. "God save Queen Elizabeth!" "God be thanked, and praised!" "Ay, England is free now. A man may speak his mind, and not die for it. No more burnings, friend! no more prison for reading of God's Word! no more hiding of men's heads in dens and caves of the earth! God save the Queen! long live the Queen! may the Queen live for ever!" It is not often that the old British Lion is so moved by anything as to roar and dance in his inexpressible delight. But now and then he does it; and never did he dance and roar as he did on that eighteenth of November, 1558. All over England, men went wild with joy. The terrible weight of the chains in which she had been held, was never truly felt until they were thus suddenly knocked from the shackled limbs. Old, calm, sober-minded people--nay, grave and stern, precise and rigid-- every manner of man and woman--all fairly lost their heads, and were like children in their frantic glee that day Men who were perfect strangers were seen in the streets shaking hands with each other as though they were the dearest friends. Women who ordinarily would not of thought of speaking to one another were kissing each other and calling on each other to rejoice. Nobody calmed down until he was so worn-out that wearied nature absolutely forced him to repose. It was seen that day that however she had been oppressed, compelled to silence, or tortured into apparent submission, England was Protestant. The prophets had prophesied falsely, and the priests borne rule, but the people had not loved to have it so, as they very plainly showed. Colchester had declared for Mary five years before, because she was the true heir who had the right to reign, and rebellion was not right because her religion was wrong: but now that God delivered them from her awful tyranny, Colchester was not behind the rest of England in giving thanks to Him. We are worse off now. The prophets prophesy falsely, and the priests bear rule by their means. It has not reached to the point it did then; but how soon will it do so?--for, last and worst of all, the people love to have it so. May God awake the people of England! For His mercies' sake, let us not have to say, England flung off the chains of bondage and the sin of idolatry under Queen Elizabeth; but she bound them tight again, of her own will, under Queen Victoria! CHAPTER FORTY ONE. A BLESSED DAY. "Dorothy! Dorothy Denny! Wherever can the woman have got to?" Mr Ewring had already tapped several times with his stick on the brick floor of the King's Head kitchen, and had not heard a sound in answer. The clock ticked to and fro, and the tabby cat purred softly as she sat before the fire, and the wood now and then gave a little crackle as it burned gently away, and those were all the signs of life to be seen on the premises. Getting tired at last, Mr Ewring went out into the courtyard, and called in his loudest tones--"Do-ro-thy!" He thought he heard a faint answer of "Coming!" which sounded high up and a long way off: so he went back to the kitchen, and took a seat on the hearth opposite the cat. In a few minutes the sound of running down stairs was audible, and at last Dorothy appeared--her gown pinned up behind, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and her entire aspect that of a woman who had just come off hard and dirty work. "Eh, Master Ewring! but I'm sorry to have kept you a-waiting. Look you, I was mopping out the--Dear heart, but what is come to you? Has the resurrection happened? for your face looks nigh too glad for aught else." The gladness died suddenly away, as those words brought to Mr Ewring the thought of something which could not happen--the memory of the beloved face which for thirty years had been the light of his home, and which he should behold in this world never any more. "Nay, Dorothy--nay, not that! Yet it will be, one day, thank God! And we have much this morrow to thank God for, whereof I came to tell thee." "Why, what has come, trow?" The glad light rose again to Mr Ewring's eyes. "Gideon has come, and hath subdued the Midianites!" he answered, with a ring of triumph in his voice. "King David is come, and the Philistines will take flight, and Israel shall sit in peace under his vine and fig-tree. May God save Elizabeth our Queen!" "Good lack, but you never mean _that_!" cried Dorothy in a voice as delighted as his own. "Why then, Mistress 'll be back to her own, and them poor little dears 'll be delivered from them black snakes, and there 'll be Bible-reading and sermons again." "Ay, every one of them, I trust. And a man may say what he will that is right, without looking first round to see if a spy be within hearing. We are free, Dorothy, once more." "Eh, but it do feel like a dream! I shall have to pinch myself to make sure I'm awake. But, Master, do you think it is sure? She haven't changed, think you?" Mr Ewring shook his head. "The Lady Elizabeth suffered with us," he said, "and she will not forsake us now. No, Dorothy, she has not changed: she is not one to change. Let us not distrust either her or the Lord. Ah, He knew what He would do! It was to be a sharp, short hour of tribulation, through which His Church was to pass, to purify, and try, and make her white: and now the land shall have rest forty years, that she may sing to Him a new song on the sea of glass. Those five years have lit the candle of England's Church, and as our good old Bishop said in dying, by God's grace it shall never be put out." "Well, sure, it's a blessed day!" "Dorothy, can you compass to drive with me to Hedingham again? I think long till those poor children be rescued. And the nuns will be ready and glad to give them up; they'll not want to be found with Protestant children in their keeping--children, too, of a martyred man." "Master Ewring, give me but time to get me tidied and my hood, and I'll go with you this minute, if you will. I was mopping out the loft. When Mistress do come back, she shall find her house as clean as she'd have had it if she'd been here, and that's clean enough, I can tell you." "Right, friend, `Faithful in a little, faithful also in much.' Dorothy, you'd have made a good martyr." "Me, Master?" Mr Ewring smiled. "Well, whether shall it be to-morrow, or leave over Sunday?" "If it liked you, Master, I would say to-morrow. Poor little dears! they'll be so pleased to come back to their friends. I can be ready for them--I'll work early and late but I will. Did you think of taking the little lad yourself, or are they all to bide with me?" "I'll take him the minute he's old enough, and no more needs a woman's hand about him. You know, Dorothy, there be no woman in mine house-- now." "Well, he'll scarce be that yet, I reckon. Howbeit, the first thing is to fetch 'em. Master, when think you Mistress shall be let go?" "It is hard to say, Dorothy, for we've heard so little. But if she be in the Bishop of London's keeping, as she was, I cast no doubt she shall be delivered early. Doubtless all the bishops that refuse to conform shall be deprived: and he will not conform, without he be a greater rogue than I think." There was something of the spirit of the earliest Christians when they had all things common, in the matter-of-course way in which it was understood on both sides that each was ready to take charge, at any sacrifice of time, money, or ease, of children who had been left fatherless by martyrdom. Early the next morning, the miller's cart drew up before the door of the King's Head, and Dorothy, hooded and cloaked, with a round basket on her arm, was quite ready to get in. The drive to Hedingham was pleasant enough, cold as the weather was; and at last they reached the barred gate of the convent. Dorothy alighted from the cart. "I'll see you let in, Dorothy, ere I leave you," said he, "if indeed I have to leave you at all. I should never marvel if they brought the children forth, and were earnest to be rid of them at once." It did not seem like it, however, for several knocks were necessary before the wicket unclosed. The portress looked relieved when she saw who was there. "What would you?" asked she. Mr Ewring had given Dorothy advice how to proceed. "An' it like you, might I see the children? Cicely Johnson and the little ones." "Come within," said the portress, "and I will inquire." This appeared more promising. Dorothy was led to the guest-chamber, and was not kept waiting. Only a few minutes had elapsed when the Prioress herself appeared. "You wish to see the children?" she said. "I wish to take them with me, if you please," answered Dorothy audaciously. "I look for my mistress back shortly, and she was aforetime desirous to bring them up. I will take the full charge of them, with your leave." "Truly, and my leave you shall have. We shall be right glad to be rid of the charge, for a heavy one it has been, and a wearisome. A more obstinate, perverse, ungovernable maid than Cicely never came in my hands." "Thank the Lord!" said Dorothy. "Poor creatures!" said the Prioress. "I suppose you will do your best to undo our teaching, and their souls will be lost. Howbeit, we were little like to have saved them. And it will be well, now for the community that they should go. Wait, and I will send them to you." Dorothy waited half-an-hour. At the end of that time a door opened in the wainscot, which she had not known was there, and a tall, pale, slender girl of eleven, looking older than she was, came forward. "Dorothy Denny!" said Cissy's unchanged voice, in tones of unmistakable delight. "Oh, they didn't tell me who it was! Are we to go with _you_?--back to Colchester? Has something happened? Do tell me what is going to become of us." "My dear heart, peace and happiness, if it please the Lord. Master Ewring and I have come to fetch you all. The Queen is departed to God, and the Lady Elizabeth is now Queen; and the nuns are ready enough to be rid of you. If my dear mistress come home safe--as please God, she shall--you shall be all her children, and Master Ewring hath offered to take Will when he be old enough, and learn him his trade. Your troubles be over, I trust the Lord, for some while." "It's just in time!" said Cissy with a gasp of relief. "Oh, how wicked I have been, not to trust God better! and He was getting this ready for us all the while!" CHAPTER FORTY TWO. WHAT THEY FOUND AT THE KING'S HEAD. Mr Ewring had stayed at the gate, guessing that Dorothy would not be long in fulfilling her errand. He cast the reins on the neck of his old bay horse, and allowed it to crop the grass while he waited. Many a short prayer for the success of the journey went up as he sat there. At last the gate was opened, and a boy of seven years old bounded out of it and ran up to the cart. "Master Ewring, is that you? I'm glad to see you. We're all coming. Is that old Tim?" "That's old Tim, be sure," said the miller. "Pat him, Will, and then give me your hand and make a long jump." Will obeyed, just as the gate opened again, and Dorothy came out of it with the two little girls. Little Nell--no longer Baby--could walk now, and chatter too, though few except Cissy understood what she said. She talked away in a very lively manner, until Dorothy lifted her into the cart, when the sight of Mr Ewring seemed to exert a paralysing effect upon her, nor was she reassured at once by his smile. "Dear heart, but it 'll be a close fit!" said Dorothy. "How be we to pack ourselves?" "Cissy must sit betwixt us," answered the miller; "she's not quite so fat as a sack of flour. Take the little one on your knees, Dorothy; and Will shall come in front of me, and take his first lesson in driving Tim." They settled themselves accordingly, Will being highly delighted at his promotion. "Well, I reckon you are not sorry to be forth of that place?" suggested Mr Ewring. "Oh, so glad!" said Cissy, under her breath. "And how hath Will stood out?" was the next question, which produced profound silence for a few seconds. Then Will broke forth. "I haven't, Master Ewring--at least, it's Cissy's doing, and she's had hard work to make me stick. I should have given up ever so many times if she'd have let me. I didn't think I could stand it much longer, and it was only last night I told her so, and she begged and prayed me to hold on." "That's an honest lad," said Mr Ewring. "And that's a dear maid," added Dorothy. "Then Cissy stood out, did she?" "Cissy! eh, they'd never have got _her_ to kneel down to their ugly images, not if they'd cut her head off for it. She's just like a stone wall. Nell did, till Cissy got hold of her and told her not; but she didn't know what it meant, so I hope it wasn't wicked. You see, she's so little, and she forgets what is said to her." "Ay, ay; poor little dear!" said Dorothy. "And what did they to you, my poor dears, when you wouldn't?" "Oh, lots of things," said Will. "Beat us sometimes, and shut us in dark cupboards, and sent us to bed without supper. One night they made Cissy--" "Never mind, Will," said Cissy blushing. "But they'd better know," said Will stoutly. "They made Cissy kneel all night on the floor of the dormitory, tied to a bed-post. They said if she wouldn't kneel to the saint, she should kneel without it. And Sister Mary asked her how she liked saying her prayers to the moon." "Cruel, hard-hearted wretches!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Then they used to keep us several hours without anything to eat, and at the end of it they would hold out something uncommon good, and just when we were going to take it they'd snatch it away." "I'll tell you what, if I had known that a bit sooner, they'd have had a piece of my mind," said Dorothy. "With some thorns on it, I guess," commented the miller. "Eh, dear, but I marvel if I could have kept my fingers off 'em! And they beat thee, Will?" "Hard," said Will. "And thee, Cissy?" "Yes--sometimes," said Cissy quietly. "But I did not care for that, if they'd have left alone harassing Will. You see, he's younger than me, and he doesn't remember Father as well. If there hadn't been any right and wrong about it, I could not have done what would vex Father." Tim trotted on for a while, and Will was deeply interested in his driving lesson. About a mile from Colchester, Mr Ewring rather suddenly pulled up. "Love! is that you?" he said. John Love, who was partly hidden by some bushes, came out and showed himself. "Ay, and I well-nigh marvel it is either you or me," said he significantly. "Truly, you may say so. I believe we were aforetime the best noted `heretics' in all Colchester. And yet here we be, on the further side of these five bitter years, left to rejoice together." "Love, I would your Agnes would look in on me a time or two," said Dorothy. "I have proper little wit touching babes, and she might help me to a thing or twain." "You'll have as much as the nuns, shouldn't marvel," said Love, smiling. "But I'll bid Agnes look in. You're about to care for the little ones, then?" "Ay, till they get better care," said Dorothy, simply. "You'll win the Lord's blessing with them. Good den! By the way, have you heard that Jack Thurston's still Staunch?" "Is he so? I'm right glad." "Ay, they say--Bartle it was told a neighbour of mine--he's held firm till the priests were fair astonied at him; they thought they'd have brought him round, and that was why they never burned him. He'll come forth now, I guess." "Not a doubt of it. There shall be some right happy deliverances all over the realm, and many an happy meeting," said Mr Ewring, with a faint sigh at the thought that no such blessedness was in store for him, until he should reach the gate of the Celestial City. "Good den, Jack." They drove in at the North Gate, down Balcon Lane, with a passing greeting to Amy Clere, who was taking down mantles at the shop door, and whose whole face lighted up at the sight, and turned through the great archway into the courtyard of the King's Head. The cat came out to meet them, with arched back and erect tail, and began to mew and rub herself against Dorothy, having evidently some deeply interesting communication to make in cat language; but what it was they could not even guess until they reached the kitchen. "Sure," said Dorothy, "there's somebody here beside Barbara. Run in, my dears," she added to the children. "Methinks there must be company in the kitchen, and if Bab be all alone to cook and serve for a dozen, she'll be fain to see me returned. Tell her I'm come, and will be there in a minute, only I'd fain not wake the babe, for she's weary with unwonted sights." Little Helen had fallen asleep in Dorothy's arms. Cissy and Will went forward into the kitchen. Barbara was there, but instead of company, only one person was seated in the big carved chair before the fire, furnished with red cushions. That was the only sort of easy chair then known. "Ah, here they are!" said an unexpected voice. "The Lord be praised! I've all my family safe at last." Dorothy, coming in with little Helen, nearly dropped her in astonished delight. "Mistress Wade!" cried Mr Ewring, following her. "Truly, you are a pleasant sight, and I am full fain to welcome you back. I trusted we should so do ere long, but I looked not to behold you thus soon." "Well, and you are a pleasant sight, Master Ewring, to her eyes that for fourteen months hath seen little beside the sea-coals [Note 1] in the Bishop of London's coalhouse. That's where he sets his prisoners that be principally [note 2] lodged, and he was pleased to account of me as a great woman," said Mrs Wade, cheerily. "But we have right good cause to praise God, every one; and next after that to give some thanks to each other. I've heard much news from Bab, touching many folks and things, and thee not least, Doll. Trust me, I never guessed into how faithful hands all my goods should fall, nor how thou shouldst keep matters going as well as if I had been here mine own self. Thou shalt find in time to come that I know a true friend and an honest servant, and account of her as much worth. So you are to be my children now and henceforth?--only I hear, Master Ewring, you mean to share the little lad with me. That's right good. What hast thou to say, little Cicely?" "Please, Mistress Wade, I think God has taken good care of us, and I only hope He's told Father." "Dear child, thy father shall lack no telling," said Mr Ewring. "He is where no shade of mistrust can come betwixt him and God, and he knows with certainty, as the angels do, that all shall be well with you for ever." Cissy looked up. "Please, may we sing the hymn Rose did, when she was taken down to the dungeon?" "Sing, my child, and we will join thee." "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host, Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!" "Dear heart! but that's sweet!" said Dorothy, wiping her eyes. "Truth! but they sing it better _there_," responded Mr Ewring softly. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Note 1. Coals.--all coal then came to London by sea. Note 2. Principally: handsomely. THE END. 
15992	----	Come Rack! Come Rope! BY ROBERT HUGH BENSON _Author of "By What Authority?" "The King's Achievement," "Lord of the World," etc._ New York P.J. Kenedy & Sons PREFACE Very nearly the whole of this book is sober historical fact; and by far the greater number of the personages named in it once lived and acted in the manner in which I have presented them. My hero and my heroine are fictitious; so also are the parents of my heroine, the father of my hero, one lawyer, one woman, two servants, a farmer and his wife, the landlord of an inn, and a few other entirely negligible characters. But the family of the FitzHerberts passed precisely through the fortunes which I have described; they had their confessors and their one traitor (as I have said). Mr. Anthony Babington plotted, and fell, in the manner that is related; Mary languished in Chartley under Sir Amyas Paulet; was assisted by Mr. Bourgoign; was betrayed by her secretary and Mr. Gifford, and died at Fotheringay; Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Simpson received their vocations, passed through their adventures; were captured at Padley, and died in Derby. Father Campion (from whose speech after torture the title of the book is taken) suffered on the rack and was executed at Tyburn. Mr. Topcliffe tormented the Catholics that fell into his hands; plotted with Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert, and bargained for Padley (which he subsequently lost again) on the terms here drawn out. My Lord Shrewsbury rode about Derbyshire, directed the search for recusants and presided at their deaths; priests of all kinds came and went in disguise; Mr. Owen went about constructing hiding-holes; Mr. Bassett lived defiantly at Langleys, and dabbled a little (I am afraid) in occultism; Mr. Fenton was often to be found in Hathersage--all these things took place as nearly as I have had the power of relating them. Two localities only, I think, are disguised under their names--Booth's Edge and Matstead. Padley, or rather the chapel in which the last mass was said under the circumstances described in this book, remains, to this day, close to Grindleford Station. A Catholic pilgrimage is made there every year; and I have myself once had the honour of preaching on such an occasion, leaning against the wall of the old hall that is immediately beneath the chapel where Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam said their last masses, and were captured. If the book is too sensational, it is no more sensational than life itself was to Derbyshire folk between 1579 and 1588. It remains only, first, to express my extreme indebtedness to Dom Bede Camm's erudite book--"Forgotten Shrines"--from which I have taken immense quantities of information, and to a pile of some twenty to thirty other books that are before me as I write these words; and, secondly, to ask forgiveness from the distinguished family that takes its name from the FitzHerberts and is descended from them directly; and to assure its members that old Sir Thomas, Mr. John, Mr. Anthony, and all the rest, down to the present day, outweigh a thousand times over (to the minds of all decent people) the stigma of Mr. Thomas' name. Even the apostles numbered one Judas! ROBERT HUGH BENSON. _Feast of the Blessed Thomas More, 1912. Hare Street House, Buntingford._ PART I CHAPTER I I There should be no sight more happy than a young man riding to meet his love. His eyes should shine, his lips should sing; he should slap his mare upon her shoulder and call her his darling. The puddles upon his way should be turned to pure gold, and the stream that runs beside him should chatter her name. Yet, as Robin rode to Marjorie none of these things were done. It was a still day of frost; the sky was arched above him, across the high hills, like that terrible crystal which is the vault above which sits God--hard blue from horizon to horizon; the fringe of feathery birches stood like filigree-work above him on his left; on his right ran the Derwent, sucking softly among his sedges; on this side and that lay the flat bottom through which he went--meadowland broken by rushes; his mare Cecily stepped along, now cracking the thin ice of the little pools with her dainty feet, now going gently over peaty ground, blowing thin clouds from her red nostrils, yet unencouraged by word or caress from her rider; who sat, heavy and all but slouching, staring with his blue eyes under puckered eyelids, as if he went to an appointment which he would not keep. Yet he was a very pleasant lad to look upon, smooth-faced and gallant, mounted and dressed in a manner that should give any lad joy. He wore great gauntlets on his hands; he was in his habit of green; he had his steel-buckled leather belt upon him beneath his cloak and a pair of daggers in it, with his long-sword looped up; he had his felt hat on his head, buckled again, and decked with half a pheasant's tail; he had his long boots of undressed leather, that rose above his knees; and on his left wrist sat his grim falcon Agnes, hooded and belled, not because he rode after game, but from mere custom, and to give her the air. He was meeting his first man's trouble. Last year he had said good-bye to Derby Grammar School--of old my lord Bishop Durdant's foundation--situated in St. Peter's churchyard. Here he had done the right and usual things; he had learned his grammar; he had fought; he had been chastised; he had robed the effigy of his pious founder in a patched doublet with a saucepan on his head (but that had been done before he had learned veneration)--and so had gone home again to Matstead, proficient in Latin, English, history, writing, good manners and chess, to live with his father, to hunt, to hear mass when a priest was within reasonable distance, to indite painful letters now and then on matters of the estate, and to learn how to bear himself generally as should one of Master's rank--the son of a gentleman who bore arms, and his father's father before him. He dined at twelve, he supped at six, he said his prayers, and blessed himself when no strangers were by. He was something of a herbalist, as a sheer hobby of his own; he went to feed his falcons in the morning, he rode with them after dinner (from last August he had found himself riding north more often than south, since Marjorie lived in that quarter); and now all had been crowned last Christmas Eve, when in the enclosed garden at her house he had kissed her two hands suddenly, and made her a little speech he had learned by heart; after which he kissed her on the lips as a man should, in the honest noon sunlight. All this was as it should be. There were no doubts or disasters anywhere. Marjorie was an only daughter as he an only son. Her father, it is true, was but a Derby lawyer, but he and his wife had a good little estate above the Hathersage valley, and a stone house in it. As for religion, that was all well too. Master Manners was as good a Catholic as Master Audrey himself; and the families met at mass perhaps as much as four or five times in the year, either at Padley, where Sir Thomas' chapel still had priests coming and going; sometimes at Dethick in the Babingtons' barn; sometimes as far north as Harewood. And now a man's trouble was come upon the boy. The cause of it was as follows. Robin Audrey was no more religious than a boy of seventeen should be. Yet he had had as few doubts about the matter as if he had been a monk. His mother had taught him well, up to the time of her death ten years ago; and he had learned from her, as well as from his father when that professor spoke of it at all, that there were two kinds of religion in the world, the true and the false--that is to say, the Catholic religion and the other one. Certainly there were shades of differences in the other one; the Turk did not believe precisely as the ancient Roman, nor yet as the modern Protestant--yet these distinctions were subtle and negligible; they were all swallowed up in an unity of falsehood. Next he had learned that the Catholic religion was at present blown upon by many persons in high position; that pains and penalties lay upon all who adhered to it. Sir Thomas FitzHerbert, for instance, lay now in the Fleet in London on that very account. His own father, too, three or four times in the year, was under necessity of paying over heavy sums for the privilege of not attending Protestant worship; and, indeed, had been forced last year to sell a piece of land over on Lees Moor for this very purpose. Priests came and went at their peril.... He himself had fought two or three battles over the affair in St. Peter's churchyard, until he had learned to hold his tongue. But all this was just part of the game. It seemed to him as inevitable and eternal as the changes of the weather. Matstead Church, he knew, had once been Catholic; but how long ago he did not care to inquire. He only knew that for awhile there had been some doubt on the matter; and that before Mr. Barton's time, who was now minister there, there had been a proper priest in the place, who had read English prayers there and a sort of a mass, which he had attended as a little boy. Then this had ceased; the priest had gone and Mr. Barton come, and since that time he had never been to church there, but had heard the real mass wherever he could with a certain secrecy. And there might be further perils in future, as there might be thunderstorms or floods. There was still the memory of the descent of the Commissioners a year or two after his birth; he had been brought up on the stories of riding and counter-riding, and the hiding away of altar-plate and beads and vestments. But all this was in his bones and blood; it was as natural that professors of the false religion should seek to injure and distress professors of the true, as that the foxes should attack the poultry-yard. One took one's precautions, one hoped for the best; and one was quite sure that one day the happy ancient times his mother had told him of would come back, and Christ's cause be vindicated. And now the foundations of the earth were moved and heaven reeled above him; for his father, after a month or two of brooding, had announced, on St. Stephen's Day, that he could tolerate it no longer; that God's demands were unreasonable; that, after all, the Protestant religion was the religion of her Grace, that men must learn to move with the times, and that he had paid his last fine. At Easter, he observed, he would take the bread and wine in Matstead Church, and Robin would take them too. II The sun stood half-way towards his setting as Robin rode up from the valley, past Padley, over the steep ascent that led towards Booth's Edge. The boy was brighter a little as he came up; he had counted above eighty snipe within the last mile and a half, and he was coming near to Marjorie. About him, rising higher as he rose, stood the great low-backed hills. Cecily stepped out more sharply, snuffing delicately, for she knew her way well enough by now, and looked for a feed; and the boy's perplexities stood off from him a little. Matters must surely be better so soon as Marjorie's clear eyes looked upon them. Then the roofs of Padley disappeared behind him, and he saw the smoke going up from the little timbered Hall, standing back against its bare wind-blown trees. A great clatter and din of barking broke out as the mare's hoofs sounded on the half-paved space before the great door; and then, in the pause, a gaggling of geese, solemn and earnest, from out of sight. Jacob led the outcry, a great mastiff, chained by the entrance, of the breed of which three are set to meet a bear and four a lion. Then two harriers whipped round the corner, and a terrier's head showed itself over the wall of the herb-garden on the left, as a man, bareheaded, in his shirt and breeches, ran out suddenly with a thonged whip, in time to meet a pair of spaniels in full career. Robin sat his horse silently till peace was restored, his right leg flung across the pommel, untwisting Agnes' leash from his fist. Then he asked for Mistress Marjorie, and dropped to the ground, leaving his mare and falcon in the man's hands, with an air. He flicked his fingers to growling Jacob as he went past to the side entrance on the east, stepped in through the little door that was beside the great one, and passed on as he had been bidden into the little court, turned to the left, went up an outside staircase, and so down a little passage to the ladies' parlour, where he knocked upon the door. The voice he knew called to him from within; and he went in, smiling to himself. Then he took the girl who awaited him there in both his arms, and kissed her twice--first her hands and then her lips, for respect should come first and ardour second. "My love," said Robin, and threw off his hat with the pheasant's tail, for coolness' sake. * * * * * It was a sweet room this which he already knew by heart; for it was here that he had sat with Marjorie and her mother, silent and confused, evening after evening, last autumn; it was here, too, that she had led him last Christmas Eve, scarcely ten days ago, after he had kissed her in the enclosed garden. But the low frosty sunlight lay in it now, upon the blue painted wainscot that rose half up the walls, the tall presses where the linen lay, the pieces of stuff, embroidered with pale lutes and wreaths that Mistress Manners had bought in Derby, hanging now over the plaster spaces. There was a chimney, too, newly built, that was thought a great luxury; and in it burned an armful of logs, for the girl was setting out new linen for the household, and the scents of lavender and burning wood disputed the air between them. "I thought it would be you," she said, "when I heard the dogs." She piled the last rolls of linen in an ordered heap, and came to sit beside him. Robin took one hand in his and sat silent. She was of an age with him, perhaps a month the younger; and, as it ought to be, was his very contrary in all respects. Where he was fair, she was pale and dark; his eyes were blue, hers black; he was lusty and showed promise of broadness, she was slender. "And what news do you bring with you now?" she said presently. He evaded this. "Mistress Manners?" he asked. "Mother has a megrim," she said; "she is in her chamber." And she smiled at him again. For these two, as is the custom of young persons who love one another, had said not a word on either side--neither he to his father nor she to her parents. They believed, as young persons do, that parents who bring children into the world, hold it as a chief danger that these children should follow their example, and themselves be married. Besides, there is something delicious in secrecy. "Then I will kiss you again," he said, "while there is opportunity." * * * * * Making love is a very good way to pass the time, above all when that same time presses and other disconcerting things should be spoken of instead; and this device Robin now learned. He spoke of a hundred things that were of no importance: of the dress that she wore--russet, as it should be, for country girls, with the loose sleeves folded back above her elbows that she might handle the linen; her apron of coarse linen, her steel-buckled shoes. He told her that he loved her better in that than in her costume of state--the ruff, the fardingale, the brocaded petticoat, and all the rest--in which he had seen her once last summer at Babington House. He talked then, when she would hear no more of that, of Tuesday seven-night, when they would meet for hawking in the lower chase of the Padley estates; and proceeded then to speak of Agnes, whom he had left on the fist of the man who had taken his mare, of her increasing infirmities and her crimes of crabbing; and all the while he held her left hand in both of his, and fitted her fingers between his, and kissed them again when he had no more to say on any one point; and wondered why he could not speak of the matter on which he had come, and how he should tell her. And then at last she drew it from him. "And now, my Robin," she said, "tell me what you have in your mind. You have talked of this and that and Agnes and Jock, and Padley chase, and you have not once looked me in the eyes since you first came in." Now it was not shame that had held him from telling her, but rather a kind of bewilderment. The affair might hold shame, indeed, or anger, or sorrow, or complacence, but he did not know; and he wished, as young men of decent birth should wish, to present the proper emotion on its right occasion. He had pondered on the matter continually since his father had spoken to him on Saint Stephen's night; and at one time it seemed that his father was acting the part of a traitor and at another of a philosopher. If it were indeed true, after all, that all men were turning Protestant, and that there was not so much difference between the two religions, then it would be the act of a wise man to turn Protestant too, if only for a while. And on the other hand his pride of birth and his education by his mother and his practice ever since drew him hard the other way. He was in a strait between the two. He did not know what to think, and he feared what Marjorie might think. It was this, then, that had held him silent. He feared what Marjorie might think, for that was the very thing that he thought that he thought too, and he foresaw a hundred inconveniences and troubles if it were so. "How did you know I had anything in my mind?" he asked. "Is it not enough reason for my coming that you should be here?" She laughed softly, with a pleasant scornfulness. "I read you like a printed book," she said. "What else are women's wits given them for?" He fell to stroking her hand again at that, but she drew it away. "Not until you have told me," she said. So then he told her. It was a long tale, for it began as far ago as last August, when his father had come back from giving evidence before the justices at Derby on a matter of witchcraft, and had been questioned again about his religion. It was then that Robin had seen moodiness succeed to anger, and long silence to moodiness. He told the tale with a true lover's art, for he watched her face and trained his tone and his manner as he saw her thoughts come and go in her eyes and lips, like gusts of wind across standing corn; and at last he told her outright what his father had said to him on St. Stephen's night, and how he himself had kept silence. Marjorie's face was as white as a moth's wing when he was finishing, and her eyes like sunset pools; but she flamed up bright and rosy as he finished. "You kept silence!" she cried. "I did not wish to anger him, my dear; he is my father," he said gently. The colour died out of her face again and she nodded once or twice, and a great pensiveness came down on her. He took her hand again softly, and she did not resist. "The only doubt," she said presently, as if she talked to herself, "is whether you had best be gone at Easter, or stay and face it out." "Yes," said Robin, with his dismay come fully to the birth. Then she turned on him, full of a sudden tenderness and compassion. "Oh! my Robin," she cried, "and I have not said a word about you and your own misery. I was thinking but of Christ's honour. You must forgive me.... What must it be for you!... That it should be your father! You are sure that he means it?" "My father does not speak until he means it. He is always like that. He asks counsel from no one. He thinks and he thinks, and then he speaks; and it is finished." She fell then to thinking again, her sweet lips compressed together, and her eyes frightened and wondering, searching round the hanging above the chimney-breast. (It presented Icarus in the chariot of the sun; and it was said in Derby that it had come from my lord Abbot's lodging at Bolton.) Meantime Robin thought too. He was as wax in the hands of this girl, and knew it, and loved that it should be so. Yet he could not help his dismay while he waited for her seal to come down on him and stamp him to her model. For he foresaw more clearly than ever now the hundred inconveniences that must follow, now that it was evident that to Marjorie's mind (and therefore to God Almighty's) there must be no tampering with the old religion. He had known that it must be so; yet he had thought, on the way here, of a dozen families he knew who, in his own memory, had changed from allegiance to the Pope of Rome to that of her Grace, without seeming one penny the worse. There were the Martins, down there in Derby; the Squire and his lady of Ashenden Hall; the Conways of Matlock; and the rest--these had all changed; and though he did not respect them for it, yet the truth was that they were not yet stricken by thunderbolts or eaten by the plague. He had wondered whether there were not a way to do as they had done, yet without the disgrace of it.... However, this was plainly not to be so with him. He must put up with the inconveniences as well as he could, and he just waited to hear from Marjorie how this must be done. She turned to him again at last. Twice her lips opened to speak, and twice she closed them again. Robin continued to stroke her hand and wait for judgment. The third time she spoke. "I think you must go away," she said, "for Easter. Tell your father that you cannot change your religion simply because he tells you so. I do not see what else is to be done. He will think, perhaps, that if you have a little time to think you will come over to him. Well, that is not so, but it may make it easier for him to believe it for a while.... You must go somewhere where there is a priest.... Where can you go?" Robin considered. "I could go to Dethick," he said. "That is not far enough away, I think." "I could come here," he suggested artfully. A smile lit in her eyes, shone in her mouth, and passed again into seriousness. "That is scarcely a mile further," she said. "We must think.... Will he be very angry, Robin?" Robin smiled grimly. "I have never withstood him in a great affair," he said. "He is angry enough over little things." "Poor Robin!" "Oh! he is not unjust to me. He is a good father to me." "That makes it all the sadder," she said. "And there is no other way?" he asked presently. She glanced at him. "Unless you would withstand him to the face. Would you do that, Robin?" "I will do anything you tell me," he said simply. "You darling!... Well, Robin, listen to me. It is very plain that sooner or later you will have to withstand him. You cannot go away every time there is communion at Matstead, or, indeed, every Sunday. Your father would have to pay the fines for you, I have no doubt, unless you went away altogether. But I think you had better go away for this time. He will almost expect it, I think. At first he will think that you will yield to him; and then, little by little (unless God's grace brings himself back to the Faith), he will learn to understand that you will not. But it will be easier for him that way; and he will have time to think what to do with you, too.... Robin, what would you do if you went away?" Robin considered again. "I can read and write," he said. "I am a Latinist: I can train falcons and hounds and break horses. I do not know if there is anything else that I can do." "You darling!" she said again. * * * * * These two, as will have been seen, were as simple as children, and as serious. Children are not gay and light-hearted, except now and then (just as men and women are not serious except now and then). They are grave and considering: all that they lack is experience. These two, then, were real children; they were grave and serious because a great thing had disclosed itself to them in which two or three large principles were present, and no more. There was that love of one another, whose consummation seemed imperilled, for how could these two ever wed if Robin were to quarrel with his father? There was the Religion which was in their bones and blood--the Religion for which already they had suffered and their fathers before them. There was the honour and loyalty which this new and more personal suffering demanded now louder than ever; and in Marjorie at least, as will be seen more plainly later, there was a strong love of Jesus Christ and His Mother, whom she knew, from her hidden crucifix and her beads, and her Jesus Psalter--which she used every day--as well as in her own soul--to be wandering together once more among the hills of Derbyshire, sheltering, at peril of Their lives, in stables and barns and little secret chambers, because there was no room for Them in Their own places. It was this last consideration, as Robin had begun to guess, that stood strongest in the girl; it was this, too, as again he had begun to guess, that made her all that she was to him, that gave her that strange serious air of innocency and sweetness, and drew from him a love that was nine-tenths reverence and adoration. (He always kissed her hands first, it will be remembered, before her lips.) So then they sat and considered and talked. They did not speak much of her Grace, nor of her Grace's religion, nor of her counsellors and affairs of state: these things were but toys and vanities compared with matters of love and faith; neither did they speak much of the Commissioners that had been to Derbyshire once and would come again, or of the alarms and the dangers and the priest hunters, since those things did not at present touch them very closely. It was rather of Robin's father, and whether and when the maid should tell her parents, and how this new trouble would conflict with their love. They spoke, that is to say, of their own business and of God's; and of nothing else. The frosty sunshine crept down the painted wainscot and lay at last at their feet, reddening to rosiness.... III Robin rode away at last with a very clear idea of what he was to do in the immediate present, and with no idea at all of what was to be done later. Marjorie had given him three things--advice; a pair of beads that had been the property of Mr. Cuthbert Maine, seminary priest, recently executed in Cornwall for his religion; and a kiss--the first deliberate, free-will kiss she had ever given him. The first he was to keep, the second he was to return, the third he was to remember; and these three things, or, rather, his consideration of them, worked upon him as he went. Her advice, besides that which has been described, was, principally, to say his Jesus Psalter more punctually, to hear mass whenever that were possible, to trust in God, and to be patient and submissive with his father in all things that did not touch divine love and faith. The pair of beads that were once Mr. Maine's, he was to keep upon him always, day and night, and to use them for his devotions. The kiss--well, he was to remember this, and to return it to her upon their next meeting. A great star came out as he drew near home. His path took him not through the village, but behind it, near enough for him to hear the barkings of the dogs and to smell upon the frosty air the scent of the wood fires. The house was a great one for these parts. There was a small gate-house before it, built by his father for dignity, with a lodge on either side and an arch in the middle, and beyond this lay the short road, straight and broad, that went up to the court of the house. This court was, on three sides of it, buildings; the hall and the buttery and the living-rooms in the midst, with the stables and falconry on the left, and the servants' lodgings on the right; the fourth side, that which lay opposite to the little gate-house, was a wall, with a great double gate in it, hung on stone posts that had, each of them, a great stone dog that held a blank shield. All this later part, the wall with the gate, the stables and the servants' lodgings, as well as the gatehouse without, had been built by the lad's father twenty years ago, to bring home his wife to; for, until that time, the house had been but a little place, though built of stone, and solid and good enough. The house stood half-way up the rise of the hill, above the village, with woods about it and behind it; and it was above these woods behind that the great star came out like a diamond in enamel-work; and Robin looked at it, and fell to thinking of Marjorie again, putting all other thoughts away. Then, as he rode through into the court on to the cobbled stones, a man ran out from the stable to take his mare from him. "Master Babington is here," he said. "He came half an hour ago." "He is in the hall?" "Yes, sir; they are at supper." * * * * * The hall at Matstead was such as that of most esquires of means. Its daïs was to the south end, and the buttery entrance and the screens to the north, through which came the servers with the meat. In the midst of the floor stood the reredos with the fire against it, and a round vent overhead in the roof through which went the smoke and came the rain. The tables stood down the hall, one on either side, with the master's table at the daïs end set cross-ways. It was not a great hall, though that was its name; it ran perhaps forty feet by twenty. It was lighted, not only by the fire that burned there through the winter day and night, but by eight torches in cressets that hung against the walls and sadly smoked them; and the master's table was lighted by six candles, of latten on common days and of silver upon festivals. There were but two at the master's table this evening, Mr. Audrey himself, a smallish, high-shouldered man, ruddy-faced, with bright blue eyes like his son's, and no hair upon his face (for this was the way of old men then, in the country, at least); and Mr. Anthony Babington, a young man scarcely a year older than Robin himself, of a brown complexion and a high look in his face, but a little pale, too, with study, for he was learned beyond his years and read all the books that he could lay hand to. It was said even that his own verses, and a prose-lament he had written upon the Death of a Hound, were read with pleasure in London by the lords and gentlemen. It was as long ago as '71, that his verses had first become known, when he was still serving in the school of good manners as page in my Lord Shrewsbury's household. They were considered remarkable for so young a boy. So it was to this company that Robin came, walking up between the tables after he had washed his hands at the lavatory that stood by the screens. "You are late, lad," said his father. "I was over to Padley, sir.... Good-day, Anthony." Then silence fell again, for it was the custom in good houses to keep silence, or very nearly, at dinner and supper. At times music would play, if there was music to be had; or a scholar would read from a book for awhile at the beginning, from the holy gospels in devout households, or from some other grave book. But if there were neither music nor reading, all would hold their tongues. Robin was hungry from his riding and the keen air; and he ate well. First he stayed his appetite a little with a hunch of cheat-bread, and a glass of pomage, while the servant was bringing him his entry of eggs cooked with parsley. Then he ate this; and next came half a wild-duck cooked with sage and sweet potatoes; and last of all a florentine which he ate with a cup of Canarian. He ate heartily and quickly, while the two waited for him and nibbled at marchpane. Then, when the doors were flung open and the troop of servants came in to their supper, Mr. Audrey blessed himself, and for them, too; and they went out by a door behind into the wainscoted parlour, where the new stove from London stood, and where the conserves and muscadel awaited them. For this, or like it, had been the procedure in Matstead hall ever since Robin could remember, when first he had come from the women to eat his food with the men. "And how were all at Booth's Edge?" asked Mr. Audrey, when all had pulled off their boots in country fashion, and were sitting each with his glass beside him. (Through the door behind came the clamour of the farm-men and the keepers of the chase and the servants, over their food.) "I saw Marjorie only, sir," said the boy. "Mr. Manners was in Derby, and Mrs. Manners had a megrim." "Mrs. Manners is ageing swifter than her husband," observed Anthony. There seemed a constraint upon the company this evening. Robin spoke of his ride, of things which he had seen upon it, of a wood that should be thinned next year; and Anthony made a quip or two such as he was accustomed to make; but the master sat silent for the most part, speaking to the lads once or twice for civility's sake, but no more. And presently silences began to fall, that were very unusual things in Mr. Anthony's company, for he had a quick and a gay wit, and talked enough for five. Robin knew very well what was the matter; it was what lay upon his own heart as heavy as lead; but he was sorry that the signs of it should be so evident, and wondered what he should say to his friend Anthony when the time came for telling; since Anthony was as ardent for the old Faith as any in the land. It was a bitter time, this, for the old families that served God as their fathers had, and desired to serve their prince too; for, now and again, the rumour would go abroad that another house had fallen, and another name gone from the old roll. And what would Anthony Babington say, thought the lad, when he heard that Mr. Audrey, who had been so hot and persevered so long, must be added to these? And then, on a sudden, Anthony himself opened on a matter that was at least cognate. "I was hearing to-day from Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert that his uncle would be let out again of the Fleet soon to collect his fines." He spoke bitterly; and, indeed, there was reason; for not only were the recusants (as the Catholics were named) put in prison for their faith, but fined for it as well, and let out of prison to raise money for this, by selling their farms or estates. "He will go to Norbury?" asked Robin. "He will come to Padley, too, it is thought. Her Grace must have her money for her ships and her men, and for her pursuivants to catch us all with; and it is we that must pay. Shall you sell again this year, sir?" Mr. Audrey shook his head, pursing up his lips and staring upon the fire. "I can sell no more," he said. Then an agony seized upon Robin lest his father should say all that was in his mind. He knew it must be said; yet he feared its saying, and with a quick wit he spoke of that which he knew would divert his friend. "And the Queen of the Scots," he said. "Have you heard more of her?" Now Anthony Babington was one of those spirits that live largely within themselves, and therefore see that which is without through a haze or mist of their own moods. He read much in the poets; you would say that Vergil and Ovid, as well as the poets of his own day, were his friends; he lived within, surrounded by his own images, and therefore he loved and hated with ten times the ardour of a common man. He was furious for the Old Faith, furious against the new; he dreamed of wars and gallantry and splendour; you could see it even in his dress, in his furred doublet, the embroideries at his throat, his silver-hilted rapier, as well as in his port and countenance: and the burning heart of all his images, the mirror on earth of Mary in heaven, the emblem of his piety, the mistress of his dreams--she who embodied for him what the courtiers in London protested that Elizabeth embodied for them--the pearl of great price, the one among ten thousand--this, for him, was Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, now prisoner in her cousin's hands, going to and fro from house to house, with a guard about her, yet with all the seeming of liberty and none of its reality.... The rough bitterness died out of the boy's face, and a look came upon it as of one who sees a vision. "Queen Mary?" he said, as if he pronounced the name of the Mother of God. "Yes; I have heard of her.... She is in Norfolk, I think." Then he let flow out of him the stream that always ran in his heart like sorrowful music ever since the day when first, as a page, in my Lord Shrewsbury's house in Sheffield, he had set eyes on that queen of sorrows. Then, again, upon the occasion of his journey to Paris, he had met with Mr. Morgan, her servant, and the Bishop of Glasgow, her friend, whose talk had excited and inspired him. He had learned from them something more of her glories and beauties, and remembering what he had seen of her, adored her the more. He leaned back now, shading his eyes from the candles upon the table, and began to sing his love and his queen. He told of new insults that had been put upon her, new deprivations of what was left to her of liberty; he did not speak now of Elizabeth by name, since a fountain, even of talk, should not give out at once sweet water and bitter; but he spoke of the day when Mary should come herself to the throne of England, and take that which was already hers; when the night should roll away, and the morning-star arise; and the Faith should come again like the flowing tide, and all things be again as they had been from the beginning. It was rank treason that he talked, such as would have brought him to Tyburn if it had been spoken in London in indiscreet company; it was that treason which her Grace herself had made possible by her faithlessness to God and man; such treason as God Himself must have mercy upon, since He reads all hearts and their intentions. The others kept silence. At the end he stood up. Then he stooped for his boots. "I must be riding, sir," he said. Mr. Audrey raised his hand to the latten bell that stood beside him on the table. "I will take Anthony to his horse," said Robin suddenly, for a thought had come to him. "Then good-night, sir," said Anthony, as he drew on his second boot and stood up. * * * * * The sky was all ablaze with stars now as they came out into the court. On their right shone the high windows of the little hall where peace now reigned, except for the clatter of the boys who took away the dishes; and the night was very still about them in the grip of the frost, for the village went early to bed, and even the dogs were asleep. Robin said nothing as they went over the paving, for his determination was not yet ripe, and Anthony was still aglow with his own talk. Then, as the servant who waited for his master, with the horses, showed himself in the stable-arch with a lantern, Robin's mind was made up. "I have something to tell you," he said softly. "Tell your man to wait." "Eh?" "Tell your man to wait with the horses." His heart beat hot and thick in his throat as he led the way through the screens and out beyond the hall and down the steps again into the pleasaunce. Anthony took him by the sleeve once or twice, but he said nothing, and went on across the grass, and out through the open iron gate that gave upon the woods. He dared not say what he had to say within the precincts of the house, for fear he should be overheard and the shame known before its time. Then, when they had gone a little way into the wood, into the dark out of the starlight, Robin turned; and, as he turned, saw the windows of the hall go black as the boys extinguished the torches. "Well?" whispered Anthony sharply (for a fool could see that the news was to be weighty, and Anthony was no fool). It was wonderful how Robin's thoughts had fixed themselves since his talk with Mistress Marjorie. He had gone to Padley, doubting of what he should say, doubting what she would tell him, asking himself even whether compliance might not be the just as well as the prudent way. Yet now black shame had come on him--the black shame that any who was a Catholic should turn from his faith; blacker, that he should so turn without even a touch of the rack or the threat of it; blackest of all, that it should be his own father who should do this. It was partly food and wine that had strengthened him, partly Anthony's talk just now; but the frame and substance of it all was Marjorie and her manner of speaking, and her faith in him and in God. He stood still, silent, breathing so heavily that Anthony heard him. "Tell me, Rob; tell me quickly." Robin drew a long breath. "You saw that my father was silent?" he said. "Yes." "Stay.... Will you swear to me by the mass that you will tell no one what you will hear from me till you hear it from others?" "I will swear it," whispered Anthony in the darkness. Again Robin sighed in a long, shuddering breath. Anthony could hear him tremble with cold and pain. "Well," he said, "my father will leave the Church next Easter. He is tired of paying fines, he says. And he has bidden me to come with him to Matstead Church." There was dead silence. "I went to tell Marjorie to-day," whispered Robin. "She has promised to be my wife some day; so I told her, but no one else. She has bidden me to leave Matstead for Easter, and pray to God to show me what to do afterwards. Can you help me, Anthony?" He was seized suddenly by the arms. "Robin.... No ... no! It is not possible!" "It is certain. I have never known my father to turn from his word." * * * * * From far away in the wild woods came a cry as the two stood there. It might be a wolf or fox, if any were there, or some strange night-bird, or a woman in pain. It rose, it seemed, to a scream, melancholy and dreadful, and then died again. The two heard it, but said nothing, one to the other. No doubt it was some beast in a snare or a-hunting, but it chimed in with the desolation of their hearts so as to seem but a part of it. So the two stood in silence. The house was quiet now, and most of those within it upon their beds. Only, as the two knew, there still sat in silence within the little wainscoted parlour, with his head on his hand and a glass of muscadel beside him--he of whom they thought--the father of one and the friend and host of the other.... It was not until this instant in the dark and to the quiet, with the other lad's hands still gripped on to his arms, that this boy understood the utter shame and the black misery of that which he had said, and the other heard. CHAPTER II I There were excuses in plenty for Robin to ride abroad, to the north towards Hathersage or to the south towards Dethick, as the whim took him; for he was learning to manage the estate that should be his one day. At one time it was to quiet a yeoman whose domain had been ridden over and his sown fields destroyed; at another, to dispute with a miller who claimed for injury through floods for which he held his lord responsible; at a third, to see to the woodland or the fences broken by the deer. He came and went then as he willed; and on the second day, after Anthony's visit, set out before dinner to meet him, that they might speak at length of what lay now upon both their hearts. To his father he had said no more, nor he to him. His father sat quiet in the parlour, or was in his own chamber when Robin was at home; but the lad understood very well that there was no thought of yielding. And there were a dozen things on which he himself must come to a decision. There was the first, the question as to where he was to go for Easter, and how he was to tell his father; what to do if his father forbade him outright; whether or no the priests of the district should be told; what to do with the chapel furniture that was kept in a secret place in a loft at Matstead. Above all, there hung over him the thought of what would come after, if his father held to his decision and would allow him neither to keep his religion at home nor go elsewhere. On the second day, therefore, he rode out (the frost still holding, though the sun was clear and warm), and turned southwards through the village for the Dethick road, towards the place in which he had appointed to meet Anthony. At the entrance to the village he passed the minister, Mr. Barton, coming out of his house, that had been the priest's lodging, a middle-aged man, made a minister under the new Prayer-Book, and therefore, no priest as were some of the ministers about, who had been made priests under Mary. He was a solid man, of no great wit or learning, but there was not an ounce of harm in him. (They were fortunate, indeed, to have such a minister; since many parishes had but laymen to read the services; and in one, not twenty miles away, the squire's falconer held the living.) Mr. Barton was in his sad-coloured cloak and round cap, and saluted Robin heartily in his loud, bellowing voice. "Riding abroad again," he cried, "on some secret errand!" "I will give your respects to Mr. Babington," said Robin, smiling heavily. "I am to meet him about a matter of a tithe too!" "Ah! you Papists would starve us altogether if you could," roared the minister, who wished no better than to be at peace with his neighbours, and was all for liberty. "You will get your tithe safe enough--one of you, at least," said Robin. "It is but a matter as to who shall pay it." He waved good-day to the minister and set his horse to the Dethick track. * * * * * There was no going fast to-day along this country road. The frosts and the thaws had made of it a very way of sorrows. Here in the harder parts was a tumble of ridges and holes, with edges as hard as steel; here in the softer, the faggots laid to build it up were broken or rotted through, making it no better than a trap for horses' feet; and it was a full hour before Robin finished his four miles and turned up through the winter woodland to the yeoman's farm where he was to meet Anthony. It was true, as he had said to Mr. Barton, that they were to speak of a matter of tithe--this was to be their excuse if his father questioned him--for there was a doubt as to in which parish stood this farm, for the yeoman tilled three meadows that were in the Babington estate and two in Matstead. As he came up the broken ground on to the crest of the hill, he saw Anthony come out of the yard-gate and the yeoman with him. Then Anthony mounted his horse and rode down towards him, bidding the man stay, over his shoulder. "It is all plain enough," shouted Anthony loud enough for the man to hear. "It is Dethick that must pay. You need not come up, Robin; we must do the paying." Robin checked his mare and waited till the other came near enough to speak. "Young Thomas FitzHerbert is within. He is riding round his new estates," said the other beneath his breath. "I thought I would come out and tell you; and I do not know where we can talk or dine. I met him on the road, and he would come with me. He is eating his dinner there." "But I must eat my dinner too," said Robin, in dismay. "Will you tell him of what you have told me? He is safe and discreet, I think." "Why, yes, if you think so," said Robin. "I do not know him very well." "Oh! he is safe enough, and he has learned not to talk. Besides, all the country will know it by Easter." So they turned their horses back again and rode up to the farm. * * * * * It was a great day for a yeoman when three gentlemen should take their dinners in his house; and the place was in a respectful uproar. From the kitchen vent went up a pillar of smoke, and through its door, in and out continually, fled maids with dishes. The yeoman himself, John Merton, a dried-looking, lean man, stood cap in hand to meet the gentlemen; and his wife, crimson-faced from the fire, peeped and smiled from the open door of the living-room that gave immediately upon the yard. For these gentlemen were from three of the principal estates here about. The Babingtons had their country house at Dethick and their town house in Derby; the Audreys owned a matter of fifteen hundred acres at least all about Matstead; and the FitzHerberts, it was said, scarcely knew themselves all that they owned, or rather all that had been theirs until the Queen's Grace had begun to strip them of it little by little on account of their faith. The two Padleys, at least, were theirs, besides their principal house at Norbury; and now that Sir Thomas was in the Fleet Prison for his religion, young Mr. Thomas, his heir, was of more account than ever. He was at his dinner when the two came in, and he rose and saluted them. He was a smallish kind of man, with a little brown beard, and his short hair, when he lifted his flapped cap to them, showed upright on his head; he smiled pleasantly enough, and made space for them to sit down, one at each side. "We shall do very well now, Mrs. Merton," he said, "if you will bring in that goose once more for these gentlemen." Then he made excuses for beginning his dinner before them: he was on his way home and must be off again presently. It was a well-furnished table for a yeoman's house. There was a linen napkin for each guest, one corner of which he tucked into his throat, while the other corner lay beneath his wooden plate. The twelve silver spoons were laid out on the smooth elm-table, and a silver salt stood before Mr. Thomas. There was, of course, an abundance to eat and drink, even though no more than two had been expected; and John Merton himself stood hatless on the further side of the table and took the dishes from the bare-armed maids to place them before the gentlemen. There was a jack of metheglin for each to drink, and a huge loaf of miscelin (or bread made of mingled corn) stood in the midst and beyond the salt. They talked of this and of that and of the other, freely and easily--of Mr. Thomas' marriage with Mistress Westley that was to take place presently; of the new entailment of the estates made upon him by his uncle. John Merton inquired, as was right, after Sir Thomas, and openly shook his head when he heard of his sufferings (for he and his wife were as good Catholics as any in the country); and when the room was empty for a moment of the maids, spoke of a priest who, he had been told, would say mass in Tansley next day (for it was in this way, for the most part, that such news was carried from mouth to mouth). Then, when the maids came in again, the battle of the tithe was fought once more, and Mr. Thomas pronounced sentence for the second time. They blessed themselves, all four of them, openly at the end, and went out at last to their horses. "Will you ride with us, sir?" asked Anthony; "we can go your way. Robin here has something to say to you." "I shall be happy if you will give me your company for a little. I must be at Padley before dark, if I can, and must visit a couple of houses on the way." He called out to his two servants, who ran out from the kitchen wiping their mouths, telling them to follow at once, and the three rode off down the hill. Then Robin told him. He was silent for a while after he had put a question or two, biting his lower lip a little, and putting his little beard into his mouth. Then he burst out. "And I dare not ask you to come to me for Easter," he said. "God only knows where I shall be at Easter. I shall be married, too, by then. My father is in London now and may send for me. My uncle is in the Fleet. I am here now only to see what money I can raise for the fines and for the solace of my uncle. I cannot ask you, Mr. Audrey, though God knows that I would do anything that I could. Have you nowhere to go? Will your father hold to what he says?" Robin told him yes; and he added that there were four or five places he could go to. He was not asking for help or harbourage, but advice only. "And even of that I have none," cried Mr. Thomas. "I need all that I can get myself. I am distracted, Mr. Babington, with all these troubles." Robin asked him whether the priests who came and went should be told of the blow that impended; for at those times every apostasy was of importance to priests who had to run here and there for shelter. "I will tell one or two of the more discreet ones myself," said Mr. Thomas, "if you will give me leave. I would that they were all discreet, but they are not. We will name no names, if you please; but some of them are unreasonable altogether and think nothing of bringing us all into peril." He began to bite his beard again. "Do you think the Commissioners will visit us again?" asked Anthony. "Mr. Fenton was telling me--" "It is Mr. Fenton and the like that will bring them down on us if any will," burst out Mr. FitzHerbert peevishly. "I am as good a Catholic, I hope, as any in the world; but we can surely live without the sacraments for a month or two sometimes! But it is this perpetual coming and going of priests that enrages her Grace and her counsellors. I do not believe her Grace has any great enmity against us; but she soon will, if men like Mr. Fenton and Mr. Bassett are for ever harbouring priests and encouraging them. It is the same in London, I hear; it is the same in Lancashire; it is the same everywhere. And all the world knows it, and thinks that we do contemn her Grace by such boldness. All the mischief came in with that old Bull, _Regnans in Excelsis_, in '69, and--" "I beg your pardon, sir," came in a quiet voice from beyond him; and Robin, looking across, saw Anthony with a face as if frozen. "Pooh! pooh!" burst out Mr. Thomas, with an uneasy air. "The Holy Father, I take it, may make mistakes, as I understand it, in such matters, as well as any man. Why, a dozen priests have said to me they thought it inopportune; and--" "I do not permit," said Anthony with an air of dignity beyond his years, "that any man should speak so in my company." "Well, well; you are too hot altogether, Mr. Babington. I admire such zeal indeed, as I do in the saints; but we are not bound to imitate all that we admire. Say no more, sir; and I will say no more either." They rode in silence. It was, indeed, one of those matters that were in dispute at that time amongst the Catholics. The Pope was not swift enough for some, and too swift for others. He had thundered too soon, said one party, if, indeed, it was right to thunder at all, and not to wait in patience till the Queen's Grace should repent herself; and he had thundered not soon enough, said the other. Whence it may at least be argued that he had been exactly opportune. Yet it could not be denied that since the day when he had declared Elizabeth cut off from the unity of the Church and her subjects absolved from their allegiance--though never, as some pretended then and have pretended ever since, that a private person might kill her and do no wrong--ever since that day her bitterness had increased yearly against her Catholic people, who desired no better than to serve both her and their God, if she would but permit that to be possible. II It would be an hour later that they bid good-bye to Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert, high among the hills to the east of the Derwent river; and when they had seen him ride off towards Wingerworth, rode yet a few furlongs together to speak of what had been said. "He can do nothing, then," said Robin; "not even to give good counsel." "I have never heard him speak so before," cried Anthony; "he must be near mad, I think. It must be his marriage, I suppose." "He is full of his own troubles; that is plain enough, without seeking others. Well, I must bear mine as best I can." They were just parting--Anthony to ride back to Dethick, and Robin over the moors to Matstead, when over a rise in the ground they saw the heads of three horsemen approaching. It was a wild country that they were in; there were no houses in sight; and in such circumstances it was but prudent to remain together until the character of the travellers should be plain; so the two, after a word, rode gently forward, hearing the voices of the three talking to one another, in the still air, though without catching a word. For, as they came nearer the voices ceased, as if the talkers feared to be overheard. They were well mounted, these three, on horses known as Scottish nags, square-built, sturdy beasts, that could cover forty miles in the day. They were splashed, too, not the horses only, but the riders, also, as if they had ridden far, through streams or boggy ground. The men were dressed soberly and well, like poor gentlemen or prosperous yeomen; all three were bearded, and all carried arms as could be seen from the flash of the sun on their hilts. It was plain, too, that they were not rogues or cutters, since each carried his valise on his saddle, as well as from their appearance. Our gentlemen, then, after passing them with a salute and a good-day, were once more about to say good-bye one to the other, and appoint a time and place to meet again for the hunting of which Robin had spoken to Marjorie, and, indeed, had drawn rein--when one of the three strangers was seen to turn his horse and come riding back after them, while his friends waited. The two lads wheeled about to meet him, as was but prudent; but while he was yet twenty yards away he lifted his hat. He seemed about thirty years old; he had a pleasant, ruddy face. "Mr. Babington, I think, sir," he said. "That is my name," said Anthony. "I have heard mass in your house, sir," said the stranger. "My name is Garlick." "Why, yes, sir, I remember--from Tideswell. How do you do, Mr. Garlick? This is Mr. Audrey, of Matstead." They saluted one another gravely. "Mr. Audrey is a Catholic, too, I think?" Robin answered that he was. "Then I have news for you, gentlemen. A priest, Mr. Simpson, is with us; and will say mass at Tansley next Sunday. You would like to speak with his reverence?" "It will give us great pleasure, sir," said Anthony, touching his horse with his heel. "I am bringing Mr. Simpson on his way. He is just fresh from Rheims. And Mr. Ludlam is to carry him further on Monday," continued Mr. Garlick as they went forward. "Mr. Ludlam?" "He is a native of Radbourne, and has but just finished at Oxford.... Forgive me, sir; I will but just ride forward and tell them." The two lads drew rein, seeing that he wished first to tell the others who they were, before bringing them up; and a strange little thing fell as Mr. Garlick joined the two. For it happened that by now the sun was at his setting; going down in a glory of crimson over the edge of the high moor; and that the three riders were directly in his path from where the two lads waited. Robin, therefore, looking at them, saw the three all together on their horses with the circle of the sun about them, and a great flood of blood-coloured light on every side; the priest was in the midst of the three, and the two men leaning towards him seemed to be speaking and as if encouraging him strongly. For an instant, so strange was the light, so immense the shadows on this side spread over the tumbled ground up to the lads themselves, so vast the great vault of illuminated sky, that it seemed to Robin as if he saw a vision.... Then the strangeness passed, as Mr. Garlick turned away again to beckon to them; and the boy thought no more of it at that time. They uncovered as they rode towards the priest, and bowed low to him as he lifted his hand with a few words of Latin; and the next instant they were in talk. Mr. Simpson, like his friends, was a youngish man at this time, with a kind face and great, innocent eyes that seemed to wonder and question. Mr. Ludlam, too, was under thirty years old, plainly not of gentleman's birth, though he was courteous and well-mannered. It seemed a great matter to these three to have fallen in with young Mr. Babington, whose family was so well-known, and whose own fame as a scholar, as well as an ardent Catholic, was all over the county. Robin said little; he was overshadowed by his friend; but he listened and watched as the four spoke together, and learned that Mr. Simpson had been made priest scarcely a month before, and was come from Yorkshire, which was his own county, to minister in the district of the Peak at least for awhile. He heard, too, news from Douay, and that the college, it was thought, might move from there to another place under the protection of the family of De Guise, since her Grace was very hot against Douay, whence so many of her troubles proceeded, and was doing her best to persuade the Governor of the Netherlands to suppress it. However, said Mr. Simpson, it was not yet done. Anthony, too, in his turn gave the news of the county; he spoke of Mr. Fenton, of the FitzHerberts and others that were safe and discreet persons; but he said nothing at that time of Mr. Audrey of Matstead, at which Robin was glad, since his shame deepened on him every hour, and all the more now that he had met with those three men who rode so gallantly through the country in peril of liberty or life itself. Nor did he say anything of the FitzHerberts except that they might be relied upon. "We must be riding," said Garlick at last; "these moors are strange to me; and it will be dark in half an hour." "Will you allow me to be your guide, sir?" asked Anthony of the priest. "It is all in my road, and you will not be troubled with questions or answers if you are in my company." "But what of your friend, sir?" "Oh! Robin knows the country as he knows the flat of his hand. We were about to separate as we met you." "Then we will thankfully accept your guidance, sir," said the priest gravely. An impulse seized upon Robin as he was about to say good-day, though he was ashamed of it five minutes later as a modest lad would be. Yet he followed it now; he leapt off his horse and, holding Cecily's rein in his arm, kneeled on the stones with both knees. "Your blessing, sir," he said to the priest. And Anthony eyed him with astonishment. III Robin was moved, as he rode home over the high moors, and down at last upon the woods of Matstead, in a manner that was new to him, and that he could not altogether understand. He had met travelling priests before; indeed, all the priests whose masses he had ever heard, or from whom he had received the sacraments, were travelling priests who went in peril; and yet this young man, upon whose consecrated hands the oil was scarcely yet dry, moved and drew his heart in a manner that he had never yet known. It was perhaps something in the priest's face that had so affected him; for there was a look in it of a kind of surprised timidity and gentleness, as if he wondered at himself for being so foolhardy, and as if he appealed with that same wonder and surprise to all who looked on him. His voice, too, was gentle, as if tamed for the seminary and the altar; and his whole air and manner wholly unlike that of some of the priests whom Robin knew--loud-voiced, confident, burly men whom you would have sworn to be country gentlemen or yeomen living on their estates or farms and fearing to look no man in the face. It was this latter kind, thought Robin, that was best suited to such a life--to riding all day through north-country storms, to lodging hardily where they best could, to living such a desperate enterprise as a priest's life then was, with prices upon their heads and spies everywhere. It was not a life for quiet persons like Mr. Simpson, who, surely, would be better at his books in some college abroad, offering the Holy Sacrifice in peace and security, and praying for adventurers more hardy than himself. Yet here was Mr. Simpson just set out upon such an adventure, of his own free-will and choice, with no compulsion save that of God's grace. * * * * * There was yet more than an hour before supper-time when he rode into the court at last; and Dick Sampson, his own groom, came to take his horse from him. "The master's not been from home to-day, sir," said Dick when Robin asked of his father. "Not been from home?" "No, sir--not out of the house, except that he was walking in the pleasaunce half an hour ago." Robin ran up the steps and through the screens to see if his father was still there; but the little walled garden, so far as he could see it in the light from the hall windows, was empty; and, indeed, it would be strange for any man to walk in such a place at such an hour. He wondered, too, to hear that his father had not been from home; for on all days, except he were ill, he would be about the estate, here and there. As he came back to the screens he heard a step going up and down in the hall, and on looking in met his father face to face. The old man had his hat on his head, but no cloak on his shoulders, though even with the fire the place was cold. It was plain that he had been walking up and down to warm himself. Robin could not make out his face very well, as he stood with his back to a torch. "Where have you been, my lad?" "I went to meet Anthony at one of the Dethick farms, sir--John Merton's." "You met no one else?" "Yes, sir; Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert was there and dined with us. He rode with us, too, a little way." And then as he was on the point of speaking of the priest, he stopped himself; and in an instant knew that never again must he speak of a priest to his father; his father had already lost his right to that. His father looked at him a moment, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. "Have you heard anything of a priest that is newly come to these parts--or coming?" "Yes, sir. I hear mass is to be said ... in the district on Sunday." "Where is mass to be said?" Robin drew along breath, lifted his eyes to his father's and then dropped them again. "Did you hear me, sir? Where is mass to be said?" Again Robin lifted and again dropped his eyes. "What is the priest's name?" Again there was dead silence. For a son, in those days, so to behave towards his father, was an act of very defiance. Yet the father said nothing. There the two remained; Robin with his eyes on the ground, expecting a storm of words or a blow in the face. Yet he knew he could do no otherwise; the moment had come at last and he must act as he would be obliged always to act hereafter. Matters had matured swiftly in the boy's mind, all unconsciously to himself. Perhaps it was the timid air of the priest he had met an hour ago that consummated the process. At least it was so consummated. Then his father turned suddenly on his heel; and the son went out trembling. CHAPTER III I "I will speak to you to-night, sir, after supper," said his father sharply a second day later, when Robin, meeting his father setting out before dinner, had asked him to give him an hour's talk. * * * * * Robin's mind had worked fiercely and intently since the encounter in the hall. His father had sat silent both at supper and afterwards, and the next day was the same; the old man spoke no more than was necessary, shortly and abruptly, scarcely looking his son once in the face, and the rest of the day they had not met. It was plain to the boy that something must follow his defiance, and he had prepared all his fortitude to meet it. Yet the second night had passed and no word had been spoken, and by the second morning Robin could bear it no longer; he must know what was in his father's mind. And now the appointment was made, and he would soon know all. His father was absent from dinner and the boy dined alone. He learned from Dick Sampson that his father had ridden southwards. * * * * * It was not until Robin had sat down nearly half an hour later than supper-time that the old man came in. The frost was gone; deep mud had succeeded, and the rider was splashed above his thighs. He stayed at the fire for his boots to be drawn off and to put on his soft-leather shoes, while Robin stood up dutifully to await him. Then he came forward, took his seat without a word, and called for supper. In ominous silence the meal proceeded, and with the same thunderous air, when it was over, his father said grace and made his way, followed by his son, into the parlour behind. He made no motion at first to pour out his wine; then he helped himself twice and left the jug for Robin. Then suddenly he began without moving his head. "I wish to know your intentions," he said, with irony so serious that it seemed gravity. "I cannot flog you or put you to school again, and I must know how we stand to one another." Robin was silent. He had looked at his father once or twice, but now sat downcast and humble in his place. With his left hand he fumbled, out of sight, Mr. Maine's pair of beads. His father, for his part, sat with his feet stretched to the fire, his head propped on his hand, not doing enough courtesy to his son even to look at him. "Do you hear me, sir?" "Yes, sir. But I do not know what to say." "I wish to know your intentions. Do you mean to thwart and disobey me in all matters, or in only those that have to do with religion?" "I do not wish to thwart or disobey you, sir, in any matters except where my conscience is touched." (The substance of this answer had been previously rehearsed, and the latter part of it even verbally.) "Be good enough to tell me what you mean by that." Robin licked his lips carefully and sat up a little in his chair. "You told me, sir, that it was your intention to leave the Church. Then how can I tell you of what priests are here, or where mass is to be said? You would not have done so to one who was not a Catholic, six months ago." The man sneered visibly. "There is no need," he said. "It is Mr. Simpson who is to say mass to-morrow, and it is at Tansley that it will be said, at six o'clock in the morning. If I choose to tell the justices, you cannot prevent it." (He turned round in a flare of anger.) "Do you think I shall tell the justices?" Robin said nothing. "Do you think I shall tell the justices?" roared the old man insistently. "No, sir. Now I do not." The other growled gently and sank back. "But if you think that I will permit my son to flout and to my face in my own hall, and not to trust his own father--why, you are immeasurably mistaken, sir. So I ask you again how far you intend to thwart and disobey me." A kind of despair surged up in the boy's heart--despair at the fruitlessness of this ironical and furious sort of talk; and with the despair came boldness. "Father, will you let me speak outright, without thinking that I mean to insult you? I do not; I swear I do not. Will you let me speak, sir?" His father growled again a sort of acquiescence, and Robin gathered his forces. He had prepared a kind of defence that seemed to him reasonable, and he knew that his father was at least just. They had been friends, these two, always, in an underground sort of way, which was all that the relations of father and son in such days allowed. The old man was curt, obstinate, and even boisterous in his anger; but there was a kindliness beneath that the boy always perceived--a kindliness which permitted the son an exceptional freedom of speech, which he used always in the last resort and which he knew his father loved to hear him use. This, then, was plainly a legitimate occasion for it, and he had prepared himself to make the most of it. He began formally: "Sir," he said, "you have brought me up in the Old Faith, sent me to mass, and to the priest to learn my duty, and I have obeyed you always. You have taught me that a man's duty to God must come before all else--as our Saviour Himself said, too. And now you turn on me, and bid me forget all that, and come to church with you.... It is not for me to say anything to my father about his own conscience; I must leave that alone. But I am bound to speak of mine when occasion rises, and this is one of them.... I should be dishonouring and insulting you, sir, if I did not believe you when you said you would turn Protestant; and a man who says he will turn Protestant has done so already. It was for this reason, then, and no other, that I did not answer you the other day; not because I wish to be disobedient to you, but because I must be obedient to God. I did not lie to you, as I might have done, and say that I did not know who the priest was nor where mass was to be said. But I would not answer, because it is not right or discreet for a Catholic to speak of these things to those who are not Catholics--" "How dare you say I am not a Catholic, sir!" "A Catholic, sir, to my mind," said Robin steadily, "is one who holds to the Catholic Church and to no other. I mean nothing offensive, sir; I mean what I said I meant, and no more. It is not for me to condemn--" "I should think not!" snorted the old man. "Well, sir, that is my reason. And further--" He stopped, doubtful. "Well, sir--what further?" "Well, I cannot come to the church with you at Easter." His father wheeled round savagely in his chair. "Father, hear me out, and then say what you will.... I say I cannot come with you to church at Easter, because I am a Catholic. But I do not wish to trouble or disobey you openly. I will go away from home for that time. Good Mr. Barton will cause no trouble; he wants nothing but peace. Father, you are not just to me. You have taught me too much, or you have not given me time enough--" Again he broke off, knowing that he had said what he did not mean, but the old man was on him like a hawk. "Not time enough, you say? Well, then--" "No, sir; I did not mean that," wailed Robin suddenly. "I do not mean that I should change if I had a hundred years; I am sure I shall not. But--" "You said, 'Not time enough,'" said the other meditatively. "Perhaps if I give you time--" "Father, I beg of you to forget what I said; I did not mean to say it. It is not true. But Marjorie said--" "Marjorie! What has Marjorie to do with it?" Robin found himself suddenly in deep waters. He had plunged and found that he could not swim. This was the second mistake he had made in saying what he did not mean.... Again the courage of despair came to him, and he struck out further. "I must tell you of that too, sir," he said. "Mistress Marjorie and I--" He stopped, overwhelmed with shame. His father turned full round and stared at him. "Go on, sir." Robin seized his glass and emptied it. "Well, sir. Mistress Marjorie and I love one another. We are but boy and girl, sir; we know that--" Then his father laughed. It was laughter that was at once hearty and bitter; and, with it, came the closing of the open door in the boy's heart. As there came out, after it, sentence after sentence of scorn and contempt, the bolts, so to say, were shot and the key turned. It might all have been otherwise if the elder man had been kind, or if he had been sad or disappointed, or even if he had been merely angry; but the soreness and misery in the old man's heart--misery at his own acts and words, and at the outrage he was doing to his own conscience--turned his judgment bitter, and with that bitterness his son's heart shut tight against him. "But boy and girl!" sneered the man. "A couple of blind puppies, I would say rather--you with your falcons and mare and your other toys, and the down on your chin, and your conscience; and she with her white face and her mother and her linen-parlour and her beads"--(his charity prevailed so far as to hinder him from more outspoken contempt)--"And you two babes have been prattling of conscience and prayers together--I make no doubt, and thinking yourselves Cecilies and Laurences and all the holy martyrs--and all this without a by-your-leave, I dare wager, from parent or father, and thinking yourselves man and wife; and you fondling her, and she too modest to be fondled, and--" The plain truth struck him with sudden splendour, at least sufficiently strong to furnish him with a question. "And have you told Mistress Marjorie about your sad rogue of a father?" Robin, white with anger, held his lips grimly together and the wrath blazed in an instant up from the scornful old heart, whose very love was turned to gall. "Tell me, sir--I will have it!" he cried. Robin looked at him with such hard fury in his eyes that for a moment the man winced. Then he recovered himself, and again his anger rose to the brim. "You need not look at me like that, you hound. Tell me, I say!" "I will not!" shouted Robin, springing to his feet. The old man was up too by now, with all the anger of his son hardened by his dignity. "You will not?" "No." For a moment the fate of them both still hung in the balance. If, even at this instant, the father had remembered his love rather than his dignity, had thought of the past and its happy years, rather than of the blinding, swollen present; or, on the other side, if the son had but submitted if only for an hour, and obeyed in order that he might rule later--the whole course might have run aright, and no hearts have been broken and no blood shed. But neither would yield. There was the fierce northern obstinacy in them both; the gentle birth sharpened its edge; the defiant refusal of the son, the wounding contempt of the father not for his son only, but for his son's love--these things inflamed the hearts of both to madness. The father seized his ultimate right, and struck his son across the face. Then the son answered by his only weapon. For a sensible pause he stood there, his fresh face paled to chalkiness, except where the print of five fingers slowly reddened. Then he made a courteous little gesture, as if to invite his father to sit down; and as the other did so, slowly and shaking all over, struck at him by careful and calculated words, delivered with a stilted and pompous air: "You have beaten me, sir; so, of course, I obey. Yes, I told Mistress Marjorie Manners that my father no longer counted himself a Catholic, and would publicly turn Protestant at Easter, so as to please her Grace and be in favour with the Court and with the county justices. And I have told Mr. Babington so as well, and also Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert. It will spare you the pain, sir, of making any public announcement on the matter. It is always a son's duty to spare his father pain." Then he bowed, wheeled, and went out of the room. II Two hours later Robin was still lying completely dressed on his bed in the dark. It was a plain little chamber where he lay, fireless, yet not too cold, since it was wainscoted from floor to ceiling, and looked out eastwards upon the pleasaunce, with rooms on either side of it. A couple of presses sunk in the walls held his clothes and boots; a rush-bottomed chair stood by the bed; and the bed itself, laid immediately on the ground, was such as was used in most good houses by all except the master and mistress, or any sick members of the family--a straw mattress and a wooden pillow. His bows and arrows, with a pair of dags or pistols, hung on a rack against the wall at the foot of his bed, and a little brass cross engraved with a figure of the Crucified hung over it. It was such a chamber as any son of a house might have, who was a gentleman and not luxurious. A hundred thoughts had gone through his mind since he had flung himself down here shaking with passion; and these had begun already to repeat themselves, like a turning wheel, in his head. Marjorie; his love for her; his despair of that love; his father; all that they had been, one to the other, in the past; the little, or worse than little, that they would be, one to the other, in the future; the priest's face as he had seen it three days ago; what would be done at Easter, what later--all these things, coloured and embittered now by his own sorrow for his words to his father, and the knowledge that he had shamed himself when he should have suffered in silence--these things turned continually in his head, and he was too young and too simple to extricate one from the other all at once. Things had come about in a manner which yesterday he would not have thought possible. He had never before spoken so to one to whom he owed reverence; neither had this one ever treated him so. His father had stood always to him for uprightness and justice; he had no more questioned these virtues in his father than in God. Words or acts of either might be strange or incomprehensible, yet the virtues themselves remained always beyond a doubt; and now, with the opening of the door which his father's first decision had accomplished, a crowd of questions and judgments had rushed in, and a pillar of earth and heaven was shaken at last.... It is a dreadful day when for the first time to a young man or maiden, any shadow of God, however unworthy, begins to tremble. * * * * * He understood presently, however, what an elder man, or a less childish, would have understood at once--that these things must be dealt with one by one, and that that which lay nearest to his hand was his own fault. Even then he fought with his conscience; he told himself that no lad of spirit could tolerate such insults against his love, to say nothing of the injustice against himself that had gone before; but, being honest, he presently inquired of what spirit such a lad would be--not of that spirit which Marjorie would approve, nor the gentle-eyed priest he had spoken with.... Well, the event was certain with such as Robin, and he was presently standing at the door of his room, his boots drawn off and laid aside, listening, with a heart beating in his ears to hinder him, for any sound from beneath. He did not know whether his father were abed or not. If not, he must ask his pardon at once. He went downstairs at last, softly, to the parlour, and peeped in. All was dark, except for the glimmer from the stove, and his heart felt lightened. Then, as he was cold with his long vigil outside his bed, he stirred the embers into a blaze and stood warming himself. How strange and passionless, he thought, looked this room, after the tempest that had raged in it just now. The two glasses stood there--his own not quite empty--and the jug between them. His father's chair was drawn to the table, as if he were still sitting in it; his own was flung back as he had pushed it from him in his passion. There was an old print over the stove at which he looked presently--it had been his mother's, and he remembered it as long as his life had been--it was of Christ carrying His cross. His shame began to increase on him. How wickedly he had answered, with every word a wound! He knew that the most poisonous of them all were false; he had known it even while he spoke them; it was not to curry favour with her Grace that his father had lapsed; it was that his temper was tried beyond bearing by those continual fines and rebuffs; the old man's patience was gone--that was all. And he, his son, had not said one word of comfort or strength; he had thought of himself and his own wrongs, and being reviled he had reviled again.... There stood against the wall between the windows a table and an oaken desk that held the estate-bills and books; and beside the desk were laid clean sheets of paper, an ink-pot, a pounce-box, and three or four feather pens. It was here that he wrote, being newly from school, at his father's dictation, or his father sometimes wrote himself, with pain and labour, the few notices or letters that were necessary. So he went to this and sat down at it; he pondered a little; then he wrote a single line of abject regret. "I ask your pardon and God's, sir, for the wicked words I said before I left the parlour. R." He folded this and addressed it with the proper superscription; and left it lying there. III It was a strange ride that he had back from Tansley next morning after mass. Dick Sampson had met him with the horses in the stable-court at Matstead a little after four o'clock in the morning; and together they had ridden through the pitch darkness, each carrying a lantern fastened to his stirrup. So complete was the darkness, however, and so small and confined the circle of light cast by the tossing light, that, for all they saw, they might have been riding round and round in a garden. Now trees showed grim and towering for an instant, then gone again; now their eyes were upon the track, the pools, the rugged ground, the soaked meadow-grass; half a dozen times the river glimmered on their right, turbid and forbidding. Once there shone in the circle of light the eyes of some beast--pig or stag; seen and vanished again. But the return journey was another matter; for they needed no lanterns, and the dawn rose steadily overhead, showing all that they passed in ghostly fashion, up to final solidity. It resembled, in fact, the dawn of Faith in a soul. First from the darkness outlines only emerged, vast and sinister, of such an appearance that it was impossible to tell their proportions or distances. The skyline a mile away, beyond the Derwent, might have been the edge of a bank a couple of yards off; the glimmering pool on the lower meadow path might be the lighted window of a house across the valley. There succeeded to outlines a kind of shaded tint, all worked in gray like a print, clear enough to distinguish tree from boulder and sky from water, yet not clear enough to show the texture of anything. The third stage was that in which colours began to appear, yet flat and dismal, holding, it seemed, no light, yet reflecting it; and all in an extraordinary cold clearness. Nature seemed herself, yet struck to dumbness. No breeze stirred the twigs overhead or the undergrowth through which they rode. Once, as the two, riding a little apart, turned suddenly together, up a ravine into thicker woods, they came upon a herd of deer, who stared on them without any movement that the eye could see. Here a stag stood with two hinds beside him; behind, Robin saw the backs and heads of others that lay still. Only the beasts kept their eyes upon them, as they went, watching, as if it were a picture only that went by. So, by little and little, the breeze stirred like a waking man; cocks crew from over the hills one to the other; dogs barked far away, till the face of the world was itself again, and the smoke from Matstead rose above the trees in front. Robin had ridden in the dawn an hundred times before; yet never before had he so perceived that strange deliberateness and sleep of the world; and he had ridden, too, perhaps twenty times at such an hour, with his father beside him, after mass on some such occasion. Yet it seemed to him this time that it was the mass which he had seen, and his own solitariness, that had illuminated his eyes. It was dreadful to him--and yet it threw him more than ever on himself and God--that his father would ride with him so no more. Henceforward he would go alone, or with a servant only; he would, alone, go up to the door of house or barn and rap four times with his riding-whip; alone he would pass upstairs through the darkened house to the shrouded room, garret or bed-chamber, where the group was assembled, all in silence; where presently a dark figure would rise and light the pair of candles, and then, himself a ghost, vest there by their light, throwing huge shadows on wainscot and ceiling as his arms went this way and that; and then, alone of all that were of blood-relationship to him, he would witness the Holy Sacrifice.... How long that would be so, he did not know. Something surely must happen that would prevent it. Or, at least, some day, he would ride so with Marjorie, whom he had seen this morning across the dusky candle-lit gloom, praying in a corner; or, maybe, with her would entertain the priest, and open the door to the worshippers who streamed in, like bees to a flower-garden, from farm and manor and village. He could not for ever ride alone from Matstead and meet his father's silence. One thing more, too, had moved him this morning; and that, the sight of the young priest at the altar whom he had met on the moor. Here, more than ever, was the gentle priestliness and innocency apparent. He stood there in his red vestments; he moved this way and that; he made his gestures; he spoke in undertones, lit only by the pair of wax-candles, more Levitical than ever in such a guise, yet more unsuited than ever to such exterior circumstances. Surely this man should say mass for ever; yet surely never again ride over the moors to do it, amidst enemies. He was of the strong castle and the chamber, not of the tent and the battle.... And yet it was of such soldiers as these, as well as of the sturdy and the strong, that Christ's army was made. * * * * * It was in broad daylight, though under a weeping sky, that Robin rode into the court at Matstead. He shook the rain from his cloak within the screens, and stamped to get the mud away; and, as he lifted his hat to shake it, his father came in from the pleasaunce. Robin glanced up at him, swift and shy, half smiling, expecting a word or a look. His father must surely have read his little letter by now, and forgiven him. But the smile died away again, as he met the old man's eyes; they were as hard as steel; his clean-shaven lips were set like a trap, and, though he looked at his son, it seemed that he did not see him. He passed through the screens and went down the steps into the court. The boy's heart began to beat so as near to sicken him after his long fast and his ride. He told himself that his father could not have been into the parlour yet, though he knew, even while he thought it, that this was false comfort. He stood there an instant, waiting; hoping that even now his father would call to him; but the strong figure passed resolutely on out of sight. Then the boy went into the hall, and swiftly through it. There on the desk in the window lay the pen he had flung down last night, but no more; the letter was gone; and, as he turned away, he saw lying among the wood-ashes of the cold stove a little crumpled ball. He stooped and drew it out. It was his letter, tossed there after the reading; his father had not taken the pains to keep it safe, nor even to destroy it. CHAPTER IV I The company was already assembled both within and without Padley, when Robin rode up from the riverside, on a fine, windy morning, for the sport of the day. Perhaps a dozen horses stood tethered at the entrance to the little court, with a man or two to look after them, for the greater part of their riders were already within; and a continual coming and going of lads with dogs; falconers each with his cadge, or three-sided frame on which sat the hawks; a barking of hounds, a screaming of birds, a clatter of voices and footsteps in the court--all this showed that the boy was none too early. A man stepped forward to take his mare and his hawks; and Robin slipped from his saddle and went in. * * * * * Padley Hall was just such a house as would serve a wealthy gentleman who desired a small country estate with sufficient dignity and not too many responsibilities. It stood upon the side of the hill, well set-up above the damps of the valley, yet protected from the north-easterly winds by the higher slopes, on the tops of which lay Burbage Moor, where the hawking was to be held. On the south, over the valley, stood out the modest hall and buttery (as, indeed, they stand to this day), with a door between them, well buttressed in two places upon the falling ground, in one by a chimney, in the other by a slope of masonry; and behind these buildings stood the rest of the court, the stables, the wash-house, the bake-house and such like, below; and, above, the sleeping rooms for the family and the servants. On the first floor, above the buttery and the hall, were situated the ladies' parlour and chapel; for this, at least, Padley had, however little its dignity in other matters, that it retained its chapel served in these sorrowful days not, as once, by a chaplain, but by whatever travelling priest might be there. * * * * * Robin entered through the great gate on the east side--a dark entrance kept by a porter who saluted him--and rode through into the court; and here, indeed, was the company; for out of the windows of the low hall on his left came a babble of tongues, while two or three gentlemen with pots in their hands saluted him from the passage door, telling him that Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert was within. Mr. Fenton was one of these, come over from North Lees, where he had his manor, a brisk, middle-aged man, dressed soberly and well, with a pointed beard and pleasant, dancing eyes. "And Mr. John, too, came last night," he said; "but he will not hawk with us. He is ridden from London on private matters." It was an exceedingly gay sight on which Robin looked as he turned into the hall. It was a low room, ceiled in oak and wainscoted half-way up, a trifle dark, since it was lighted only by one or two little windows on either side, yet warm and hospitable looking; with a great fire burning in a chimney on the south side, and perhaps a dozen and a half persons sitting over their food and drink, since they were dining early to-day to have the longer time for sport. A voice hailed him as he came in; and he went up to pay his respects to Mr. John FitzHerbert, a tall man, well past middle-age, who sat with his hat on his head, at the centre of the high table, with the arms of Eyre and FitzHerbert beneath the canopy, all emblazoned, to do the honours of the day. "You are late, sir, you are late!" he cried out genially. "We are just done." Robin saluted him. He liked this man, though he did not know him very well; for he was continually about the country, now in London, now at Norbury, now at Swinnerton, always occupied with these endless matters of fines and recusancy. Robin saluted him then, and said a word or two; bowed to Mr. Thomas, his son, who came up to speak with him; and then looked for Marjorie. She sat there, at the corner of the table, with Mrs. Fenton at one side, and an empty seat on the other. Robin immediately sat down in it, to eat his dinner, beginning with the "gross foods," according to the English custom. There was a piece of Christmas brawn to-day, from a pig fattened on oats and peas, and hardened by being lodged (while he lived) on a boarded floor; all this was told Robin across the table with particularity, while he ate it, and drank, according to etiquette, a cup of bastard. He attended to all this zealously, while never for an instant was he unaware of the girl. They tricked their elders very well, these two innocent ones. You would have sworn that Robin looked for another place and could not see one, you would have sworn that they were shy of one another, and spoke scarcely a dozen sentences. Yet they did very well each in the company of the other; and Robin, indeed, before he had finished his partridge, had conveyed to her that there was news that he had, and must give to her before the day was out. She looked at him with enough dismay in her face for him at least to read it; for she knew by his manner that it would not be happy news. So, too, when the fruit was done and dinner was over (for they had no opportunity to speak at any length), again you would have sworn that the last idea in his mind, as in hers, was that he should be the one to help her to her saddle. Yet he did so; and he fetched her hawk for her, and settled her reins in her hand; and presently he on one side of her, with Mr. Fenton on the other side, were riding up through Padley chase; and the talk and the laughter went up too. II Up on the high moors, in the frank-chase, here indeed was a day to make sad hearts rejoice. The air was soft, as if spring were come before his time; and in the great wind that blew continually from the south-west, bearing the high clouds swiftly against the blue, ruffling the stiff heather-twigs and bilberry beneath--here was wine enough for any mourners. Before them, as they went--two riding before, with falconers on either side a little behind and the lads with the dogs beside them, and the rest in a silent line some twenty yards to the rear--stretched the wide, flat moor like a tumbled table-cloth, broken here and there by groups of wind-tossed beech and oak, backed by the tall limestone crags like pillar-capitals of an upper world; with here and there a little shallow quarry whence marble had been taken for Derby. But more lovely than all were the valleys, seen from here, as great troughs up whose sides trooped the leafless trees--lit by the streams that threw back the sunlit sky from their bosoms; with here a mist of smoke blown all about from a village out of sight, here the shadow of a travelling cloud that fled as swift as the wind that drove it, extinguishing the flash of water only to release it again, darkening a sweep of land only to make the sunlight that followed it the more sweet. Yet the two saw little of this, dear and familiar as they found it; since, first they rode together, and next, as it should be with young hearts, the sport presently began and drove all else away. The sport was done in this way: The two that rode in front selected each from the cadge one of his own falcons (it was peregrines that were used at the beginning of the day, since they were first after partridges), and so rode, carrying his falcon on his wrist, hooded, belled, and in the leash, ready to cast off. Immediately before them went a lad with a couple of dogs to nose the game--these also in a leash until they stiffened. Then the lad released them and stepped softly back, while the riders moved on at a foot's-pace, and the spaniels behind rose on their hind legs, choked by the chain, whimpering, fifty yards in the rear. Slowly the dogs advanced, each a frozen model of craft and blood-lust, till an instant afterwards, with a whir and a chattering like a broken clock, the covey whirled from the thick growth underfoot, and flashed away northwards; and, a moment later, up went the peregrines behind them. Then, indeed, it was _sauve qui peut_, for the ground was full of holes here and there, though there were grass-stretches as well on which all rode with loose rein, the two whose falcons were sprung always in front, according to custom, and the rest in a medley behind. Away then went the birds, pursued and pursuers, till, like a falling star the falcon stooped, and then, maybe, the other a moment later, down upon the quarry; and a minute later there was the falcon back again shivering with pride and ecstasy, or all ruffle-feathered with shame, back on his master's wrist, and another torn partridge, or maybe two, in the bottom of the lad's bag; and arguments went full pelt, and cries, and sometimes sharp words, and faults were found, and praise was given, and so, on for another pair. It was but natural that Robin and Marjorie should compete one against the other, for they were riding together and talked together. So presently Mr. Thomas called to them, and beckoned them to their places. Robin set aside Agnes on to the cadge and chose Magdalen, and Marjorie chose Sharpie. The array was set, and all moved forward. It was a short chase and a merry one. Two birds rose from the heather and flew screaming, skimming low, as from behind them moved on the shadows of death, still as clouds, with great noiseless sweeps of sickle-shaped wings. Behind came the gallopers; Marjorie on her black horse, Robin on Cecily, seeming to compete, yet each content if either won, each, maybe--or at least Marjorie--desiring that the other should win. And the wind screamed past them as they went. Then came the stoops--together as if fastened by one string--faultless and exquisite; and, as the two rode up and drew rein, there, side by side on the windy turf, two fierce statues of destiny--cruel-eyed, blood-stained on the beaks, resolute and suspicious--eyed them motionless, the claws sunk deeply through back and head--awaiting recapture. Marjorie turned swiftly to the boy as he leaped off. "In the chapel," she said, "at Padley." Robin stared at her. Then he understood and nodded his head, as Mr. Thomas rode up, his beard all blown about by the wind, breathless but congratulatory. III It fell on Robin's mind with a certain heaviness and reproach that it should have been she who should have carried in her head all day the unknown news that he was to give her and he who should have forgotten it. He understood then a little better of all that he must be to her, since, as he turned to her (his head full of hawks, and the glory of the shouting wind, and every thought of Faith and father clean blown away), it was to her mind that the under-thought had leapt, that here was their first, and perhaps their last, chance of speaking in private. It was indeed their last chance, for the sun already stood over Chapel-le-Frith far away to the south-west; and they must begin their circle to return, in which the ladies should fly their merlins after larks, and there was no hope henceforth for Robin. Henceforth she rode with Mrs. Fenton and two or three more, while the gentlemen who loved sport more than courtesy, turned to the left over the broken ground to work back once more after partridges. And Robin dared no more ride with his love, for fear that his company all day with her should be marked. * * * * * It was within an hour of sunset that Robin, riding ahead, having lost a hawk and his hat, having fallen into a bog-hole, being one mask of mud from head to foot, slid from his horse into Dick's hands and demanded if the ladies were back. "Yes, sir; they are back half an hour ago. They are in the parlour." Robin knew better. "I shall be riding in ten minutes," he said; "give the mare a mouthful." He limped across the court, and looking behind him to see if any saw, and finding the court at that instant empty, ran up, as well as he could, the stone staircase that rose from the outside to the chapel door. It was unlatched. He pushed it open and went in. * * * * * It was a brave thing that the FitzHerberts did in keeping such a place at all, since the greatest Protestant fool in the valley knew what the little chamber was that had the angels carved on the beam-ends, and the piscina in the south wall. Windows looked out every way; through those on the south could be seen now the darkening valley and the sunlit hills, and, yet more necessary, the road by which any travellers from the valley must surely come. Within, too, scarcely any pains were taken to disguise the place. It was wainscoted from roof to floor--veiled, floored and walled in oak. A great chest stood beneath the little east window of two lights, that cried "Altar" if any chest ever did so. A great press stood against the wooden screen that shut the room from the ladies' parlour next door; filled in three shelves with innocent linen, for this was the only disguise that the place stooped to put on. You could not swear that mass was said there, but you could swear that it was a place in which mass would very suitably be said. A couple of benches were against the press, and three or four chairs stood about the floor. Robin saw her against the light as soon as he came in. She was still in her blue riding-dress, with the hood on her shoulders, and held her whip in her hand; but he could see no more of her head than the paleness of her face and the gleam on her black hair. "Well, then?" she whispered sharply; and then: "Why, what a state you are in!" "It's nothing," said Robin. "I rolled in a bog-hole." She looked at him anxiously. "You are not hurt?... Sit down at least." He sat down stiffly, and she beside him, still watching to see if he were the worse for his falling. He took her hand in his. "I am not fit to touch you," he said. "Tell me the news; tell me quickly." So he told her; of the wrangle in the parlour and what had passed between his father and him; of his own bitterness; and his letter, and the way in which the old man had taken it. "He has not spoken to me since," he said, "except in public before the servants. Both nights after supper he has sat silent and I beside him." "And you have not spoken to him?" she asked quickly. "I said something to him after supper on Sunday, and he made no answer. He has done all his writing himself. I think it is for him to speak now. I should only anger him more if I tried it again." She sighed suddenly and swiftly, but said nothing. Her hand lay passive in his, but her face was turned now to the bright southerly window, and he could see her puzzled eyes and her down-turned, serious mouth. She was thinking with all her wits, and, plainly, could come to no conclusion. She turned to him again. "And you told him plainly that you and I ... that you and I--" "That you and I loved one another? I told him plainly. And it was his contempt that angered me." She sighed again. * * * * * It was a troublesome situation in which these two children found themselves. Here was the father of one of them that knew, yet not the parents of the other, who should know first of all. Neither was there any promise of secrecy and no hope of obtaining it. If she should not tell her parents, then if the old man told them, deception would be charged against her; and if she should tell them, perhaps he would not have done so, and so all be brought to light too soon and without cause. And besides all this there were the other matters, heavy enough before, yet far more heavy now--matters of their hopes for the future, the complications with regard to the Religion, what Robin should do, what he should not do. So they sat there silent, she thinking and he waiting upon her thought. She sighed again and turned to him her troubled eyes. "My Robin," she said, "I have been thinking so much about you, and I have feared sometimes--" She stopped herself, and he looked for her to finish. She drew her hand away and stood up. "Oh! it is miserable!" she cried. "And all might have been so happy." The tears suddenly filled her eyes so that they shone like flowers in dew. He stood up, too, and put his muddy arm about her shoulders. (She felt so slight and slender.) "It will be happy," he said. "What have you been fearing?" She shook her head and the tears ran down. "I cannot tell you yet.... Robin, what a holy man that travelling priest must be, who said mass on Sunday." The lad was bewildered at her swift changes of thought, for he did not yet see the chain on which they hung. He strove to follow her. "It seemed so to me too," he said. "I think I have never seen--" "It seemed so to you too," she cried. "Why, what do you know of him?" He was amazed at her vehemence. She had drawn herself clear of his arm and was looking at him full in the face. "I met him on the moor," he said. "I had some talk with him. I got his blessing." "You got his blessing! Why, so did I, after the mass, when you were gone." "Then that should join us more closely than ever," he said. "In Heaven, perhaps, but on earth--" She checked herself again. "Tell me what you thought of him, Robin." "I thought it was strange that such a man as that should live such a rough life. If he were in the seminary now, safe at Douay--" She seemed a shade paler, but her eyes did not flicker. "Yes," she said. "And you thought--?" "I thought that it was not that kind of man who should fare so hardly. If it were a man like John Merton, who is accustomed to such things, or a man like me--" Again he stopped; he did not know why. But it was as if she had cried out, though she neither spoke nor moved. "You thought that, did you, Robin?" she said presently, never moving her eyes from his face. "I thought so, too." "But I do not know why we are talking about Mr. Simpson," said the lad. "There are other affairs more pressing." "I am not sure," said she. "Marjorie, my love, what are you thinking about?" She had turned her eyes and was looking out through the little window. Outside the red sunlight still lay on the crags and slopes beyond the deep valley beneath them, and her face was bright in the reflected brightness. Yet he thought he had never seen her look so serious. She turned her eyes back to him as he spoke. "I am thinking of a great many things," she said. "I am thinking of the Faith and of sorrow and of love." "My love, what do you mean?" Suddenly she made a swift movement towards him and took him by the lapels. He could see her face close beneath his, yet it was in shadow again, and he could make out of it no more than the shadows of mouth and eyes. "Robin," she said, "I cannot tell you unless God tells you Himself. I am told that I am too scrupulous sometimes.... I do not know what I think, nor what is right, nor what are fancies.... But ... but I know that I love you with all my heart ... and ... and that I cannot bear--" Then her face was on his breast in a passion of weeping, and his arms were round her, and his lips on her hair. IV Dick found his master a poor travelling companion as they rode home. He made a few respectful remarks as to the sport of the day, but he was answered by a wandering eye and a complete lack of enthusiasm. Mr. Robin rode loosely and heavily. Three or four times his mare stumbled (and no wonder, after all that she had gone through), and he jerked her savagely. Then Dick tried another tack and began to speak of the company, but with no greater success. He discoursed on the riding of Mrs. Fenton, and the peregrine of Mr. Thomas, who had distinguished herself that day, and he was met by a lack-lustre eye once more. Finally he began to speak of the religious gossip of the countryside--how it was said that another priest, a Mr. Nelson, had been taken, in London, as Mr. Maine had been in Cornwall; that, it was said again, priests would have to look to their lives in future, and not only to their liberty; how the priest, Mr. Simpson, was said to be a native of Yorkshire, and how he was ridden northwards again, still with Mr. Ludlam. And here he met with a little more encouragement. Mr. Robin asked where was Mr. Simpson gone to, and Dick told him he did not know, but that he would be back again by Easter, it was thought, or, if not, another priest would be in the district. Then he began to gossip of Mr. Ludlam; how a man had told him that his cousin's wife thought that Mr. Ludlam was to go abroad to be made priest himself, and that perhaps Mr. Garlick would go too. "That is the kind of priest we want, sir," said Dick. "Eh?" "That is the kind of priest we want, sir," repeated Dick solemnly. "We should do better with natives than foreigners. We want priests who know the county and the ways of the people--and men too, I think, sir, who can ride and know something of sport, and can talk of it. I told Mr. Simpson, sir, of the sport we were to have to-day, and he seemed to care nothing about it!" Robin sighed aloud. "I suppose so," he said. "Mr. John looked well, sir," pursued Dick, and proceeded to speak at length of the FitzHerbert troubles, and the iniquities of the Queen's Grace. He was such a man as was to be found throughout all England everywhere at this time--a man whose religion was a part of his politics, and none the less genuine for that. He was a shrewd man in his way, with the simplicity which belongs to such shrewdness; he disliked the new ways which he experienced chiefly in the towns, and put them down, not wholly without justice, to the change of which religion formed an integral part; he hated the beggars and would gladly have gone to see one flogged; and he disliked the ministers and their sermons and their "prophesyings" with all the healthy ardour of prejudice. Once in the year did Dick approach the sacraments, and a great business he made of it, being unusually morose before them and almost indecently boisterous after them. He was feudal to the very heart of him; and it was his feudality that made him faithful to his religion as well as to his masters, for either of which he would resolutely have died. And what in the world he would do when he discovered, at Easter, that the objects of his fidelity were to take opposite courses, Robin could not conceive. As they rode in at last, Robin, who had fallen silent again after Dick's last piece of respectful vehemence, suddenly beat his own leg with his whip and uttered an inaudible word. It seemed to Dick that the young master had perceived clearly that which plainly had been worrying him all the way home, and that he did not like it. CHAPTER V I Mr. Manners sat in his parlour ten days after the beginning of Lent, full of his Sunday dinner and of perplexing thoughts all at once. He had eaten well and heartily after his week of spare diet, and then, while in high humour with all the world, first his wife and then his daughter had laid before him such revelations that all the pleasure of digestion was gone. It was but three minutes ago that Marjorie had fled from him in a torrent of tears, for which he could not see himself responsible, since he had done nothing but make the exclamations and comments that should be expected of a father in such a case. The following were the points for his reflection--to begin with those that touched him less closely. First that his friend Mr. Audrey, whom he had always looked upon with reverence and a kind of terror because of his hotness in matters of politics and religion, had capitulated to the enemy and was to go to church at Easter. Mr. Manners himself had something of timidity in his nature: he was conservative certainly, and practised, when he could without bringing himself into open trouble, the old religion in which he had been brought up. He, like the younger generation, had been educated at Derby Grammar School, and in his youth had sat with his parents in the nave of the old Cluniac church of St. James to hear mass. He had then entered his father's office in Derby, about the time that the Religious Houses had fallen, and had transferred the scene of his worship to St. Peter's. At Queen Mary's accession, he had stood, with mild but genuine enthusiasm, in his lawyer's gown, in the train of the sheriff who proclaimed her in Derby market-place; and stood in the crowd, with corresponding dismay, six years later to shout for Queen Elizabeth. Since that date, for the first eleven years he had gone, as did other Catholics, to his parish church secretly, thankful that there was no doubt as to the priesthood of his parson, to hear the English prayers; and then, to do him justice, though he heard with something resembling consternation the decision from Rome that compromise must cease and that, henceforth, all true Catholics must withdraw themselves from the national worship, he had obeyed without even a serious moment of consideration. He had always feared that it might be so, understanding that delay in the decision was only caused by the hope that even now the breach might not be final or complete; and so was better prepared for the blow when it came. Since that time he had heard mass when he could, and occasionally even harboured priests, urged thereto by his wife and daughter; and, for the rest, still went into Derby for three or four days a week to carry on his lawyer's business, with Mr. Biddell his partner, and had the reputation of a sound and careful man without bigotry or passion. It was, then, a shock to his love of peace and serenity, to hear that yet another Catholic house had fallen, and that Mr. Audrey, one of his clients, could no longer be reckoned as one of his co-religionists. The next point for his reflection was that Robin was refusing to follow his father's example; the third, that somebody must harbour the boy over Easter, and that, in his daughter's violently expressed opinion, and with his wife's consent, he, Thomas Manners, was the proper person to do it. Last, that it was plain that there was something between his daughter and this boy, though what that was he had been unable to understand. Marjorie had flown suddenly from the room just as he was beginning to put his questions. It is no wonder, then, that his peace of mind was gone. Not only were large principles once more threatened--considerations of religion and loyalty, but also those small and intimate principles which, so far more than great ones, agitate the mind of the individual. He did not wish to lose a client; yet neither did he wish to be unfriendly to a young confessor for the faith. Still less did he wish to lose his daughter, above all to a young man whose prospects seemed to be vanishing. He wondered whether it would be prudent to consult Mr. Biddell on the point.... * * * * * He was a small and precise man in his body and face, as well as in his dress; his costume was, of course, of black; but he went so far as to wear black buckles, too, on his shoes, and a black hilt on his sword. His face was little and anxious; his eyebrows were perpetually arched, as if in appeal, and he was accustomed, when in deep thought, to move his lips as if in a motion of tasting. So, then, he sat before his fire to-day after dinner, his elbow on the table where his few books lay, his feet crossed before him, his cup of drink untouched at his side; and meantime he tasted continually with his lips, as if better to appreciate the values and significances of the points for his consideration. * * * * * It would be about half an hour later that the door opened once more and Marjorie came in again. She was in her fine dress to-day--fine, that is, according to the exigencies of the time and place, though sober enough if for a town-house--in a good blue silk, rather dark, with a little ruff, with lace ruffles at her wrists, and a quilted petticoat, and silver buckles. For she was a gentleman's daughter, quite clearly, and not a yeoman's, and she must dress to her station. Her face was very pale and quite steady. She stood opposite her father. "Father," she said, "I am very sorry for having behaved like a goose. You were quite right to ask those questions, and I have come back to answer them." He had ceased tasting as she came in. He looked at her timidly and yet with an attempt at severity. He knew what was due from him as a father. But for the present he had forgotten what questions they were; his mind had been circling so wildly. "You are right to come back," he said, "you should not have left me so." "I am very sorry," she said again. "Well, then--you tell me that Mr. Robin has nowhere else to go." She flushed a little. "He has ten places to go to. He has plenty of friends. But none have the right that we have. He is a neighbour; it was to me, first of all, that he told the trouble." Then he remembered. "Sit down," he said. "I must understand much better first. I do not understand why he came to you first. Why not, if he must come to this house at all--why not to me? I like the lad; he knows that well enough." He spoke with an admirable dignity, and began to feel more happy in consequence. She had sat down as he told her, on the other side of the table; but he could not see her face. "It would have been better if he had, perhaps," she said. "But--" "Yes? What 'But' is that?" Then she faced him, and her eyes were swimming. "Father, he told me first because he loves me, and because I love him." He sat up. This was speaking outright what she had only hinted at before. She must have been gathering her resolution to say this, while she had been gone. Perhaps she had been with her mother. In that case he must be cautious.... "You mean--" "I mean just what I say. We love one another, and I am willing to be his wife if he desires it--and with your permission. But--" He waited for her to go on. "Another 'But'!" he said presently, though with increasing mildness. "I do not think he will desire it after a while. And ... and I do not know what I wish. I am torn in two." "But you are willing?" "I pray for it every night," she cried piteously. "And every morning I pray that it may not be so." She was staring at him as if in agony, utterly unlike what he had looked for in her. He was completely bewildered. "I do not understand one word--" Then she threw herself at his knees and seized his hands; her face was all torn with pain. "And I cannot explain one word.... Father, I am in misery. You must pray for me and have patience with me.... I must wait ... I must wait and see what God wishes." "Now, now...." "Father, you will trust me, will you not?" "Listen to me. You must tell me thus. Do you love this boy?" "Yes, yes." "And you have told him so? He asked you, I mean?" "Yes." He put her hands firmly from his knee. "Then you must marry him, if matters can be arranged. It is what I should wish. But I do not know--" "Father, you do not understand--you do not understand. I tell you I am willing enough, if he wishes it ... if he wishes it." Again she seized his hands and held them. And again bewilderment came down on him like a cloud. "Father! you must trust me. I am willing to do everything that I ought." (She was speaking firmly and confidently now.) "If he wishes to marry me, I will marry him. I love him dearly.... But you must say nothing to him, not one word. My mother agrees with this. She would have told you herself; but I said that I would--that I must be brave.... I must learn to be brave.... I can tell you no more." He lifted her hands and stood up. "I see that I understand nothing that you say after all," he said with a fine fatherly dignity. "I must talk with your mother." II He found his wife half an hour later in the ladies' parlour, which he entered with an air as of nothing to say. With the same air of disengagement he made sure that Marjorie was nowhere in the room, and presently sat down. Mrs. Manners was well past her prime. She was over forty years old and looked over fifty, though she retained the air of distinction which Marjorie had derived from her; but her looks belied her, and she had not one tithe of the subtlety and keenness of her daughter. She was, in fact, more suited to be wife to her husband than mother to her daughter. "You have come about the maid," she said instantly, with disconcerting penetration and frankness. "Well, I know no more than you. She will tell me nothing but what she has told you. She has some fiddle-faddle in her head, as maids will, but she will have her way with us, I suppose." She drew her needle through the piece of embroidery which she permitted to herself for an hour on Sundays, knotted the thread and bit it off. Then she regarded her husband. "I.... I will have no fiddle-faddle in such a matter," he said courageously. "Maids did not rule their parents when I was a boy; they obeyed them or were beaten." His wife laughed shortly; and began to thread her needle again. He began to explain. The match was in all respects suitable. Certainly there were difficulties, springing from the very startling events at Matstead, and it well might be that a man who would do as Mr. Audrey had done (or, rather, proposed to do) might show obstinacy in other directions too. Therefore there was no hurry; the two were still very young, and it certainly would be wiser to wait for any formal betrothal until Robin's future disclosed itself. But no action of Mr. Audrey's need delay the betrothal indefinitely; if need were, he, Mr. Manners, would make proper settlements. Marjorie was an only daughter; in fact, she was in some sort an heiress. The Manor would be sufficient for them both. As to any other difficulties--any of the maidenly fiddle-faddle of which his wife had spoken--this should not stand in the way for an instant. His wife laughed again in the same exclamatory manner, when he had done and sat stroking his knees. "Why, you understand nothing about it, Mr. Manners," she said, "Did the maid not tell you she would marry him, if he wished it? She told me so." "Then what is the matter?" he asked. "I know no more than you." "Does he not wish it?" "She says so." "Then--" "Yes, that is what I say. And yet that says nothing. There is something more." "Ask her." "I have asked her. She bids me wait, as she bids you. It is no good, Mr. Manners. We must wait the maid's time." He sat, breathing audibly through his nose. * * * * * These two were devoted to their daughter in a manner hardly to be described. She was the only one left to them; for the others, of whom two had been boys, had died in infancy or childhood; and, in the event, Marjorie had absorbed the love due to them all. She was a strain higher than themselves, thought her parents, and so pride in her was added to love. The mother had made incredible sacrifices, first to have her educated by a couple of old nuns who still survived in Derby, and then to bring her out suitably at Babington House last year. The father had cordially approved, and joined in the sacrifices, which included an expenditure which he would not have thought conceivable. The result was, of course, that Marjorie, under cover of a very real dutifulness, ruled both her parents completely; her mother acknowledged the dominion, at least, to herself and her husband; her father pretended that he did not; and on this occasion rose, perhaps, nearer to repudiating it than ever in his life. It seemed to him unbearable to be bidden by his daughter, though with the utmost courtesy and affection, to mind his own business. So he sat and breathed audibly through his nose, and meditated rebellion. * * * * * "And is the lad to come here for Easter?" he asked at last. "I suppose so." "And for how long?" "So long as the maid appoints." He breathed louder than ever. "And, Mr. Manners," continued his wife emphatically, "no word must be said to him on the matter. The maid is very plain as to that.... Oh! we must let her have her way." "Where is she gone?" She nodded with her head to the window. He went to it and looked out. * * * * * It was the little walled garden on which he looked, in which, if he had but known it, the lad whom he liked had kissed the maid whom he loved; and there walked the maid, at this moment with her back to him, going up the central path that was bordered with box. The February sun shone on her as she went, on her hooded head, her dark cloak and her blue dress beneath. He watched her go up, and drew back a little as she turned, so that she might not see him watching; and as she came down again he saw that she held a string of beads in her fingers and was making her devotions. She was a good girl.... That, at least, was a satisfaction. Then he turned from the window again. "Well?" said his wife. "I suppose it must be as she says." III It was an hour before sunset when Marjorie came out again into the walled garden that had become for her now a kind of sanctuary, and in her hand she carried a letter, sealed and inscribed. On the outside the following words were written: "To Mr. Robin Audrey. At Matstead. "Haste, haste, haste." Within, the sheet was covered from top to bottom with the neat convent-hand she had learnt from the nuns. The most of it does not concern us. It began with such words as you would expect from a maid to her lover; it continued to inform him that her parents were willing, and, indeed, desirous, that he should come to them for Easter, and that her father would write a formal letter later to invite him; it was to be written from Derby, (this conspirator informed the other), that it might cause less comment when Mr. Audrey saw it, and was to be expressed in terms that would satisfy him. Finally, it closed as it had begun, and was subscribed by his "loving friend, M. M." One paragraph, however, is worth attention. "I have told my father and mother, that we love one another, my Robin; and that you have asked me to marry you, and that I have consented should you wish to do so when the time comes. They have consented most willingly; and so Jesu have you in His keeping, and guide your mind aright." It was this paragraph that had cost her half of the hour occupied in writing; for it must be expressed just so and no otherwise; and its wording had cost her agony lest on the one side she should tell him too much, and, on the other, too little. And her agony was not yet over; for she had to face its sending, and the thought of all that it might cost her. She was to give it to one of the men who was to leave early for Derby next morning and was to deliver it at Matstead on the road; so she brought it out now to her sanctuary to spread it, like the old King of Israel, before the Lord.... * * * * * There was a promise of frost in the air to-night. Underfoot the moisture of the path was beginning, not yet to stiffen, but rather to withdraw itself; and there was a cold clearness in the air. Over the wall beside the house, beyond the leafless trees which barred it like prison-bars, burned the sunset, deepening and glowing redder every instant. Yet she felt nothing of the cold, for a fire was within her as she went again up and down the path on which her father had watched her walk--a fire of which as yet she could not discern the fuel. The love of Robin was there--that she knew; and the love of Christ was there--so she thought; and yet where the divine and the human passion mingled, she could not tell; nor whether, indeed, for certain, it were the love of Christ at all, and not a vain imagination of her own as to how Christ, in this case, would be loved. Only she knew that across her love for Robin a shadow had fallen; she could scarcely tell when it had first come to her, and whence. Yet it had so come; it had deepened rapidly and strongly during the mass that Mr. Simpson had said, and, behold! in its very darkness there was light. And so it had continued till confusion had fallen on her which none but Robin could dissolve. It must be his word finally that must give her the answer to her doubts; and she must make it easy for him to give it. He must know, that is, that she loved him more passionately than ever, that her heart would break if she had not her desire; and yet that she would not hold him back if a love that was greater than hers could be for him or his for her, called him to another wedding than that of which either had yet spoken. A broken heart and God's will done would be better than that God's will should be avoided and her own satisfied. * * * * * It was this kind of considerations, therefore, that sent her swiftly to and fro, up and down the path under the darkening sky--if they can be called considerations which beat on the mind like a clamour of shouting; and, as she went, she strove to offer all to God: she entreated Him to do His will, yet not to break her heart; to break her heart, yet not Robin's; to break both her heart and Robin's, if that Will could not otherwise be served. Her lips moved now and again as she went; but her eyes were downcast and her face untroubled.... * * * * * As the bell in the court rang for supper she went to the door and looked through. The man was just saddling up in the stable-door opposite. "Jack," she called, "here is the letter. Take if safely." Then she went in to supper. CHAPTER VI I It was a great day and a solemn when the squire of Matstead went to Protestant communion for the first time. It was Easter Day, too, but this was less in the consideration of the village. There was first the minister, Mr. Barton, in a condition of excited geniality from an early hour. He was observed soon after it was light, by an old man who was up betimes, hurrying up the village street in his minister's cassock and gown, presumably on his way to see that all preparations were complete for the solemnity. His wife was seen to follow him a few minutes later. By eight o'clock the inhabitants of the village were assembled at points of vantage; some openly at their doors; others at the windows; and groups from the more distant farms, decked suitably, stood at all corners; to be greeted presently by their minister hurrying back once more from the church to bring the communion vessels and the bread and wine. The four or five soldiers of the village--a couple of billmen and pikemen and a real gunner--stood apart in an official group, but did not salute him. He did not speak of that which was in the minds of all, but he waved a hand to this man, bid a happy Easter to another, and disappeared within his lodgings leaving a wake of excitement behind him. By a quarter before nine the three bells had begun to jangle from the tower; and the crowd had increased largely, when Mr. Barton once more passed to the church in the spring sunshine, followed by the more devout who wished to pray, and the more timid who feared a disturbance. For sentiments were not wholly on the squire's side. There was first a number of Catholics, openly confessed or at least secretly Catholic, though these were not in full force since most were gone to Padley before dawn; and there was next a certain sentiment abroad, even amongst those who conformed, in favour of tradition. That the squire of Matstead should be a Catholic was at least as fundamental an article of faith as that the minister should be a Protestant. There was little or no hot-gospel here; men still shook their heads sympathetically over the old days and the old faith, which indeed had ceased to be the faith of all scarcely twenty years ago; and it appeared to the most of them that the proper faith of the Quality, since they had before their eyes such families as the Babingtons, the Fentons, and the FitzHerberts, was that to which their own squire was about to say good-bye. It was known, too, publicly by now, that Mr. Robin was gone away for Easter, since he would not follow his father. So the crowd waited; the dogs sunned themselves; and the gunner sat on a wall. * * * * * The bells ceased at nine o'clock, and upon the moment, a group came round the churchyard wall, down from the field-path and the stile that led to the manor. First, walking alone, came the squire, swiftly and steadily. His face was flushed a little, but set and determined. He was in his fine clothes, ruff and all; his rapier was looped at his side, and he carried a stick. Behind him came three or four farm servants; then a yeoman and his wife; and last, at a little distance, three or four onlookers. There was dead silence as he came; the hum of talk died at the corners; the bells' clamour had even now ceased. It seemed as if each man waited for his neighbour to speak. There was only the sound of the squire's brisk footsteps on the few yards of cobbles that paved the walk up to the lych-gate. At the door of the church, seen beyond him, was a crowd of faces. Then a man called something aloud from fifty yards away; but there was no voice to echo him. The folk just watched their lord go by, staring on him as on some strange sight, forgetting even to salute him. And so in silence he passed on. II Within, the church murmured with low talking. Already two-thirds of it was full, and all faces turned and re-turned to the door at every footstep or sound. As the bells ceased a sigh went up, as if a giant drew breath; then, once again, the murmuring began. The church was as most were in those days. It was but a little place, yet it had had in old days great treasures of beauty. There had been, until some ten or twelve years ago, a carved screen that ran across the chancel arch, with the Rood upon it, and St. Mary and St. John on this side and that. The high-altar, it was remembered, had been of stone throughout, surrounded with curtains on the three sides, hanging between posts that had each a carven angel, all gilt. Now all was gone, excepting only the painted windows (since glass was costly). The chancel was as bare as a barn; beneath the whitewash, high over the place where the old canopy had hung, pale colours still glimmered through where, twelve years ago, Christ had sat crowning His Mother. The altar was gone; its holy slab served now as the pavement within the west door, where the superstitious took pains to step clear of it. The screen was gone; part lay beneath the tower; part had been burned; Christ's Cross held up the roof of the shed where the minister kept his horse; the three figures had been carted off to Derby to help swell the Protestant bonfire. The projecting stoup to the right of the main door had been broken half off.... In place of these glories there stood now, in the body of the church, before the chancel-steps, a great table, such as the rubrics of the new Prayer-Book required, spread with a white cloth, upon which now rested two tall pewter flagons of wine, a flat pewter plate as great as a small dish, and two silver communion-cups--all new. And to one side of this, in a new wainscoted desk, waited worthy Mr. Barton for the coming of his squire--a happy man that day; his face beamed in the spring sunlight; he had on his silk gown, and he eyed, openly, the door through which his new patron was to come. * * * * * Then, without sound or warning, except for the footsteps on the paving-stones and the sudden darkening of the sunshine on the floor, there came the figure for which all looked. As he entered he lifted his hand to his head, but dropped it again; and passed on, sturdy, and (you would have said) honest and resolute too, to his seat behind the reading-desk. He was met by silence; he was escorted by silence; and in silence he sat down. Then the waiting crowd surged in, poured this way and that, and flowed into the benches. And Mr. Barton's voice was raised in holy exhortation. "At what time soever a sinner doth repent him of his sin from the bottom of his heart, I will put all his wickedness out of remembrance, with the Lord." III Those who could best observe (for the tale was handed on with the careful accuracy of those who cannot read or write) professed themselves amazed at the assured ease of the squire. No sound came from the seat half-hidden behind the reading-desk where he sat alone; and, during the prayers when he stood or kneeled, he moved as if he understood well enough what he was at. A great bound Prayer-Book, it was known, rested before him on the book-board, and he was observed to turn the pages more than once. It was, indeed, a heavy task that Mr. Barton had to do. For first there was the morning prayer, with its psalms, its lessons and its prayers; next the Litany, and last the communion, in the course of which was delivered one of the homilies set forth by authority, especially designed for the support of those who were no preachers--preceded and followed by a psalm. But all was easy to-day to a man who had such cause for exultation; his voice boomed heartily out; his face radiated his pleasure; and he delivered his homily when the time came, with excellent emphasis and power--all from the reading-desk, except the communion. Yet it is to be doubted whether the attention of those that heard him was where their pastor would have desired it to be; since even to these country-folk the drama of the whole was evident. There, seen full when he sat down, and in part when he kneeled and stood, was the man who hitherto had stood to them for the old order, the old faith, the old tradition--the man whose horse's footsteps had been heard, times and again, before dawn, in the village street, bearing him to the mystery of the mass; through whose gate strangers had ridden, perhaps three or four times in the year, to find harbourage--strangers dressed indeed as plain gentlemen or yeomen, yet known, every one of them, to be under her Grace's ban, and to ride in peril of liberty if not of life. Yet here he sat--a man feared and even loved by some--the first of his line to yield to circumstance, and to make peace with his times. Not a man of all who looked on him believed him certainly to be that which his actions professed him to be; some doubted, especially those who themselves inclined to the old ways or secretly followed them; and the hearts of these grew sick as they watched. But the crown and climax was yet to come. * * * * * The minister finished at last the homily--it was one which inveighed more than once against the popish superstitions; and he had chosen it for that reason, to clench the bargain, so to say--all in due order; for he was a careful man and observed his instructions, unlike some of his brethren who did as they pleased; and came back again to the long north side of the linen-covered table to finish the service. He had no man to help him; so he was forced to do it all for himself; so he went forward gallantly, first reading a set of Scripture sentences while the officers collected first for the poor-box, and then, as it was one of the offering-days, collected again the dues for the curate. It was largely upon these, in such poor parishes as was this, that the minister depended and his wife. Then he went on to pray for the whole estate of Christ's Church militant here on earth, especially for God's "servant, Elizabeth our Queen, that under her we may be godly and quietly governed"; then came the exhortation, urging any who might think himself to be "a blasphemer of God, an hinderer or slanderer of His Word ... or to be in malice or envy," to bewail his sins, and "not to come to this holy table, lest after the taking of that holy sacrament, the devil enter into him, as he entered into Judas, and fill him full of all iniquities." So forward with the rest. He read the Comfortable Words; the English equivalent for Sursum Corda with the Easter Preface; then another prayer; and finally rehearsed the story of the Institution of the Most Holy Sacrament, though without any blessing of the bread and wine, at least by any action, since none such was ordered in the new Prayer-Book. Then he immediately received the bread and wine himself, and stood up again, holding the silver plate in his hand for an instant, before proceeding to the squire's seat to give him the communion. Meantime, so great was the expectation and interest that it was not until the minister had moved from the table that the first communicants began to come up to the two white-hung benches, left empty till now, next to the table. * * * * * Then those who still watched, and who spread the tale about afterwards, saw that the squire did not move from his seat to kneel down. He had put off his hat again after the homily, and had so sat ever since; and now that the minister came to him, still there he sat. Now such a manner of receiving was not unknown; yet it was the sign of a Puritan; and, so far from the folk expecting such behaviour in their squire, they had looked rather for Popish gestures, knockings on the breast, signs of the cross. For a moment the minister stood before the seat, as if doubtful what to do. He held the plate in his left hand and a fragment of bread in his fingers. Then, as he began the words he had to say, one thing at least the people saw, and that was that a great flush dyed the old man's face, though he sat quiet. Then, as the minister held out the bread, the squire seemed to recover himself; he put out his fingers quickly, took the bread sharply and put it into his mouth; and so sat again, until the minister brought the cup; and this, too, he drank of quickly, and gave it back. Then, as the communicants, one by one, took the bread and wine and went back to their seats, man after man glanced up at the squire. But the squire sat there, motionless and upright, like a figure cut of stone. IV The court of the manor seemed deserted half an hour before dinner-time. There was a Sabbath stillness in the air to-day, sweetened, as it were, by the bubbling of bird-music in the pleasaunce behind the hall and the high woods beyond. On the strips of rough turf before the gate and within it bloomed the spring flowers, white and blue. A hound lay stretched in the sunshine on the hall steps; twitching his ears to keep off a persistent fly. You would have sworn that his was the only intelligence in the place. Yet at the sound of the iron latch of the gate and the squire's footsteps on the stones, the place, so to say, became alive, though in a furtive and secret manner. Over the half door of the stable entrance on the left two faces appeared--one, which was Dick's, sullen and angry, the other, that of a stable-boy, inquiring and frankly interested. This second vanished again as the squire came forward. A figure of a kitchen-boy, in a white apron, showed in the dark doorway that led to the kitchen and hall, and disappeared again instantly. From two or three upper windows faces peeped and remained fascinated. Only the old hound remained still, twitching his ears. All this--though there was nothing to be seen but the familiar personage of the place, in his hat and cloak and sword, walking through his own court on his way to dinner, as he had walked a thousand times before. And yet so great was the significance of his coming to-day, that the very gate behind him was pushed open by sightseers, who had followed at a safe distance up the path from the church; half a dozen stood there staring, and behind them, at intervals, a score more, spread out in groups, all the way down to the porter's lodge. The most remarkable feature of all was the silence. Not a voice there spoke, even in a whisper. The maids at the windows above, Dick glowering over the half door, the little group which, far back in the kitchen entrance, peeped and rustled, the men at the gate behind, even the boys in the path--all these held their tongues for interest and a kind of fear. Drama was in the air--the tragedy of seeing the squire come back from church for the first time, bearing himself as he always did, resolute and sturdy, yet changed in his significance after a fashion of which none of these simple hearts had ever dreamed. So, again in silence, he went up the court, knowing that eyes were upon him, yet showing no sign that he knew it; he went up the steps with the same assured air, and disappeared into the hall. * * * * * Then the spell broke up and the bustle began, for it was only half an hour to dinner and guests were coming. First Dick came out, slashing to the door behind him, and strode out to the gate. He was still in his boots, for he had ridden to Padley and back since early morning with a couple of the maids and the stable-boy. He went to the gate of the court, the group dissolving as he came, and shut it in their faces. A noise of talking came out of the kitchen windows and the clash of a saucepan: the maids' heads vanished from the upper windows. Even as Dick shut the gate he heard the sound of horses' hoofs down by the porter's lodge. The justices were coming--the two whose names he had heard with amazement last week, as the last corroboration of the incredible rumour of his master's defection. For these were a couple of magistrates--harmless men, indeed, as regarded their hostility to the old Faith--yet Protestants who had sat more than once on the bench in Derby to hear cases of recusancy. Old Mrs. Marpleden had told him they were to come, and that provision must be made for their horses--Mrs. Marpleden, the ancient housekeeper of the manor, who had gone to school for a while with the Benedictine nuns of Derby in King Henry's days. She had shaken her head and eyed him, and then had suffered three or four tears to fall down her old cheeks. Well, they were coming, so Dick must open the gate again, and pull the bell for the servants; and this he did, and waited, hat in hand. Up the little straight road they came, with a servant or two behind them--the two harmless gentlemen, chattering as they rode; and Dick loathed them in his heart. "The squire is within?" "Yes, sir." They dismounted, and Dick held their stirrups. "He has been to church--eh?" Dick made no answer. He feigned to be busy with one of the saddles. The magistrate glanced at him sharply. V It was a strange dinner that day. Outwardly, again, all was as usual--as it might have been on any other Sunday in spring. The three gentlemen sat at the high table, facing down the hall; and, since there was no reading, and since it was a festival, there was no lack of conversation. The servants came in as usual with the dishes--there was roast lamb to-day, according to old usage, among the rest; and three or four wines. A little fire burned against the reredos, for cheerfulness rather than warmth, and the spring sunshine flowed in through the clear-glass windows, bright and genial. Yet the difference was profound. Certainly there was no talk, overheard at least by the servants, which might not have been on any Sunday for the last twenty years: the congratulations and good wishes, or whatever they were, must have been spoken between the three in the parlour before dinner; and they spoke now of harmless usual things--news of the countryside and tales from Derby; gossip of affairs of State; of her Grace, who, in a manner unthinkable, even by now dominated the imagination of England. None of these three had ever seen her; the squire had been to London but once in his life, his two guests never. Yet they talked of her, of her state-craft, of her romanticism; they told little tales, one to the other, as if she lived in the county town. All this, then, was harmless enough. Religion was not mentioned in the hearing of the servants, neither the old nor the new; they talked, all three of them, and the squire loudest of all, though with pauses of pregnant silence, of such things as children might have heard without dismay. Yet to the servants who came and went, it was as if their master were another man altogether, and his hall some unknown place. There was no blessing of himself before meat; he said something, indeed, before he sat down, but it was unintelligible, and he made no movement with his hand. But it was deeper than this ... and his men who had served him for ten or fifteen years looked on him as upon a stranger or a changeling. CHAPTER VII I The same Easter Day at Padley was another matter altogether. As early as five o'clock in the morning the house was astir: lights glimmered in upper rooms; footsteps passed along corridors and across the court; parties began to arrive. All was done without ostentation, yet without concealment, for Padley was a solitary place, and had no fear, at this time, of a sudden descent of the authorities. For form's sake--scarcely for more--a man kept watch over the valley road, and signalled by the flashing of a lamp twice every party with which he was acquainted, and there were no others than these to signal. A second man waited by the gate into the court to admit them. They rode and walked in from all round--great gentlemen, such as the North Lees family, came with a small retinue; a few came alone; yeomen and farm servants, with their women-folk, from the Hathersage valley, came for the most part on foot. Altogether perhaps a hundred and twenty persons were within Padley Manor--and the gate secured--by six o'clock. Meanwhile, within, the priest had been busy since half-past four with the hearing of confessions. He sat in the chapel beside the undecked altar, and they came to him one by one. The household and a few of the nearer neighbours had done their duty in this matter the day before, and a good number had already made their Easter duties earlier in Lent; so by six o'clock all was finished. Then began the bustle. A group of ladies, FitzHerberts and Fentons, entered, so soon as the priest gave the signal by tapping on the parlour wall, bearing all things necessary for the altar; and it was astonishing what fine things these were; so that by the time that the priest was ready to vest, the place was transformed. Stuffs and embroideries hung upon the wall about the altar, making it seem, indeed, a sanctuary; two tall silver candlesticks, used for no other purpose, stood upon the linen cloths, under which rested the slate altar-stone, taken, with the sacred vessels and the vestments, from one of the privy hiding-holes, with whose secret not a living being without the house, and not more than two or three within, was acquainted. It was rumored that half a dozen such places had been contrived within the precincts, two of which were great enough to hold two or three men at a pinch. * * * * * Soon after six o'clock, then, the altar was ready and the priest stood vested. He retired a pace from the altar, signed himself with the cross, and with Mr. John FitzHerbert and his son Thomas on either side of him, began the preparation.... It was a strange and an inspiriting sight that the young priest (for it was Mr. Simpson who was saying the mass) looked upon as he turned round after the gospel to make his little sermon. From end to end the tiny chapel was full, packed so that few could kneel and none sit down. The two doors were open, and here two faces peered in; and behind, rank after rank down the steps and along the little passage, the folk stood or knelt, out of sight of both priest and altar, and almost out of sound. The sanctuary was full of children--whose round-eyed, solemn faces looked up at him--children who knew little or nothing of what was passing, except that they were there to worship God, but who, for all that, received impressions and associations that could never thereafter wholly leave them. The chapel was still completely dark, for the faint light of dawn was excluded by the heavy hangings over the windows; and there was but the light of the two tapers to show the people to one another and the priest to them all. It was an inspiriting sight to him then--and one which well rewarded him for his labours, since there was not a class from gentlemen to labourers who was not represented there. The FitzHerberts, the Babingtons, the Fentons--these, with their servants and guests, accounted for perhaps half of the folk. From the shadow by the door peeped out the faces of John Merton and his wife and son; beneath the window was the solemn face of Mr. Manners the lawyer, with his daughter beside him, Robin Audrey beside her, and Dick his servant behind him. Surely, thought the young priest, the Faith could not be in its final decay, with such a gathering as this. His little sermon was plain enough for the most foolish there. He spoke of Christ's Resurrection; of how death had no power to hold Him, nor pains nor prison to detain Him; and he spoke, too, of that mystical life of His which He yet lived in His body, which was the Church; of how Death, too, stretched forth his hands against Him there, and yet had no more force to hold Him than in His natural life lived on earth near sixteen hundred years ago; how a Resurrection awaited Him here in England as in Jerusalem, if His friends would be constant and courageous, not faithless, but believing. "Even here," he said, "in this upper chamber, where we are gathered for fear of the Jews, comes Jesus and stands in the midst, the doors being shut. Upon this altar He will be presently, the Lamb slain yet the Lamb victorious, to give us all that peace which the world can neither give nor take away." And he added a few words of exhortation and encouragement, bidding them fear nothing whatever might come upon them in the future; to hold fast to the faith once delivered to the saints, and so to attain the heavenly crown. He was not eloquent, for he was but a young man newly come from college, with no great gifts. Yet not a soul there looked upon him, on his innocent, wondering eyes and his quivering lips, but was moved by what he saw and heard. The priest signed himself with the cross, and turned again to continue the mass. II "You tell me, then," said the girl quietly, "that all is as it was with you? God has told you nothing?" Robin was silent. * * * * * Mass had been done an hour or more, and for the most part the company was dispersed again, after refreshment spread in the hall, except for those who were to stay to dinner, and these two had slipped away at last to talk together in the woods; for the court was still filled with servants coming and going, and the parlours occupied. In one the ladies were still busy with the altar furniture; in the other the priest sat to talk in private with those who were come from a distance; and as for the hall--this, too, was in the hands of the servants, since not less than thirty gentle folk were to dine there that day. Robin had come to Booth's Edge at the beginning of Passion week, and had been there ever since. He had refrained, at Marjorie's entreaty, from speaking of her to her parents; and they, too, ruled by their daughter, had held their tongues on the matter. Everything else, however, had been discussed--the effect of the squire's apostasy, the alternatives that presented themselves to the boy, the future behaviour of him to his father--all these things had been spoken of; and even the priest called into council during the last two or three days. Yet not much had come of it. If the worst came to the worst, the lawyer had offered the boy a place in his office; Anthony Babington had proposed his coming to Dethick if his father turned him out; while Robin himself inclined to a third alternative--the begging of his father to give him a sum of money and be rid of him; after which he proposed, with youthful vagueness, to set off for London and see what he could do there. Marjorie, however, had seemed strangely uninterested in such proposals. She had listened with patience, bowing her head in assent to each, beginning once or twice a word of criticism, and stopping herself before she had well begun. But she had looked at Robin with more than interest; and her mother had found her more than once on her knees in her own chamber, in tears. Yet she had said nothing, except that she would speak her mind after Easter, perhaps. And now, it seemed, she was doing it. * * * * * "You have had no other thought?" she said again, "besides those of which you talked with my father?" They were walking together through the woods, half a mile along the Hathersage valley. Beneath them the ground fell steeply away, above them it rose as steeply to the right. Underfoot the new life of spring was bourgeoning in mould and grass and undergrowth; for the heather did not come down so far as this; and the daffodils and celandine and wild hyacinth lay in carpets of yellow and blue, infinitely sweet, beneath the shadow of the trees and in the open sunshine. (It was at this time that the squire of Matstead was entering the church and hearing of the promises of the Lord to the sinner who forsook his sinful ways.) "I have had other thoughts," said the boy slowly, "but they are so wild and foolish that I have determined to think no more of them." "You are determined?" He bowed his head. "You are sure, then, that they are not from God?" asked the girl, torn between fear and hope. He was silent; and her heart sank again. He looked, indeed, a bewildered boy, borne down by a weight that was too heavy for his years. He walked with his hands behind his back, his hatless head bowed, regarding his feet and the last year's leaves on which he walked. A cuckoo across the valley called with the insistence of one who will be answered. "My Robin," said the girl, "the last thing I would have you do is to tell me what you would not.... Will you not speak to the priest about it?" "I have spoken to the priest." "Yes?" "He tells me he does not know what to think." "Would you do this thing--whatever it may be--if the priest told you it was God's will?" There was a pause; and then: "I do not know," said Robin, so low she could scarcely hear him. She drew a deep breath to reassure herself. "Listen!" she said. "I must say a little of what I think; but not all. Our Lord must finish it to you, if it is according to His will." He glanced at her swiftly, and down again, like a frightened child. Yet even in that glance he could see that it was all that she could do to force herself to speak; and by that look he understood for the first time something of that which she was suffering. "You know first," she said, "that I am promised to you. I hold that promise as sacred as anything on earth can be." Her voice shook a little. The boy bowed his head again. She went on: "But there are some things," she said, "more sacred than anything on earth--those things that come from heaven. Now, I wish to say this--and then have done with it: that if such should be God's will, I would not hold you for a day. We are Catholics, you and I.... Your father--" Her voice broke; and she stopped; yet without leaving go of her hold upon herself. Only she could not speak for a moment. Then a great fury seized on the boy. It was one of those angers that for a while poison the air and turn all things sour; yet without obscuring the mind--an anger in which the angry one strikes first at that which he loves most, because he loves it most, knowing, too, that the words he speaks are false. For this, for the present, was the breaking-point in the lad. He had suffered torments in his soul, ever since the hour in which he had ridden into the gate of his own home after his talk in the empty chapel; he had striven to put away from him that idea for which the girl's words had broken an entrance into his heart. And now she would give him no peace; she continued to press on him from without that which already pained him within; so he turned on her. "You wish to be rid of me!" he cried fiercely. She looked at him with her lips parted, her eyes astonished, and her face gone white. "What did you say?" she said. His conscience pierced him like a sword. Yet he set his teeth. "You wish to be rid of me. You are urging me to leave you. You talk to me of God's will and God's voice, and you have no pity on me at all. It is an excuse--a blind." He stood raging. The very fact that he knew every word to be false made his energy the greater; for he could not have said it otherwise. "You think that!" she whispered. There, then, they stood, eyeing one another. A stranger, coming suddenly upon them, would have said it was a lovers' tiff, and have laughed at it. Yet it was a deeper matter than that. Then there surged over the boy a wave of shame; and the truth prevailed. His fair face went scarlet; and his eyes filled with tears. He dropped on his knees in the leaves, seized her hand and kissed it. "Oh! you must forgive me," he said. "But ... but I cannot do it!" III It was a great occasion in the hall that Easter Day. The three tables, which, according to custom, ran along the walls, were filled to-day with guests; and a second dinner was to follow, scarcely less splendid than the first, for their servants as well as for those of the household. The floor was spread with new rushes; jugs of March beer, a full month old, as it should be, were ranged down the tables; and by every plate lay a posy of flowers. From the passage outside came the sound of music. The feast began with the reading of the Gospel; at the close, Mr. John struck with his hand upon the table as a signal for conversation; the doors opened; the servants came in, and a babble of talk broke out. At the high table the master of the house presided, with the priest on his right, Mrs. Manners and Marjorie beyond him; on his left, Mrs. Fenton and her lord. At the other two tables Mr. Thomas presided at one and Mr. Babington at the other. The talk was, of course, within the bounds of discretion; though once and again sentences were spoken which would scarcely have pleased the minister of the parish. For they were difficult times in which they lived; and it is no wonder at all if bitterness mixed itself with charity. Here was Mr. John, for instance, come to Padley expressly for the selling of some meadows to meet his fines; here was his son Thomas, the heir now, not only to Padley, but to Norbury, whose lord, his uncle, lay in the Fleet Prison. Here was Mr. Fenton, who had suffered the like in the matter of fines more than once. Hardly one of the folk there but had paid a heavy price for his conscience; and all the worship that was permitted to them, and that by circumstance, and not by law, was such as they had engaged in that morning with shuttered windows and a sentinel for fear that, too, should be silenced. They talked, then, guardedly of those things, since the servants were in and out continually, and though all professed the same faith as their masters, yet these were times that tried loyalty hard. Mr. John, indeed, gave news, of his brother Sir Thomas, and said how he did; and read a letter, too, from Italy, from his younger brother Nicholas, who was fled abroad after a year's prison at Oxford; but the climax of the talk came when dinner was over, and the muscadel, with the mould-jellies, had been put upon the tables. It was at this moment that Mr. John nodded to his son, who went to the door, to see the servants out, and stood by it to see that none listened. Then his father struck his hands together for silence, and himself spoke. "Mr. Simpson," he said, "has something to say to us all. It is not a matter to be spoken of lightly, as you will understand presently.... Mr. Simpson." The priest looked up timidly, pulling out a paper from his pocket. "You have heard of Mr. Nelson?" he said to the company. "Well, he was a priest; and I have news of his death. He was executed in London on the third of February for his religion. And another man, a Mr. Sherwood, was executed a few days afterwards." There was a rustle along the benches. Some there had heard of the fact, but no more; some had heard nothing of either the man or his death. Two or three faces turned a shade paler; and then the silence settled down again. For here was a matter that touched them all closely enough; since up to now scarcely a priest except Mr. Cuthbert Maine had suffered death for his religion; and even of him some of the more tolerant said that it was treason with which he was charged. They had heard, indeed, of a priest or two having been sent abroad into exile for his faith; but the most of them thought it a thing incredible that in England at this time a man should suffer death for it. Fines and imprisonment were one thing; to such they had become almost accustomed. But death was another matter altogether. And for a priest! Was it possible that the days of King Harry were coming back; and that every Catholic henceforth should go in peril of his life as well as of liberty? The folks settled themselves then in their seats; one or two men drank off a glass of wine. "I have heard from a good friend of mine in London," went on the priest, looking at his paper, "one who followed every step of the trial; and was present at the death. They suffered at Tyburn.... However, I will tell you what he says. He is a countryman of mine, from Yorkshire; as was Mr. Nelson, too. "'Mr. Nelson was taken in London on the first of December last year. He was born at Shelton, and was about forty-three years old; he was the son of Sir Nicholas Nelson.' "So much," said the priest, looking up from his paper, "I knew myself. I saw him about four years ago just before he went to Douay, and he came back to England as a priest, a year and a half after. Mr. Sherwood was not a priest; he had been at Douay, too, but as a scholar only.... Well, we will speak of Mr. Nelson first. This is what my friend says." He spread the paper before him on the table; and Marjorie, looking past her mother, saw that his hands shook as he spread it. "'Mr. Nelson,'" began the priest, reading aloud with some difficulty, "'was brought before my lords, and first had tendered to him the oath of the Queen's supremacy. This he refused to take, saying that no lay prince could have pre-eminence over Christ's Church; and, upon being pressed as to who then could have it, answered, Christ's Vicar only, the successor of Peter. Further, he proceeded to say, under questioning, that since the religion of England at this time is schismatic and heretical, so also is the Queen's Grace who is head of it. "'This, then, was what was wanted; and after a delay of a few weeks, the same questions being put to him, and his answers being the same, he was sentenced to death. He was very fortunate in his imprisonment. I had speech with him two or three times and was the means, by God's blessing, of bringing another priest to him, to whom he confessed himself; and with whom he received the Body of Christ a day before he suffered. "'On the third of February, knowing nothing of his death being so near, he was brought up to a higher part of the prison, and there told he was to suffer that day. His kinsmen were admitted to him then, to bid him farewell; and afterwards two ministers came to turn him from his faith if they could; but they prevailed nothing.'" There was a pause in the reading; but there was no movement among any that listened. Robin, watching from his place at the right-hand table, cold at heart, ran his eyes along the faces. The priest was as white as death, with the excitement, it seemed, of having to tell such a tale. His host beside him seemed downcast and quiet, but perfectly composed. Mrs. Manners had her eyes closed; Anthony Babington was frowning to himself with tight lips; Marjorie he could not see. With a great effort the reader resumed: "'When he was laid on the hurdle he refused to ask pardon of the Queen's Grace; for, said he, I have never yet offended her. I was beside him, and heard it. And he added, when those who stood near stormed at him, that it was better to be hanged than to burn in hell-fire. "'There was a great concourse of people at Tyburn, but kept back by the officers so that they could not come at him. When he was in the cart, first he commended his spirit into God's Hands, saying _In manus tuas_, etc.; then he besought all Catholics that were present to pray for him; I saw a good many who signed themselves in the crowd; and then he said some prayers in Latin; with the psalms _Miserere_ and _De Profundis_. And then he addressed himself to the people, telling them he died for his religion, which was the Catholic Roman one, and prayed, and desired them to pray, that God would bring all Englishmen into it. The crowd cried out at that, exclaiming against this _Catholic Romish Faith_; and so he said what he had to say, over again. Then, before the cart was drawn away from him to leave him to hang, he asked pardon of all them he had offended, and even of the Queen, if he had indeed offended her. Then one of the sheriffs called on the hangman to make an end; so Mr. Nelson prayed again in silence, and then begged all Catholics that were there once more to pray that, by the bitter passion of Christ, his soul might be received into everlasting joy. And they did so; for as the cart was drawn away a great number cried out, and I with them, _Lord, receive his soul_. "'He was cut down, according to sentence, before he was dead, and the butchery begun on him; and when it was near over, he moved a little in his pain, and said that he forgave the Queen and all that caused or consented to his death: and so he died.'" The priest's voice, which had shaken again and again, grew so tremulous as he ended that those that were at the end of the hall could scarcely hear him; and, as it ceased, a murmur ran along the seats. Mr. FitzHerbert leaned over to the priest and whispered. The priest nodded, and the other held up his hand for silence. "There is more yet," he said. Mr. Simpson, with a hand that still shook so violently that he could hardly hold his glass, lifted and drank off a cup of muscadel. Then he cleared his throat, sat up a little in his chair, and resumed: "'Next I went to see Mr. Sherwood, to talk to him in prison and to encourage him by telling him of the passion of the other and how bravely he bore it. Mr. Sherwood took it very well, and said that he was afraid of nothing, that he had reconciled his mind to it long ago, and had rehearsed it all two or three times, so that he would know what to say and how to bear himself.'" Mr. FitzHerbert leaned over again to the priest at this point and whispered something. Mr. Simpson nodded, and raised his eyes. "Mr. Sherwood," he said, "was a scholar from Douay, but not a priest. He was lodging in the house of a Catholic lady, and had procured mass to be said there, and it was through her son that he was taken and charged with recusancy." Again ran a rustle through the benches. This executing of the laity for religion was a new thing in their experience. The priest lifted the paper again. "'I found that Mr. Sherwood had been racked many times in the Tower, during the six months he was in prison, to force him to tell, if they could, where he had heard mass and who had said it. But they could prevail nothing. Further, no visitor was admitted to him all this time, and I was the first and the last that he had; and that though Mr. Roper himself had tried to get at him for his relief; for he was confined underground and lay in chains and filth not to be described. I said what I could to him, but he said he needed nothing and was content, though his pain must have been very great all this while, what with the racking repeated over and over again and the place he lay in. "'I was present again when he suffered at Tyburn, but was too far away to hear anything that he said, and scarcely, indeed, could see him; but I learned afterwards that he died well and courageously, as a Catholic should, and made no outcry or complaint when the butchery was done on him. "'This, then, is the news I have to send you--sorrowful, indeed, yet joyful, too; for surely we may think that they who bore such pains for Christ's sake with such constancy will intercede for us whom they leave behind. I am hoping myself to come North again before I go to Douay next year, and will see you then and tell you more.'" The priest laid down the paper, trembling. Mr. FitzHerbert looked up. "It will give pleasure to the company," he said, "to know that the writer of the letter is Mr. Ludlam, from Radbourne, in this county. As you have heard, he, too, hopes by God's mercy to be made priest and to come back to England." CHAPTER VIII I In the following week Robin went home again. The clear weather of Easter had broken, and racing clouds, thick as a pall, sped across the sky that had been so blue and so cheerful; a wind screamed all day, now high, now low, shattering the tender flowers of spring, ruffling the Derwent against its current, by which he rode, and dashing spatters of rain now and again on his back, tossing high and wide the branches under which he went, until the woods themselves became as a great melancholy organ, making sad music about him. When a mind is fluent and uncertain there is no describing it. He thought he had come to a decision last week; he found that the decision was shattered as soon as made. He had talked to the priest; he had resisted Marjorie; and yet to neither of them had he put into formal words what it was that troubled him. He had asked questions about vocation, about the place that circumstance occupies in it, of the value of dispositions, fears, scruples, and resistance. He had, that is, fingered his wound, half uncovered it, and then covered it up again, tormented it, glanced at it and then glanced aside; yet the one thing he had not done was to probe it--not even to allow another to do so. His mind, then, was fluent and distracted; it formed images before him, which dissolved as soon as formed; it whirled in little eddies; it threw up obscuring foam; it ran clear one instant, and the next broke itself in rapids. He could neither ease it, nor dam it altogether, and he did not know what to do. As he rode through Froggatt, he saw a group of saddle-horses standing at the inn door, but thought nothing of it, till a man ran out of the door, still holding his pot, and saluted him, and he recognised him to be one of Mr. Babington's men. "My master is within, sir," he said; "he bade me look out for you." Robin drew rein, and as he did so, Anthony, too, came out. "Ah!" he said. "I heard you would be coming this way. Will you come in? I have something to say to you." Robin slipped off, leaving his mare in the hands of Anthony's man, since he himself was riding alone, with his valise strapped on behind. It was a little room, very trim and well kept, on the first floor, to which his friend led him. Anthony shut the door carefully and came across to the settle by the window-seat. "Well," he said, "I have bad news for you, my friend. Will you forgive me? I have seen your father and had words with him." "Eh?" "I said nothing to you before," went on the other, sitting down beside him. "I knew you would not have it so, but I went to see for myself and to put a question or two. He is your father, but he has also been my friend. That gives me rights, you see!" "Tell me," said Robin heavily. It appeared that Anthony, who was a precise as well as an ardent young man, had had scruples about trusting to hearsay. Certainly it was rumoured far and wide that the squire of Matstead had done as he had said he would do, and gone to church; but Mr. Anthony was one of those spirits who will always have things, as they say, from the fountain-head; partly from instincts of justice, partly, no doubt, for the pleasure of making direct observations to the principals concerned. This was what he had done in this case. He had ridden, without a word to any, up to Matstead, and had demanded to be led to the squire; and there and then, refusing to sit down till he was answered, had put his question. There had been a scene. The squire had referred to puppies who wanted drowning, to young sparks, and to such illustrative similes; and Anthony, in spite of his youthful years, had flared out about turncoats and lick-spittles. There had been a very pretty ending: the squire had shouted for his servants and Anthony for his, and the two parties had eyed one another, growling like dogs, until bloodshed seemed imminent. Then the visitor had himself solved the situation by stalking out of the house from which the squire was proposing to flog him, mounting his horse, and with a last compliment or two had ridden away. And here he was at Froggatt on his return journey, having eaten there that dinner which no longer would be spread for him at Matstead. Robin sat silent till the tale was done, and at the end of it Anthony was striding about the room, aflame again with wrath, gesticulating and raging aloud. Then Robin spoke, holding up his hand for moderation. "You will have the whole house here," he said. "Well, you have cooked my goose for me." "Bah! that was cooked at Passiontide when you went to Booth's Edge. Do you think he'll ever have a Papist in his house again?" "Did he say so?" "No; but he said enough about his 'young cub.'... Nonsense, man! Come home with me to Dethick. We'll find occupation enough." "Did he say he would not have me home again?" "No," bawled Anthony. "I have told you he did not say so outright. But he said enough to show he'd have no rebels, as he called them, in his Protestant house! Dick's to leave. Did you hear that?" "Dick!" "Why, certainly. There was a to-do on Sunday, and Dick spoke his mind. He'll come to me, he says, if you have no service for him." Robin set his teeth. It seemed as if the pelting blows would never cease. "Come with me to Dethick!" said Anthony again. "I tell you--" "Well?" "There'll be time enough to tell you when you come. But I promise you occupation enough." He paused, as if he would say more and dared not. "You must tell me more," said the lad slowly. "What kind of occupation?" Then Anthony did a queer thing. He first glanced at the door, and then went to it quickly and threw it open. The little lobby was empty. He went out, leaned over the stair and called one of his men. "Sit you there," he said, with the glorious nonchalance of a Babington, "and let no man by till I tell you." He came back, closed the door, bolted it, and then came across and sat down by his friend. "Do you think the rest of us are doing nothing?" he whispered. "Why, I tell you that a dozen of us in Derbyshire--" He broke off once more. "I may not tell you," he said, "I must ask leave first." A light began to glimmer before Robin's mind; the light broadened suddenly and intensely, and his whole soul leapt to meet it. "Do you mean--?" And then he, too, broke off, well knowing enough, though not all of, what was meant. * * * * * It was quiet here within this room, in spite of the village street outside. It was dinner-time, and all were within doors or out at their affairs; and except for the stamp of a horse now and again, and the scream of the wind in the keyhole and between the windows, there was little to hear. And in the lad's soul was a tempest. He knew well enough now what his friend meant, though nothing of the details; and from the secrecy and excitement of the young man's manner he understood what the character of his dealings would likely be, and towards those dealings his whole nature leaped as a fish to the water. Was it possible that this way lay the escape from his own torment of conscience? Yet he must put a question first, in honesty. "Tell me this much," he said in a low voice. "Do you mean that this ... this affair will be against men's lives ... or ... or such as even a priest might engage in?" Then the light of fanaticism leaped to the eyes of his friend, and his face brightened wonderfully. "Do they observe the courtesies and forms of law?" he snarled. "Did Nelson die by God's law, or did Sherwood--those we know of? I will tell you this," he said, "and no more unless you pledge yourself to us ... that we count it as warfare--in Christ's Name yes--but warfare for all that." * * * * * There then lay the choice before this lad, and surely it was as hard a choice as ever a man had to make. On the one side lay such an excitement as he had never yet known--for Anthony was no merely mad fool--a path, too, that gave him hopes of Marjorie, that gave him an escape from home without any more ado, a task besides which he could tell himself honestly was, at least, for the cause that lay so near to Marjorie's heart, and was beginning to lie near his own. And on the other there was open to him that against which he had fought now day after day, in misery--a life that had no single attraction to the natural man in him, a life that meant the loss of Marjorie for ever. The colour died from his lips as he considered this. Surely all lay Anthony's way: Anthony was a gentleman like himself; he would do nothing that was not worthy of one.... What he had said of warfare was surely sound logic. Were they not already at war? Had not the Queen declared it? And on the other side--nothing. Nothing. Except that a voice within him on that other side cried louder and louder--it seemed in despair: "This is the way; walk in it." "Come," whispered Anthony again. Robin stood up; he made as if to speak; then he silenced himself and began to walk to and fro in the little room. He could hear voices from the room beneath--Anthony's men talking there no doubt. They might be his men, too, at the lifting of a finger--they and Dick. There were the horses waiting without; he heard the jingle of a bit as one tossed his head. Those were the horses that would go back to Dethick and Derby, and, may be, half over England. He walked to and fro half a dozen times without speaking, and, if he had but guessed it, he might have been comforted to know that his manhood flowed in upon him, as a tide coming in over a flat beach. These instants added more years to him than as many months that had gone before. His boyhood was passing, since experience and conflict, whether it end in victory or defeat, give the years to a man far more than the passing of time. So in God's sight Robin added many inches to the stature of his spirit in this little parlour of Froggatt. Yet, though he conquered then, he did not know that he conquered. He still believed, as he turned at last and faced his friend, that his mind was yet to make up, and his whisper was harsh and broken. "I do not know," he whispered. "I must go home first." II Dick was waiting by the porter's lodge as the boy rode in, and walked up beside him with his brown hand on the horse's shoulder. Robin could not say much, and, besides, his confidence must be tied. "So you are going," he said softly. The man nodded. "I met Mr. Babington.... You cannot do better, I think, than go to him." * * * * * It was with a miserable heart that an hour or two later he came down to supper. His father was already at table, sitting grimly in his place; he made no sign of welcome or recognition as his son came in. During the meal itself this was of no great consequence, as silence was the custom; but the boy's heart sank yet further as, still without a word to him, the squire rose from table at the end and went as usual through the parlour door. He hesitated a moment before following. Then he grasped his courage and went after. All things were as usual there--the wine set out and the sweetmeats, and his father in his usual place, Yet still there was silence. Robin began to meditate again, yet alert for a sign or a word. It was in this little room, he understood, that the dispute with Anthony had taken place a few hours before, and he looked round it, almost wondering that all seemed so peaceful. It was this room, too, that was associated with so much that was happy in his life--drawn-out hours after supper, when his father was in genial moods, or when company was there--company that would never come again--and laughter and gallant talk went round. There was the fire burning in the new stove--that which had so much excited him only a year or two ago, for it was then the first that he had ever seen: there was the table where he had written his little letter; there was "Christ carrying His Cross." "So you have sent your friend to insult me; now!" Robin started. The voice was quiet enough, but full of a suppressed force. "I have not, sir. I met Mr. Babington at Froggatt on his way back. He told me. I am very sorry for it." "And you talked with him at Padley, too, no doubt?" "Yes, sir." His father suddenly wheeled round on him. "Do you think I have no sense, then? Do you think I do not know what you and your friends speak of?" Robin was silent. He was astonished how little afraid he was. His heart beat loud enough in his ears; yet he felt none of that helplessness that had fallen on him before when his father was angry.... Certainly he had added to his stature in the parlour at Froggatt. The old man poured out a glass of wine and drank it. His face was flushed high, and he was using more words than usual. "Well, sir, there are other affairs we must speak of; and then no more of them. I wish to know your meaning for the time to come. There must be no more fooling this way and that. I shall pay no fines for you--mark that! If you must stand on your own feet, stand on them.... Now then!" "Do you mean, am I coming to church with you, sir?" "I mean, who is to pay your fines?... Miss Marjorie?" Robin set his teeth at the sneer. "I have not yet been fined, sir." "Now do you take me for a fool? D'you think they'll let you off? I was speaking--" The old man stopped. "Yes, sir?" The other wheeled his face on him. "If you will have it," he said, "I was speaking to my two good friends who dined here on Sunday. I was plain with them and they were plain with me. 'I shall not pay for my brat of a son,' I said. 'Then he must pay for himself,' said they, 'unless we lay him by the heels.' 'Not in my house, I hope,' I said; and they laughed at that. We were very merry together." "Yes, sir?" "Good God! have I a fool for a son? I ask you again, Who is it to pay?" "When will they demand it?" "Why, they may demand it next week, if they will! You were not at church on Sunday!" "I was not in Matstead," said the lad. "But--" "And Mr. Barton will not, I think--" The old man struck the table suddenly and violently. "I have dropped words enough," he cried. "Where's the use of it? If you think they will let you alone, I tell you they will not. There are to be doings before Christmas, at latest; and what then?" Then Robin drew his breath sharply between his teeth; and knew that one more step had been passed, that had separated him from that which he feared.... He had come just now, still hesitating. Still there had been passing through his mind hopes and ideas of what his father might do for him. He knew well enough that he would never pay the fines, amounting sometimes to as much as twenty pounds a month; but he had thought that perhaps his father would give him a sum of money and let him go to fend for himself; that he might help him even to a situation somewhere; and now hope had died so utterly that he did not even dare speak of it. And he had said "No" to Anthony; he said to himself at least that he had meant "No," in spite of his hesitation. All doors seemed closing, save that which terrified him.... "I have thought in my mind--" he began; and stopped, for the terror of what was on his tongue grew suddenly upon him. "Eh?" Robin stood up. "I must have time, sir," he cried; "I must have time. Do not press me too much." His father's eyes shone bright and wrathful. He beat on the table with his open hand; but the boy was too quick for him. "I beg of you, sir, not to make me speak too soon. It may be that you would hate that I should speak more than my silence." His whole person was tense and magnetic; his face was paler than ever; and it seemed as if his father understood enough, at least, to make him hesitate. The two looked at one another; and it was the man's eyes that tell first. "You may have till Pentecost," he said. III It would be at about an hour before dawn that Robin awoke for perhaps the third or fourth time that night; for the conflict still roared within his soul and would give him no peace. And, as he lay there, awake in an instant, staring up into the dark, once more weighing and balancing this and the other, swayed by enthusiasm at one moment, weighed down with melancholy the next--there came to him, distinct and clear through the still night, the sound of horses' hoofs, perhaps of three or four beasts, walking together. Now, whether it was the ferment of his own soul, or the work of some interior influence, or indeed, the very intimation of God Himself, Robin never knew (though he inclined later to the last of these); yet it remains as a fact that when he heard that sound, so fierce was his curiosity to know who it was that rode abroad in company at such an hour, he threw off the blankets that covered him, went to his window and threw it open. Further, when he had listened there a second or two, and had heard the sound cease and then break out again clearer and nearer, signifying that the party was riding through the village, his curiosity grew so intense, that he turned from the window, snatched up and put on a few clothes, groping for them as well as he could in the dimness, and was presently speeding, barefooted, downstairs, telling himself in one breath that he was a fool, and in the next that he must reach the churchyard wall before the horses did. It was but a short run when he had come down into the court, by the little staircase that led from the men's rooms; the ground was soaking with the rains of yesterday, but he cared nothing for that; and, as the riding party turned up the little ascent that led beneath the churchyard, Robin, on the other side of the wall, was keeping between the tombstones to see, and not be seen. It was within an hour of dawn, at that time when the sky begins to glimmer with rifts above the two horizons, showing light enough at least to distinguish faces. It was such a light as that in which he had seen the deer looking at him motionless as he rode home with Dick. Yet the three who now rode up towards him were so muffled about the faces that he feared he would not know them. They were men, all three of them; and he could make out valises strapped to the saddle of each; but, what seemed strange, they did not speak as they came; and it appeared as if they wished to make no more noise than was necessary, since one of them, when his horse set his foot upon the cobblestones beside the lych-gate, pulled him sharply off them. And then, just as they rounded the angle of the wall where the boy crouched peeping, the man that rode in the middle, sighed as if with relief, and pulled the cloak that was about him, so that the collar fell from his face, and at the same time turned to his companion on his right, and said something in a low voice. But the boy heard not a word; for he found himself staring at the thin-faced young priest from whom he had received Holy Communion at Padley. It was but for an instant; for the man to whom the priest spoke answered in the same low voice, and the other pulled his cloak again round his mouth. Yet the look was enough. The sight, once more, of this servant of God, setting out again upon his perilous travels--seen at such a moment, when the boy's judgment hung in the balance (as he thought); this one single reminder of what a priest could do in these days of sorrow, and of what God called on him to do--the vision, for it was scarcely less, all things considered, of a life such as this--presented, so to say, in this single scene of a furtive and secret ride before the dawn, leaving Padley soon after midnight--this, falling on a soul that already leaned that way, finished that for which Marjorie had prayed, and against which the lad himself had fought so fiercely. * * * * * Half an hour later he stood by his father's bed, looking down on him without fear. "Father," he said, as the old man stared up at him through sleep-ridden eyes, "I have come to give you my answer. It is that I must go to Rheims and be a priest." Then he turned again and went out of the room, without waiting. CHAPTER IX I Mrs. Manners was still abed when her daughter came in to see her. She lay in the great chamber that gave upon the gallery above the hall whence, on either side, she could hear whether or no the maids were at their business--which was a comfort to her if a discomfort to them. And now that her lord was in Derby, she lay here all alone. The first that she knew of her daughter's coming was a light in her eyes; and the next was a face, as of a stranger, looking at her with great eyes, exalted by joy and pain. The light, held below, cast shadows upwards from chin and cheek, and the eyes shone in hollows. Then, as she sat up, she saw that it was her daughter, and that the maid held a paper in her hands; she was in her night-linen, and a wrap lay over her shoulders and shrouded her hair. "He is to be a priest," she whispered sharply. "Thank our Lord with me ... and ... and God have mercy on me!" Then Marjorie was on her knees by the bedside, sobbing so that the curtains shook. * * * * * The mother got it all out of her presently--the tale of the girl's heart torn two ways at once. On the one side there was her human love for the lad who had wooed her--as hot as fire, and as pure--and on the other that keen romance that had made her pray that he might be a priest. This second desire had come to her, as sharp as a voice that calls, when she had heard of the apostasy of his father; it had seemed to her the riposte that God made to the assault upon His honour. The father would no longer be His worshipper? Then let the son be His priest; and so the balance be restored. And so the maid had striven with the two loves that, for once, would not agree together (as did the man in the Gospels who wished to go and bury his father and afterwards to follow his Saviour); she had not dared to say a word to the lad of anything of this lest it should be her will and not God's that should govern him, for she knew very well what a power she had over him; but she had prayed God, and begged Robin to pray too and to listen to His voice; and now she had her way, and her heart was broken with it, she said: "And when I think," she wailed across her mother's knees, "of what it is to be a priest; and of the life that he will lead, and of the death that he may die!... And it is I ... I ... who will have sent him to it. Mother!..." Mrs. Manners was bethinking herself of a cordial just then, and how she knew old Ann would be coming presently, and was listening with but half an ear. "It's not you, my dear," she said, patting the head beneath her hands. (The wrap was fallen off, and the maid's long hair was all over her shoulders.) "And now--" "But our Lord will take care of him, will He not? And not suffer--" Mrs. Manners fell to patting her head again. "And who brought the message?" she asked. * * * * * Mrs. Manners was one of those experienced persons who are fully persuaded that youth is a disease that must be borne with patiently. Time, indeed, will cure it; yet until the cure is complete, elders must bear it as well as they can and not seem to pay too much attention to it. A rigorous and prudent diet; long hours of sleep, plenty of occupation--these are the remedies for the fever. So, while Marjorie first began to read the lad's letter, and then, breaking down altogether, thrust it into her mother's hand, Mrs. Manners was searching her memory as to whether any imprudence the day before, in food or behaviour, could be the cause of this crisis. Love between boys and girls was common enough; she herself twenty years ago had suffered from the sickness when young John had come wooing her; yet a love that could thrust from it that which it loved, was beyond her altogether. Either Marjorie loved the lad, or she did not, and if she loved him, why did she pray that he might be a priest? That was foolishness; since priesthood was a bar to marriage. She began to conclude that Marjorie did not love him; it had been but a romantic fancy; and she was encouraged by the thought. "Madge," she began, when she had read through the confused line or two, in the half-boyish, half-clerkly hand of Robin, scribbled and dispatched by the hands of Dick scarcely two hours ago. "Madge--" She was about to say something sensible when the maid interrupted her again. "And it is I who have brought it all on him!" she wailed. "If it had not been for me--" Her mother laid a firm hand on her daughter's mouth. It was not often that she felt the superior of the two; yet here was a time, plain enough, when maturity and experience must take the reins. "Madge," she said, "it is plain you do not love him; or you never--" The maid started back, her eyes ablaze. "Not love him! Why--" "That you do not love him truly; or you would never have wished this for him.... Now listen to me!" She raised an admonitory finger, complacent at last. But her speech was not to be made at that time; for her daughter swiftly rose to her feet, controlled at last by the shock of astonishment. "Then I do not think you know what love is," she said softly. "To love is to wish the other's highest good, as I understand it." Mrs. Manners compressed her lips, as might a prophetess before a prediction. But her daughter was beforehand with her again. "That is the love of a Christian, at least," she said. Then she stooped, took the letter from her mother's knees, and went out. Mrs. Manners sat for a moment as her daughter left her. Then she understood that her hour of superiority was gone with Marjorie's hour of weakness; and she emitted a short laugh as she took her place again behind the child she had borne. II It was a strange time that Marjorie had until two days later, when Robin came and told her all, and how it had fallen out. For now, it seemed, she walked on air; now in shoes of lead. When she was at her prayers (which was pretty often just now), and at other times, when the air lightened suddenly about her and the burdens of earth were lifted as if another hand were put to them--at those times which every interior soul experiences in a period of stress--why, then, all was glory, and she saw Robin as transfigured and herself beneath him all but adoring. Little visions came and went before her imagination. Robin riding, like some knight on an adventure, to do Christ's work; Robin at the altar, in his vestments; Robin absolving penitents--all in a rosy light of faith and romance. She saw him even on the scaffold, undaunted and resolute, with God's light on his face, and the crowd awed beneath him; she saw his soul entering heaven, with all the harps ringing to meet him, and eternity begun.... And then, at other times, when the heaviness came down on her, as clouds upon the Derbyshire hills, she understood nothing but that she had lost him; that he was not to be hers, but Another's; that a loveless and empty life lay before her, and a womanhood that was without its fruition. And it was this latter mood that fell on her, swift and entire, when, looking out from her window a little before dinner-time, she saw suddenly his hat, and Cecily's head, jerking up the steep path that led to the house. She fell on her knees by her bedside. "Jesu!" she cried. "Jesu! Give me strength to meet him." * * * * * Mrs. Manners, too, hearing the horse's footsteps on the pavement a minute later, and Marjorie's steps going downstairs, also looked forth and saw him dismounting. She was a prudent woman, and did not stir a finger till she heard the bell ringing in the court for the dinner to be served. They would have time, so she thought, to arrange their attitudes. And, indeed, she was right: for it was two quiet enough persons who met her as she came down into the hall: Robin flushed with riding, yet wholly under his own command--bright-eyed, and resolute and natural (indeed, it seemed to her that he was more of a man than she had thought him). And her daughter, too, was still and strong; a trifle paler than she should be, yet that was to be expected. At dinner, of course, nothing could be spoken of but the most ordinary affairs--in such speaking, that is, as there was. It was not till they had gone out into the walled garden and sat them down, all three of them, on the long garden-seat beside the rose-beds, that a word was said on these new matters. There was silence as they walked there, and silence as they sat down. "Tell her, Robin," said the maid. * * * * * It appeared that matters were not yet as wholly decided as Mrs. Manners had thought. Indeed, it seemed to her that they were not decided at all. Robin had written to Dr. Allen, and had found means to convey his letter to Mr. Simpson, who, in his turn, had undertaken to forward it at least as far as to London; and there it would await a messenger to Douay. It might be a month before it would reach Douay, and it might be three or four months, or even more, before an answer could come back. Next, the squire had taken a course of action which, plainly, had disconcerted the lad, though it had its conveniences too. For, instead of increasing the old man's fury, the news his son had given him had had a contrary effect. He had seemed all shaken, said Robin; he had spoken to him quietly, holding in the anger that surely must be there, the boy thought, without difficulty. And the upshot of it was that no more had been said as to Robin's leaving Matstead for the present--not one word even about the fines. It seemed almost as if the old man had been trying how far he could push his son, and had recoiled when he had learned the effect of his pushing. "I think he is frightened," said the lad gravely. "He had never thought that I could be a priest." Mrs. Manners considered this in silence. "And it may be autumn before Dr. Allen's letter comes back?" she asked presently. Robin said that that was so. "It may even be till winter," he said. "The talk among the priests, Mr. Simpson tells me, is all about the removal from Douay. It may be made at any time, and who knows where they will go?" Mrs. Manners glanced across at her daughter, who sat motionless, with her hands clasped. Then she was filled with the spirit of reasonableness and sense: all this tragic to-do about what might never happen seemed to her the height of folly. "Nay, then," she burst out, "then nothing may happen after all. Dr. Allen may say 'No;' the letter may never get to him. It may be that you will forget all this in a month or two." Robin turned his face slowly towards her, and she saw that she had spoken at random. Again, too, it struck her attention that his manner seemed a little changed. It was graver than that to which she was accustomed. "I shall not forget it," he said softly. "And Dr. Allen will get the letter. Or, if not he, someone else." There was silence again, but Mrs. Manners heard her daughter draw a long breath. III It was an hour later that Marjorie found herself able to say that which she knew must be said. Robin had lingered on, talking of this and that, though he had said half a dozen times that he must be getting homewards; and at last, when he rose, Mistress Manners, who was still wholly misconceiving the situation, after the manner of sensible middle-aged folk, archly and tactfully took her leave and disappeared down towards the house, advancing some domestic reason for her departure. Robin sighed, and turned to the girl, who still sat quiet. But as he turned she lifted her eyes to him swiftly. "Good-bye, Mr. Robin," she said. He pulled himself up. "You understand, do you not?" she said. "You are to be a priest. You must remember that always. You are a sort of student already." She could see him pale a little; his lips tightened. For a moment he said nothing; he was taken wholly aback. "Then I am not to come here again?" Marjorie stood up. She showed no sign of the fierce self-control she was using. "Why, yes," she said. "Come as you would come to any Catholic neighbours. But no more than that.... You are to be a priest." * * * * * The spring air was full of softness and sweetness as they stood there. On the trees behind them and on the roses in front the budding leaves had burst into delicate green, and the copses on all sides sounded with the twittering of birds. The whole world, it seemed, was kindling with love and freshness. Yet these two had to stand here and be cold, one to the other.... He was to be a priest; that must not be forgotten, and they must meet no more on the old footing. That was gone. Already he stood among the Levites, at least in intention; and the Lord alone was to be the portion of his inheritance and his Cup. It was a minute before either of them moved, and during that minute the maid felt her courage ebb from her like an outgoing tide, leaving a desolation behind. It was all that she could do not to cry out. But when at last Robin made a movement and she had to look him in the face, what she saw there braced and strengthened her. "You are right, Mistress Marjorie," he said both gravely and kindly. "I will bid you good-day and be getting to my horse." He kissed her gently, as the manner was, and went down the path alone. PART II CHAPTER I I It was with a sudden leap of her heart that Marjorie, looking out of her window at the late autumn landscape, her mind still running on the sheet of paper that lay before her, saw a capped head, and then a horse's crest, rise over the broken edge of land up which Robin had ridden so often two and three years ago. Then she saw who was the rider, and laid her pen down again. * * * * * It was two years since the lad had gone to Rheims, and it would be five years more, she knew (since he was not over quick at his books), before he would return a priest. She had letters from him: one would come now and again, a month or two sometimes after the date of writing. It was only in September that she had had the letter which he had written her on hearing of her father's death, and Mr. Manners had died in June. She had written back to him then, a discreet and modest letter enough, telling him of how Mr. Simpson had read mass over the body before it was taken down to Derby for the burying; and telling him, too, of her mother's rheumatics that kept her abed now three parts of the year. For the rest, the letters were dull enough reading to one who did not understand them: the news the lad had to give was of a kind that must be disguised, lest the letters should fall into other hands, since it concerned the coming and going of priests whose names must not appear. Yet, for all that, the letters were laid up in a press, and the heap grew slowly. It was Mr. Anthony Babington who was come now to see her, and it was his third visit since the summer. But she knew well enough what he was come for, since his young wife, whom he had married last year, was no use to him in such matters: she had lately had a child, too, and lived quietly at Dethick with her women. His letters, too, would come at intervals, carried by a rider, or sometimes some farmer's man on his way home from Derby, and these letters, too, held dull reading enough for such as were not in the secret. Yet the magistrates at Derby would have given a good sum if they could have intercepted and understood them. It was in the upper parlour now that she received him. A fire was burning there, as it had burned so long ago, when Robin found her fresh from her linen, and Anthony sat down in the same place. She sat by the window, with the paper in her hands at which she had been writing when she first saw him. He had news for her, of two kinds, and, like a man, gave her first that which she least wished to hear. (She had first showed him the paper.) "That was the very matter I was come about," he said. "You have only a few of the names, I see. Now the rest will be over before Christmas, and will all be in London together." "Can you not give me the names?" she said. "I could give you the names, certainly. And I will do so before I leave; I have them here. But--Mistress Marjorie, could you not come to London with me? It would ease the case very much." "Why, I could not," she said. "My mother--And what good would it serve?" "This is how the matter stands," said Anthony, crossing his legs. "We have a dozen priests coming all together--at least, they will not travel together, of course; but they will all reach London before Christmas, and there they will hold counsel as to who shall go to the districts. Eight of them, I have no doubt, will come to the north. There are as many priests in the south as are safe at the present time--or as are needed. Now if you were to come with me, mistress--with a serving-maid, and my sister would be with us--we could meet these priests, and speak with them, and make their acquaintance. That would remove a great deal of danger. We must not have that affair again which fell out last month." Marjorie nodded slowly. (It was wonderful how her gravity had grown on her these last two years.) She knew well enough what he meant. It was the affair of the clerk who had come from Derby on a matter connected with her father's will about the time she was looking for the arrival of a strange priest, and who had been so mistaken by her. Fortunately he had been a well-disposed man, with Catholic sympathies, or grave trouble might have followed. But this proposal of a visit to London seemed to her impossible. She had never been to London in her life; it appeared to her as might a voyage to the moon. Derby seemed oppressingly large and noisy and dangerous; and Derby, she understood, was scarcely more than a village compared to London. "I could not do it," she said presently. "I could not leave my mother." Anthony explained further. It was evident that Booth's Edge was becoming more and more a harbour for priests, owing largely to Mistress Marjorie's courage and piety. It was well placed; it was remote; and it had so far avoided all suspicion. Padley certainly served for many, but Padley was nearer the main road; and besides, had fallen under the misfortune of losing its master for the very crime of recusancy. It seemed to be all important, therefore, that the ruling mistress of Booth's Edge, since there was no master, should meet as many priests as possible, in order that she might both know and be known by them; and here was such an opportunity as would not easily occur again. Here were a dozen priests, all to be together at one time; and of these, at least two-thirds would be soon in the north. How convenient, therefore, it would be if their future hostess could but meet them, learn their plans, and perhaps aid them by her counsel. But she shook her head resolutely. "I cannot do it," she said. Anthony made a little gesture of resignation. But, indeed, he had scarcely hoped to persuade her. He knew it was a formidable thing to ask of a countrybred maid. "Then we must do as well as we can," he said. "In any case, I must go. There is a priest I have to meet in any case; he is returning as soon as he has bestowed the rest." "Yes?" "His name is Ballard. He is known as Fortescue, and passes himself off as a captain. You would never know him for a priest." "He is returning, you say?" A shade of embarrassment passed over the young man's face, and Marjorie saw that there was something behind which she was not to know. "Yes," he said, "I have business with him. He is not to come over on the mission yet, but only to bring the others and see them safe--" He broke off suddenly. "Why, I was forgetting," he cried. "Our Robin is coming too. I had a letter from him, and another for you." He searched in the breast of his coat, and did not see the sudden rigidity that fell on the girl. For a moment she sat perfectly still; her heart had leapt to her throat, it seemed, and was hammering there.... But by the time he had found the letter she was herself again. "Here it is," he said. She took it; but made no movement to open it. "But he is not to be a priest for five years yet?" she said quietly. "No; but they send them sometimes as servants and such like, to make a party seem what it is not, as well as to learn how to avoid her Grace's servants. He will go back with Mr. Ballard, I think, after three or four weeks. You have had letters from him, you told me?" She nodded. "Yes; but he said nothing of it, but only how much he longed to see England again." "He could not. It has only just been arranged. He has asked to go." There was a silence for a moment. But Anthony did not understand what it meant. He had known nothing of the affair of his friend and this girl, and he looked upon them merely as a pair of acquaintances, above all, when he had heard of Robin's determination to go to Rheims. Even the girl saw that he knew nothing, in spite of her embarrassment, and the thought that had come to her when she had heard of Robin's coming to London grew on her every moment. But she thought she must gain time. She stood up. "You would like to see his letters?" she asked. "I will bring them." And she slipped out of the room. II Anthony Babington sat still, staring up at Icarus in the chariot of the Sun, with something of a moody look on his face. It was true that he was sincere and active enough in all that he did up here in the north for the priests of his faith; indeed, he risked both property and liberty on their behalf, and was willing to continue doing so as long as these were left to him. But it seemed to him sometimes that too much was done by spiritual ways and too little by temporal. Certainly the priesthood and the mass were instruments--and, indeed, the highest instruments in God's hand; it was necessary to pray and receive the sacraments, and to run every risk in life for these purposes. Yet it appeared to him that the highest instruments were not always the best for such rough work. It was now over two years ago since the thought had first come to him, and since that time he had spared no effort to shape a certain other weapon, which, he thought, would do the business straight and clean. Yet how difficult it had been to raise any feeling on the point. At first he had spoken almost freely to this or that Catholic whom he could trust; he had endeavoured to win even Robin; and yet, with hardly an exception, all had drawn back and bidden him be content with a spiritual warfare. One priest, indeed, had gone so far as to tell him that he was on dangerous ground ... and the one and single man who up to the present had seemed on his side, was the very man, Mr. Ballard, then a layman, whom he had met by chance in London, and who had been the occasion of first suggesting any such idea. It was, in fact, for the sake of meeting Ballard again that he was going to London; and, he had almost thought from his friend's last letter, it had seemed that it was for the sake of meeting him that Mr. Ballard was coming across once more. So the young man sat, with that moody look on his face, until Marjorie came back, wondering what news he would have from Mr. Ballard, and whether the plan, at present only half conceived, was to go forward or be dropped. He was willing enough, as has been said, to work for priests, and he had been perfectly sincere in his begging Marjorie to come with him for that very purpose; but there was another work which he thought still more urgent.... However, that was not to be Marjorie's affair.... It was work for men only. * * * * * "Here they are," she said, holding out the packet. He took them and thanked her. "I may read them at my leisure? I may take them with me?" She had not meant that, but there was no help for it now. "Why, yes, if you wish," she said. "Stay; let me show you which they are. You may not wish to take them all." * * * * * The letters that the two looked over together in that wainscoted parlour at Booth's Edge lie now in an iron case in a certain muniment-room. They are yellow now, and the ink is faded to a pale dusky red; and they must not be roughly unfolded lest they should crack at the creases. But they were fresh then, written on stout white paper, each occupying one side of a sheet that was then folded three or four times, sealed, and inscribed to "Mistress Marjorie Manners" in the middle, with the word "Haste" in the lower corner. The lines of writing run close together, and the flourishes on one line interweave now and again with the tails on the next. The first was written within a week of Robin's coming to Rheims, and told the tale of the sailing, the long rides that followed it, the pleasure the writer found at coming to a Catholic country, and something of his adventures upon his arrival with his little party. But names and places were scrupulously omitted. Dr. Allen was described as "my host"; and, in more than one instance, the name of a town was inscribed with a line drawn beneath it to indicate that this was a kind of _alias_. The second letter gave some account of the life lived in Rheims--was a real boy's letter--and this was more difficult to treat with discretion. It related that studies occupied a certain part of the day; that "prayers" were held at such and such times, and that the sports consisted chiefly of a game called "Cat." So with the eight or nine that followed. The third and fourth were bolder, and spoke of certain definitely Catholic practices--of prayers for the conversion of England, and of mass said on certain days for the same intention. It seemed as if the writer had grown confident in his place of security. But later, again, his caution returned to him, and he spoke in terms so veiled that even Marjorie could scarcely understand him. Yet, on the whole, the letters, if they had fallen into hostile hands, would have done no irreparable injury; they would only have indicated that a Catholic living abroad, in some unnamed university or college, was writing an account of his life to a Catholic named Mistress Marjorie Manners, living in England. * * * * * When the girl had finished her explaining, it was evident that there was no longer any need for Anthony to take them with him. He said so. "Ah! but take them, if you will," cried the girl. "It would be better not. You have them safe here. And--" Marjorie flushed. She felt that her ruse had been too plain. "I would sooner you took them," she said. "You can read them at your leisure." So he accepted, and slipped them into his breast with what seemed to the girl a lamentable carelessness. Then he stood up. "I must go," he said. "And I have never asked after Mistress Manners." "She is abed," said the girl. "She has been there this past month now." She went with him to the door, for it was not until then that she was courageous enough to speak as she had determined. "Mr. Babington," she said suddenly. He turned. "I have been thinking while we talked," she said. "You think my coming to London would be of real service?" "I think so. It would be good for you to meet these priests before they--" "Then I will come, if my mother gives me leave. When will you go?" "We should be riding in not less than a week from now. But, mistress--" "No, I have thought of it. I will come--if my mother gives me leave." He nodded briskly and brightly. He loved courage, and he understood that this decision of hers had required courage. "Then my sister shall come for you, and--" "No, Mr. Babington, there is no need. We shall start from Derby?" "Why, yes." "Then my maid and I will ride down there and sleep at the inn, and be ready for you on the day that you appoint." * * * * * When he was gone at last she went back again to the parlour, and sat without moving and without seeing. She was in an agony lest she had been unmaidenly in determining to go so soon as she heard that Robin was to be there. CHAPTER II I Anthony lifted his whip and pointed. "London," he said. Marjorie nodded; she was too tired to speak. * * * * * The journey had taken them some ten days, by easy stages; each night they had slept at an inn, except once, when they stayed with friends of the Babingtons and had heard mass. They had had the small and usual adventures: a horse had fallen lame; a baggage-horse had bolted; they had passed two or three hunting-parties; they had been stared at in villages and saluted, and stared at and not saluted. Rain had fallen; the clouds had cleared again; and the clouds had gathered once more and rain had again fallen. The sun, morning by morning, had stood on the left, and evening by evening gone down again on the right. They were a small party for so long a journey--the three with four servants--two men and two maids: the men had ridden armed, as the custom was; one rode in front, then came the two ladies with Anthony; then the two maids, and behind them the second man. In towns and villages they closed up together lest they should be separated, and then spread out once more as the long, straight track lengthened before them. Anthony and the two men-servants carried each a case of dags or pistols at the saddle-bow, for fear of highwaymen. But none had troubled them. A strange dreamlike mood had come down on Marjorie. At times it seemed to her in her fatigue as if she had done nothing all her life but ride; at times, as she sat rocking, she was living still at home, sitting in the parlour, watching her mother; the illusion was so clear and continuous that its departure, when her horse stumbled or a companion spoke, was as an awaking from a dream. At other times she looked about her; talked; asked questions. She found Mistress Alice Babington a pleasant friend, some ten years older than herself, who knew London well, and had plenty to tell her. She was a fair woman, well built and active; very fond of her brother, whom she treated almost as a mother treats a son; but she seemed not to be in his confidence, and even not to wish to be; she thought more of his comfort than of his ideals. She was a Catholic, of course, but of the quiet, assured kind, and seemed unable to believe that anyone could seriously be anything else; she seemed completely confident that the present distress was a passing one, and that when politics had run their course, it would presently disappear. Marjorie found her as comfortable as a pillow, when she was low enough to rest on her.... * * * * * Though Marjorie had nodded only when the spires of London shone up suddenly in the evening light, a sharp internal interest awakened in her. It was as astonishing as a miracle that the end should be in sight; the past ten days had made it seem to her as if all things which she desired must eternally recede.... She touched her horse unconsciously, and stared out between his ears, sitting upright and alert again. It was not a great deal that met the eye, but it was so disposed as to suggest a great deal more. Far away to the right lay a faint haze, and in it appeared towers and spires, with gleams of sharp white here and there, where some tall building rose above the dark roofs. To the left again appeared similar signs of another town--the same haze, towers and spires--linked to the first. She knew what they were; she had heard half a dozen times already of the two towns that made London--running continuously in one long line, however, which grew thin by St. Mary's Hospital and St. Martin's, she was told--the two troops of houses and churches that had grown up about the two centres of Court and City, Westminster and the City itself. But it was none the less startling to see these with her proper eyes. Presently, in spite of herself, as she saw the spire of St. Clement's Dane, where she was told they must turn City-wards, she began to talk, and Anthony to answer. II Dark was beginning to fall and the lamps to be lighted as they rode in at last half an hour later, across the Fleet Ditch, through Ludgate and turned up towards Cheapside. They were to stay at an inn where Anthony was accustomed to lodge when he was not with friends--an inn, too, of which the landlord was in sympathy with the old ways, and where friends could come and go without suspicion. It was here, perhaps, that letters would be waiting for them from Rheims. Marjorie had known Derby only among the greater towns, and neither this nor the towns where she had stayed, night by night, during the journey, had prepared her in the least for the amazing rush and splendour of the City itself. A fine, cold rain was falling, and this, she was told, had driven half the inhabitants within doors; but even so, it appeared to her that London was far beyond her imaginings. Beneath here, in the deep and narrow channel of houses up which they rode, narrowed yet further by the rows of stalls that were ranged along the pathways on either side, the lamps were kindling swiftly, in windows as well as in the street; here and there hung great flaring torches, and the vast eaves and walls overhead shone in the light of the fires where the rich gilding threw it back. Beyond them again, solemn and towering, leaned over the enormous roofs; and everywhere, it seemed to her fresh from the silence and solitude of the country, countless hundreds of moving faces were turned up to her, from doorways and windows, as well as from the groups that hurried along under the shelter of the walls; and the air was full of talking and laughter and footsteps. It meant nothing to her at present, except inextricable confusion: the gleam of arms as a patrol passed by; the important little group making its way with torches; the dogs that scuffled in the roadway; the party of apprentices singing together loudly, with linked arms, plunging up a side street; the hooded women chattering together with gestures beneath a low-hung roof; the calling, from side to side of the twisting street; the bargaining of the sellers at the stalls--all this, with the rattle of their own horses' feet and the jingling of the bits, combined only to make a noisy and brilliant spectacle without sense or signification. Mistress Alice glanced at her, smiling. "You are tired," she said; "we are nearly there. That is St. Paul's on the right." Ah! that gave her peace.... They were turning off from the main street just as her friend spoke; but she had time to catch a glimpse of what appeared at first sight a mere gulf of darkness, and then, as they turned, resolved itself into a vast and solemn pile, grey-lined against black. Lights burned far across the wide churchyard, as well as in the windows of the high houses that crowned the wall, and figures moved against the glow, tiny as dolls.... Then she remembered again: how God had once been worshipped there indeed, in the great house built to His honour, but was no longer so worshipped. Or, if it were the same God, as some claimed, at least the character of Him was very differently conceived.... * * * * * The "Red Bull" again increased her sense of rest; since all inns are alike. A curved archway opened on the narrow street; and beneath this they rode, to find themselves in a paved court, already lighted, surrounded by window-pierced walls, and high galleries to right and left. The stamping of horses from the further end; and, almost immediately, the appearance of a couple of hostlers, showed where the stables lay. Beside it she could see through the door of the brightly-lit bake-house. She was terribly stiff, as she found when she limped up the three or four stairs that led up to the door of the living-part of the inn; and she was glad enough to sit down in a wide, low parlour with her friend as Mr. Babington went in search of the host. The room was lighted only by a fire leaping in the chimney; and she could make out little, except that pieces of stuff hung upon the walls, and a long row of metal vessels and plates were ranged in a rack between the windows. "It is a quiet inn," said Alice. Marjorie nodded again. She was too tired to speak; and almost immediately Anthony came back, with a tall, clean-shaven, middle-aged man, in an apron, following behind. "It is all well," he said. "We can have our rooms and the parlour complete. These are the ladies," he added. The landlord bowed a little, with a dignity beyond that of his dress. "Supper shall be served immediately, madam," he said, with a tactful impartiality towards them both. * * * * * They were indeed very pleasant rooms; and, as Anthony had described them to her, were situated towards the back of the long, low house, on the first floor, with a private staircase leading straight up from the yard to the parlour itself. The sleeping-rooms, too, opened upon the parlour; that which the two ladies were to occupy was furthest from the yard, for quietness' sake; that in which Anthony and his man would sleep, upon the other side. The windows of all three looked straight out upon a little walled garden that appeared to be the property of some other house. The rooms were plainly furnished, but had a sort of dignity about them, especially in the carved woodwork about the doors and windows. There was a fireplace in the parlour, plainly a recent addition; and a maid rose from kindling the logs and turf, as the two ladies came back after washing and changing. A table was already laid, lit by a couple of candles: it was laid with fine napery, and the cutlery was clean and solid. Marjorie looked round the room once more; and, as she sat down, Anthony came in, still in his mud-splashed dress, carrying three or four letters in his hands. "News," he said.... "I will be with you immediately," and vanished into his room. * * * * * The sense of home was deepening on Marjorie every moment. This room in which she sat, might, with a little fancy, be thought to resemble the hall at Booth's Edge. It was not so high, indeed; but the plain solidity of the walls and woodwork, the aspect of the supper-table, and the quiet, so refreshing after the noises of the day, and, above all, after the din of their mile-long ride through the City--these little things, together with the knowledge that the journey was done at last, and that her old friend Robin was, if not already come, at least soon to arrive--these little things helped to soothe and reassure her. She wondered how her mother found herself.... When Anthony came back, the supper was all laid out. He had given orders that no waiting was to be done; his own servants would do what was necessary. He had a bright and interested face, Marjorie thought; and the instant they were sat down, she knew the reason of it. "We are just in time," he said. "These letters have been lying here for me the last week. They will be here, they tell me, by to-morrow night. But that is not all--" He glanced round the dusky room; then he laid down the knife with which he was carving; and spoke in a yet lower voice. "Father Campion is in the house," he said. His sister started. "In the house?... Do you mean--" He nodded mysteriously, as he took up the knife again. "He has been here three or four days. The rooms are full in the ... in the usual place. And I have spoken with him; he is coming here after supper. He had already supped." Marjorie leaned back in her chair; but she said nothing. From beneath in the house came the sound of singing, from the tavern parlour where boys were performing madrigals. It seemed to her incredible that she should presently be speaking with the man, whose name was already affecting England as perhaps no priest's name had ever affected it. He had been in England, she knew, comparatively a short time; yet in that time, his name had run like fire from mouth to mouth. To the minds of Protestants there was something almost diabolical about the man; he was here, he was there, he was everywhere, and yet, when the search was up, he was nowhere. Tales were told of his eloquence that increased the impression that he made a thousand-fold; it was said that he could wile birds off their branches and the beasts from their lairs; and this eloquence, it was known, could be heard only by initiates, in far-off country houses, or in quiet, unsuspected places in the cities. He preached in some shrouded and locked room in London one day; and the next, thirty miles off, in a cow-shed to rustics. And his learning and his subtlety were equal to his eloquence: her Grace had heard him at Oxford years ago, before his conversion; and, it was said, would refuse him nothing, even now, if he would but be reasonable in his religion; even Canterbury, it was reported, might be his. And if he would not be reasonable--then, as was fully in accordance with what was known of her Grace, nothing was too bad for him. Such feeling then, on the part of Protestants, found its fellow in that of the Catholics. He was their champion, as no other man could be. Had he not issued his famous "challenge" to any and all of the Protestant divines, to meet them in any argument on religion that they cared to select, in any place and at any time, if only his own safe-conduct were secure? And was it not notorious that none would meet him? He was, indeed, a fire, a smoke in the nostrils of his adversaries, a flame in the hearts of his friends. Everywhere he ranged, he and his comrade, Father Persons, sometimes in company, sometimes apart; and wherever they went the Faith blazed up anew from its dying embers, in the lives of rustic knave and squire. And she was to see him! * * * * * "He is here for four or five days only," went on Anthony presently, still in a low, cautious voice. "The hunt is very hot, they say. Not even the host knows who he is; or, at least, makes that he does not. He is under another name, of course; it is Mr. Edmonds, this time. He was in Essex, he tells me; but comes to the wolves' den for safety. It is safer, he says, to sit secure in the midst of the trap, than to wander about its doors; for when the doors are opened he can run out again, if no one knows he is there...." III When supper was finished at last, and the maids had borne away the dishes, there came almost immediately a tap upon the door; and before any could answer, there walked in a man, smiling. He was of middle-size, dressed in a dark, gentleman's suit, carrying his feathered hat in his hand, with his sword. He appeared far younger than Marjorie had expected--scarcely more than thirty years old, of a dark and yet clear complexion, large-eyed, with a look of humour; his hair was long and brushed back; and a soft, pointed beard and moustache covered the lower part of his face. He moved briskly and assuredly, as one wholly at his ease. "I am come to the right room?" he said. "That is as well." His voice, too, had a ring of gaiety in it; it was low, quite clear and very sympathetic; and his manners, as Marjorie observed, were those of a cultivated gentleman, without even a trace of the priest. She would not have been astonished if she had been told that the man was of the court, or some great personage of the country. There was no trace of furtive hurry or of alarm about him; he moved deftly and confidently; and when he sat down, after the proper greetings, crossed one leg over the other, so that he could nurse his foot. It seemed more incredible even than she had thought, that this was Father Campion! "You have pleasant rooms here, and music to cheer you, too," he said. "I understand that you are often here, Mr. Babington." Anthony explained that he found them convenient and very secure. "Roberts is a prudent landlord," he said. Father Campion nodded. "He knows his own business, which is what few landlords do, in these degenerate days; and he knows nothing at all of his guests'. In that he is even more of an exception." His eyes twinkled delightfully at the ladies. "And so," he said, "God blesses him in those who use his house." They talked for a few minutes in this manner. Father Campion spoke of the high duty that lay on all country ladies to make themselves acquainted with the sights of the town; and spoke of three or four of these. Her Grace, of course, must be seen; that was the greatest sight of all. They must make an opportunity for that; and there would surely be no difficulty, since her Grace liked nothing better than to be looked at. And they must go up the river by water, if the weather allowed, from the Tower to Westminster; not from Westminster to the Tower, since that was the way that traitors came, and no good Catholic could, even in appearance, be a traitor. And, if they pleased, he would himself be their guide for a part of their adventures. He was to lie hid, he told them; and he knew no better way to do that than to flaunt as boldly as possible in the open ways. "If I lay in my room," said he, "with a bolt drawn, I would soon have some busy fellow knocking on the door to know what I did there. But if I could but dine with her Grace, or take an hour with Mr. Topcliffe, I should be secure for ever." Marjorie glanced shyly towards Alice, as if to ask a question. (She was listening, it seemed to her, with every nerve in her tired body.) The priest saw the glance. "Mr. Topcliffe, madam? Well; let us say he is a dear friend of the Lieutenant of the Tower, and has, I think, lodgings there just now. And he is even a friend of Catholics, too--to such, at least, as desire a heavenly crown." "He is an informer and a tormentor!" broke in Anthony harshly. "Well, sir; let us say that he is very loyal to the letter of the law; and that he presides over our Protestant bed of Procrustes." "The--" began Marjorie, emboldened by the kindness of the priest's voice. "The bed of Procrustes, madam, was a bed to which all who lay upon it had to be conformed. Those that were too long were made short; and those that were too short were made long. It is a pleasant classical name for the rack." Marjorie caught her breath. But Father Campion went on smoothly. "We shall have a clear day to-morrow, I think," he said. "If you are at liberty, sir, and these ladies are not too wearied--I have a little business in Westminster; and--" "Why, yes," said Anthony, "for to-morrow night we expect friends. From Rheims, sir." The priest dropped his foot and leaned forward. "From Rheims?" he said sharply. The other nodded. "Eight or ten at least will arrive. Not all are priests. One is a friend of our own from Derbyshire, who will not be made priest for five years yet." "I had not heard they were to come so soon," said Father Campion. "And what a company of them!" "There are a few of them who have been here before. Mr. Ballard is one of them." The priest was silent an instant. "Mr. Ballard," he said. "Ballard! Yes; he has been here before. He travels as Captain Fortescue, does he not? You are a friend of his?" "Yes, sir." Father Campion made as if he would speak; but interrupted himself and was silent; and it seemed to Marjorie as if another mood was fallen on him. And presently they were talking again of London and its sights. IV In spite of her weariness, Marjorie could not sleep for an hour or two after she had gone to bed. It was an extraordinary experience to her to have fallen in, on the very night of her coming to London, with the one man whose name stood to her for all that was gallant in her faith. As she lay there, listening to the steady breathing of Alice, who knew no such tremors of romance, to the occasional stamp of a horse across the yard, and, once or twice, to voices and footsteps passing on some paved way between the houses, she rehearsed again and again to herself the tales she had heard of him. Now and again she thought of Robin. She wondered whether he, too, one day (and not of necessity a far-distant day, since promotion came quickly in this war of faith), would occupy some post like that which this man held so gaily and so courageously; and for the first time, perhaps, she understood not in vision merely, but in sober thought, what the life of a priest in those days signified. Certainly she had met man after man before--she had entertained them often enough in her mother's place, and had provided by her own wits for their security--men who went in peril of liberty and even of life; but here, within the walls of London, in this "wolves' den" as Father Campion had called it, where men brushed against one another continually, and looked into a thousand faces a day, where patrols went noisily with lights and weapons, where the great Tower stood, where her Grace, the mistress of the wolves, had her dwelling--here, peril assumed another aspect, and pain and death another reality, from that which they presented on the wind-swept hills and the secret valleys of the country from which they came.... And it was with Father Campion himself, in his very flesh, that she had talked this evening--it was Father Campion who had given her that swift, kindly look of commendation, as Mr. Babington had spoken of her reason for coming to London, and of her hospitality to wandering priests--Father Campion, the Angel of the Church, was in England. And to-morrow Robin, too, would be here. * * * * * Then, as sleep began to come down on her tired and excited brain, and to form, as so often under such conditions, little visible images, even before the reason itself is lulled, there began to pass before her, first tiny and delicate pictures of what she had seen to-day--the low hills to the north of London, dull and dark below the heavy sky, but light immediately above the horizon as the sun sank down; the appearance of her horse's ears--those ears and that tuft of wayward mane between them of which she had grown so weary; the lighted walls of the London streets; the monstrous shadows of the eaves; the flare of lights; the moving figures--these came first; and then faces--Father Campion's, smiling, with white teeth and narrowed eyes, bright against the dark chimney-breast; Alice's serene features, framed in flaxen hair; and then, as sleep had all but conquered her, the imagination sent up one last idea, and a face came into being before her, so formless yet so full, so sinister, so fierce and so distorted, that she drew a sudden breath and sat up, trembling.... ... Why had they spoken to her of Topcliffe?... CHAPTER III I It was a soft winter's morning as the party came down the little slope towards the entrance-gate of the Tower next day. The rain last night had cleared the air, and the sun shone as through thin veils of haze, kindly and sweet. The river on the right was at high tide, and up from the water's edge came the cries of the boatmen, pleasant and invigorating. The sense of unreality was deeper than ever on Marjorie's mind. One incredible thing after another, known to her only in the past by rumour and description, and imagined in a frame of glory, was taking shape before her eyes.... She was in London; she had slept in Cheapside; she had talked with Father Campion; he was with her now; this was the Tower of London that lay before her, a monstrous huddle of grey towers and battlemented walls along which passed the scarlet of a livery and the gleam of arms. All the way that they had walked, her eyes had been about her everywhere--the eyes of a startled child, through which looked the soul of a woman. She had seen the folks go past like actors in a drama--London merchants, apprentices, a party of soldiers, a group on horseback: she had seen a congregation pour out of the doors of some church whose name she had asked and had forgotten again; the cobbled patches of street had been a marvel to her; the endless roofs, the white and black walls, the leaning windows, the galleries where heads moved; the vast wharfs; the crowding masts, resembling a stripped forest; the rolling-gaited sailors; and, above all, the steady murmur of voices and footsteps, never ceasing, beyond which the crowing of cocks and the barking of dogs sounded far off and apart--these things combined to make a kind of miracle that all at once delighted, oppressed and bewildered her. Here and there some personage had been pointed out to her by the trim, merry gentleman who walked by her side with his sword swinging. (Anthony went with his sister just behind, as they threaded their way through the crowded streets, and the two men-servants followed.) She saw a couple of City dignitaries in their furs, with stavesmen to clear their road; a little troop of the Queen's horse, blazing with colour, under the command of a young officer who might have come straight from Romance. But she was more absorbed--or, rather, she returned every instant to the man who walked beside her with such an air and talked so loudly and cheerfully. Certainly, it seemed to her, his disguise was perfect, and himself the best part of it. She compared him in her mind with a couple of ministers, splendid and awful in their gowns and ruffs, whom they had met turning into one of the churches just now, and smiled at the comparison; and yet perhaps these were preachers too, and eloquent in their own fashion. And now, here was the Tower--the end of all things, so far as London was concerned. Beyond it she saw the wide rolling hills, the bright reaches of the river, and the sparkle of Placentia, far away. "Her Grace is at Westminster these days," exclaimed the priest; "she is moving to Hampton Court in a day or two; so I doubt not we shall be able to go in and see a little. We shall see, at least, the outside of the Paradise where so many holy ones have lived and died. There are three or four of them here now; but the most of them are in the Fleet or the Marshalsea." Marjorie glanced at him. She did not understand. "I mean Catholic prisoners, mistress. There are several of them in ward here, but we had better speak no names." He wheeled suddenly as they came out into the open and moved to the left. "There is Tower Hill, mistress; where my lord Cardinal Fisher died, and Thomas More." Marjorie stopped short. But there was nothing great to see--only a rising ground, empty and bare, with a few trimmed trees; the ground was without grass; a few cobbled paths crossed this way and that. "And here is the gateway," he said, "whence they come out to glory.... And there on the right" (he swept his arm towards the river) "you may see, if you are fortunate, other criminals called pirates, hung there till they be covered by three tides." * * * * * Still standing there, with Mr. Babington and his sister come up from behind, he began to relate the names of this tower and of that, in the great tumbled mass of buildings surmounted by the high keep. But Marjorie paid no great attention except with an effort: she was brooding rather on the amazing significance of all that she saw. It was under this gateway that the martyrs came; it was from those windows in that tower which the priest had named just now, that they had looked.... And this was Father Campion. She turned and watched him as he talked. He was dressed as he had been dressed last night, but with a small cloak thrown over his shoulders; he gesticulated freely and easily, pointing out this and that; now and again his eyes met hers, and there was nothing but a grave merriment in them.... Only once or twice his voice softened, as he spoke of those great ones that had shown Catholics how both to die and live. "And now," he said, "with your permission I will go and speak to the guard, and see if we may have entrance." * * * * * It was almost with terror that she saw him go--a solitary man, with a price on his head, straight up to those whose business it was to catch him--armed men, as she could see--she could even see the quilted jacks they wore--who, it may be, had talked of him in the guard-room only last night. But his air was so assured and so magnificent that even she began to understand how complete such a disguise might be; and she watched him speaking with the officer with a touch even of his own humour in her heart. Indeed, there was some truth in the charge of Jesuitry, after all! Then the figure turned and beckoned, and they went forward. II A certain horror, in spite of herself and her company, fell on her as she passed beneath the solid stone vaulting, passed along beneath the towering wall, turned up from the water-gate, and came out into the wide court round which the Lieutenant's lodgings, the little church, and the enormous White Tower itself are grouped. There was a space, not enclosed in any way, but situated within a web of paths, not far from the church, that caught her attention. She stood looking at it. "Yes, mistress," said the priest behind her. "That is the place of execution for those who die within the Tower--those usually of royal blood. My Lady Salisbury died there, and my Lady Jane Grey, and others." He laid his hand gently on her arm. "You must not look so grave," he said, "you must gape more. You are a country-cousin, madam." And she smiled in spite of herself, as she met his eyes. "Tell me everything," she said. They went together nearer to the church, and faced about. "We can see better from here," he said. Then he began. First there was the Lieutenant's lodging on the right. They must look well at that. Interviews had taken place there that had made history. (He mentioned a few names.) Then, further down on the right, beyond that corner round which they had come just now, was the famous water-gate, called "Traitors' Gate," through which passed those convicted of treason at Westminster, or, at least, those who were under grave suspicion. Such as these came, of course, by water, as prisoners on whose behalf a demonstration might perhaps be made if they came by land. So, at least, he understood was the reason of the custom. "Her Grace herself once came that way," he said with a twinkle. "Now she sends other folks in her stead." Then he pointed out more clearly the White Tower. It was there that the Council sat on affairs of importance. "And it is there--" began Anthony harshly. The priest turned to him, suddenly grave, as if in reproof. "Yes," he said softly. "It is there that the passion of the martyrs begins." Marjorie turned sharply. "You mean--" "Well," he said, "it is there that the Council sits to examine prisoners both before and after the Question. They are taken downstairs to the Question, and brought back again after it. It was there that--" He broke off. "Who is this?" he said. The court had been empty while they talked except that on the far side, beneath the towering cliff of the keep, a sentry went to and fro. But now another man had come into view, walking up from the way they themselves had come; and it would appear from the direction he took that he would pass within twenty or thirty yards of them. He was a tall man, dressed in sad-coloured clothes, with a felt hat on his head and the usual sword by his side. He was plainly something of a personage, for he walked easily and confidently. He was still some distance off; but it was possible to make out that he was sallowish in complexion, wore a trimmed beard, and had something of a long throat. Father Campion stared at him a moment, and, as he stared, Marjorie heard Mr. Babington utter a sudden exclamation. Then the priest, with one quick glance at him, murmured something which Marjorie could not hear, and walked briskly off to meet the stranger. "Come," said Anthony in a sharp, low voice, "we must see the church." "Who is it?" whispered Mistress Alice, with even her serene face a little troubled. For the first moment, as they walked towards the entrance of the church, Anthony said nothing. Then as they reached it, he said, in a tone quite low and yet full of suppressed passion of some kind, a name that Marjorie could not catch. She turned before they went in, and looked again. The priest was talking to the stranger, and was making gestures, as if asking for direction. "Who is it, Mr. Babington?" she asked again as they went in. "I did not--" "Topcliffe," said Anthony. III The horror was still on the girl, as they went, an hour later, up the ebbing tide towards Westminster, in a boat rowed by a waterman and one of their own servants. About them was a scene, of which the very thought, a month ago, would have absorbed and fascinated her. They had scarcely passed through London Bridge finding themselves just in time before the fall of the water would have hindered their passage, leaving out of sight the grey sunlit heap of buildings from which they had come. All about them the river was gay with shipping. Wherries, like clumsy water-beetles, lurched along out of the current, or slipped out suddenly to make their way across from one stairs to another; a great barge, coming down-stream, grew larger every instant, its prow bright with gilding, and the throb of the twelve oars in the row-locks coming to them like the grunting of a beast. On either side of the broad stream rose the houses and the churches, those on this side visible down to their shining window-panes in the sunlight, and the very texture of their tiled roofs; those on the other a mere huddle of countless walls and gables, in the shadow; and between them showed the leafless trees, stretches of green meadow, across which moved tiny figures, and the brown flats of the marshes beyond, broken here and there by outlying villages a mile or two away. Behind them now towered the great buildings on London Bridge--the chapel, the houses, the old gateway on the south end, above which the impaled heads of traitors stood out against the bright sky. It was a tolerable crop just now, the priest had said, bitterly smiling. But, above all else, as the boat moved up, Marjorie kept her eyes fixed on far-off Westminster, on the grey towers and the white walls where Elizabeth reigned and Saint Edward slept; while within her mind, clear as a picture, she saw still the empty court, as she had seen it when the priest fetched them out again from the church--empty at last of the hateful presence which he had faced so confidently. * * * * * "It appeared to me best to speak with him openly," said the priest quietly, as they had waited ten minutes later on the wharf outside the Tower, while the men ran to make ready their boat. "I do not know why, but I suppose I am one of those who better like their danger in front than behind. I knew him at once; I have had him pointed out to me two or three times before. So I looked him in the eyes, and asked him whether some ladies from the country might be permitted to see the White Tower, and to whom we had best apply. He told me that was not his affair, and looked me up and down as he said it. And then he went his way to ... the White Tower, where I doubt not he had business." "He said no more?" asked Anthony. "No, he said no more. But I shall know him again better next time, and he me." * * * * * It seemed of evil omen to the girl that she should have had such an encounter on the day that Robin came back. Like all persons who dwell much in the country, a world that was neither that of the flesh nor yet of the spirit was that in which she largely moved--a world of strange laws, and auspices, and this answering to this and that to that. It is a state inconceivable to those who live in the noise and movement of town--who find town-life, that is, the life in which they are most at ease. For where men have made the earth that is trodden underfoot, and have largely veiled the heavens themselves, it is but natural that they should think that they have made everything, and that it is they who rule it. As they drew nearer Westminster then, it was with Marjorie as it had been when they came to the Tower. The priest was busy pointing out this or that building--the Palace towers, the Hall, the Abbey behind, and St. Margaret's Church, as well as the smaller buildings of the Court, and the little town that lay round about. But she listened as she listened to the noise that came from the streets clear across the water, attending to it, yet scarcely distinguishing one thing from another, and forgetting each as soon as she heard it. She was thinking all the while of Robin, and of the man whose face she had seen, of his beard and his long throat. Well, at least, Robin was not yet a priest.... * * * * * The boat was already nearing the King's Stairs at Westminster, when a new event happened that for a while distracted her. The first they saw of it was the sight of a number of men and women running in a disorderly mob, calling out as they ran, along the river-bank in the direction from Charing Old Cross towards Palace Yard. They appeared excited, but not by fear; and it was plain that something was taking place of which they wished to have a sight. As the priest stood up in the boat in order to have a clearer sight of what lay above the bank, three or four trumpet-calls of a peculiar melody, rang out clear and distinct, echoed back by the walls round about, plainly audible above the rising noise of a crowd that, it seemed, must be gathering out of sight. The priest sat down again and his face was merry. "You have come on a fortunate day, mistress," he said to Marjorie. "First Topcliffe, and now her Grace; if we make haste we may see her pass by." "Her Grace?" "She will be going to dinner in Whitehall, after having taken the air by the river. They will be passing the Abbey now. But she will not be in her supreme state; I am sorry for that." * * * * * As they rowed in quickly over the last hundred yards that lay between them and the stairs, Marjorie listened to the priest as he described something of what the "supreme state" signified. He spoke of the long lines of carriages, filled with the ladies and the infirm, preceded by the pikemen, and the gentlemen pensioners carrying wands, and the knights followed by the heralds. Behind these, he said, came the officers of State immediately before the Queen's carriage, and after her the guards of her person. "But this will be but a tame affair," he said. "I wish you could have seen a Progress, with the arches and the speeches and the declamations, and the heathen gods and goddesses that reign round our Eliza, when she will go to Ashridge or Havering. I have heard it said--" And then the prow of the boat, turned deftly at the last instant, grated along the lowest stair, and the waterman was out to steady his craft. IV It was the very crown and summit of new sensation that Marjorie attained as she stood in an open gallery that looked on to the road from Westminster to Whitehall. Father Campion, speaking of a "good friend" of his that had his lodgings there, led them by a short turning or two, that avoided the crowd, straight to the door of what appeared to Marjorie a mere warren of rooms, stairs and passages. A grave little man, with a pen behind his ear, ran out upon their knocking at one of these doors, and led them straight through, smiling and talking, out into this very gallery where they now stood; and then vanished again. The gallery was such as those which Marjorie had noted on the way to the Tower; a high-hung, airy place, running the length of the house, contrived on the level of the second floor, with the first floor roof beneath and overhanging attics above. It was supported on massive oak beams, and protected from the street by a low balustrade of a height to lean the elbows upon it. It was on this balustrade that Marjorie leaned, looking down into the street. To the left the narrow roadway curved off out of sight in the direction of Palace Yard; on the right she could make out, a hundred yards away, some kind of a gateway, that strode across the street, and gave access, she supposed, to the Palace. Opposite, the windows were filled with faces, and an enthusiastic loyalist was leaning, red-faced and vociferous, calling to a friend in the crowd beneath, from a gallery corresponding to that from which the girl was looking. Of the procession nothing was at present to be seen. They had caught a glimpse of colour somewhere to the east of the Abbey as they turned off opposite Westminster Hall; and already the cry of the trumpets and the increasing noise of a crowd out of sight, told the listeners that they would not have long to wait. Beneath, the crowd was arranging itself with admirable discipline, dispersing in long lines two or three deep against the walls, so as to leave a good space, and laughing good-humouredly at a couple of officious persons in livery who had suddenly made their appearance. And then, as the country girl herself smiled down, an exclamation from Alice made her turn. At first it was difficult to discern anything clearly in the stream whose head began to discharge itself round the curve from the left. A row of brightly-coloured uniforms, moving four abreast, came first, visible above the tossing heads of horses. Then followed a group of guards, whose steel caps passed suddenly into the sunlight that caught them from between the houses, and went again into shadow. And then at last, she caught a glimpse of the carriage, followed by ladies on grey horses; and forgot all the rest. This way and that she craned her head, gripping the oak post by which she leaned, unconscious of all except that she was to see her in whom England itself seemed to have been incarnated--the woman who, as perhaps no other earthly sovereign in the world at that time, or before her, had her people in a grasp that was not one of merely regal power. Even far away in Derbyshire--even in the little country manor from which the girl came, the aroma of that tremendous presence penetrated--of the woman whom men loved to hail as the Virgin Queen, even though they might question her virginity; the woman--"our Eliza," as the priest had named her just now--who had made so shrewd an act of faith in her people that they had responded with an unreserved act of love. It was this woman, then, whom she was about to see; the sister of Mary and Edward, the daughter of Henry and Anne Boleyn, who had received her kingdom Catholic, and by her own mere might had chosen to make it Protestant; the woman whose anointed hands were already red in the blood of God's servants, yet hands which men fainted as they kissed.... Then on a sudden, as Elizabeth lifted her head this side and that, the girl saw her. She was sitting in a low carriage, raised on cushions, alone. Four tall horses drew her at a slow trot: the wheels of the carriage were deep in mud, since she had driven for an hour over the deep December roads; but this added rather to the splendour within. But of this Marjorie remembered no more than an uncertain glimpse. The air was thick with cries; from window after window waved hands; and, more than all, the loyalty was real, and filled the air like brave music. There, then, she sat, smiling. She was dressed in some splendid stuff; jewels sparkled beneath her throat. Once a hand in an embroidered glove rose to wave an answer to the roar of salute; and, as the carriage came beneath, she raised her face. It was a thin face, sharply pear-shaped, ending in a pointed chin; a tight mouth smiled at the corners; above her narrow eyes and high brows rose a high forehead, surmounted by strands of auburn hair drawn back tightly beneath the little head-dress. It was a strangely peaked face, very clear-skinned, and resembled in some manner a mask. But the look of it was as sharp as steel; like a slender rapier, fragile and thin, yet keen enough to run a man through. The power of it, in a word, was out of all measure with the slightness of the face.... Then the face dropped; and Marjorie watched the back of the head bending this way and that, till the nodding heads that followed hid it from sight. Marjorie drew a deep breath and turned. The faces of her friends were as pale and intent as her own. Only the priest was as easy as ever. "So that is our Eliza," he said. Then he did a strange thing. He lifted his cap once more with grave seriousness. "God save her Grace!" he said. CHAPTER IV I Robin bowed to her very carefully, and stood upright again. * * * * * She had seen in an instant how changed he was, in that swift instant in which her eyes had singled him out from the little crowd of men that had come into the room with Anthony at their head. It was a change which she could scarcely have put into words, unless she had said that it was the conception of the Levite within his soul. He was dressed soberly and richly, with a sword at his side, in great riding-boots splashed to the knees with mud, with his cloak thrown back; and he carried his great brimmed hat in his hand. All this was as it might have been in Derby, though, perhaps, his dress was a shade more dignified than that in which she had ever seen him. But the change was in his face and bearing; he bore himself like a man, and a restrained man; and there was besides that subtle air which her woman's eyes could see, but which even her woman's wit could not properly describe. She made room for him to sit beside her; and then Father Campion's voice spoke: "These are the gentlemen, then," he said. "And two more are not yet come. Gentlemen--" he bowed. "And which is Captain Fortescue?" A big man, distinguished from the rest by a slightly military air, and by a certain vividness of costume and a bristling feather in his hat, bowed back to him. "We have met once before, Mr.--Mr. Edmonds," he said. "At Valladolid." Father Campion smiled. "Yes, sir; for five or ten minutes; and I was in the same room with your honour once at the Duke of Guise's.... And now, sir, who are the rest of your company?" The others were named one by one; and Marjorie eyed each of them carefully. It was her business to know them again if ever they should meet in the north; and for a few minutes the company moved here and there, bowing and saluting, and taking their seats. There were still a couple of men who were not yet come; but these two arrived a few minutes later; and it was not until she had said a word or two to them all, and Father Campion had named her and her good works, to them, that she found herself back again with Robin in a seat a little apart. "You look very well," she said, with an admirable composure. His eyes twinkled. "I am as weary as a man can be," he said. "We have ridden since before dawn.... And you, and your good works?" Marjorie explained, describing to him something of the system by which priests were safeguarded now in the north--the districts into which the county was divided, and the apportioning of the responsibilities among the faithful houses. It was her business, she said, to receive messages and to pass them on; she had entertained perhaps a dozen priests since the summer; perhaps she would entertain him, too, one day, she said. * * * * * The ordeal was far lighter than she had feared it would be. There was a strong undercurrent of excitement in her heart, flushing her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes; yet never for one moment was she even tempted to forget that he was now vowed to God. It seemed to her as if she talked with him in the spirit of that place where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. Those two years of quiet in the north, occupied, even more than she recognised, in the rearranging of her relations with the memory of this young man, had done their work. She still kindled at his presence; but it was at the presence of one who had undertaken an adventure that destroyed altogether her old relations with him.... She was enkindled even more by the sense of her own security; and, as she looked at him, by the sense of his security too. Robin was gone; here, instead, was young Mr. Audrey, seminary student, who even in a court of law could swear before God that he was not a priest, nor had been "ordained beyond the seas." So they sat and exchanged news. She told him of the rumours of his father that had come to her from time to time; he would be a magistrate yet, it was said, so hot was his loyalty. Even her Grace, it was reported, had vowed she wished she had a thousand such country gentlemen on whose faithfulness she could depend. And Robin gave her news of the seminary, of the hours of rising and sleeping, of the sports there; of the confessors for the faith who came and went; of Dr. Allen. He told her, too, of Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam; he often had talked with them of Derbyshire, he said. It was very peaceful and very stirring, too, to sit here in the lighted parlour, and hear and give the news; while the company, gathered round Anthony and Father Campion, talked in low voices, and Mistress Babington, placid, watched them and listened. He showed her, too, Mr. Maine's beads which she had given him so long ago, hung in a little packet round his neck. * * * * * More than once, as they talked, Marjorie found herself looking at Mr. Ballard, or, as he was called here, Captain Fortescue. It was he who seemed the leader of the troop; and, indeed, as Robin told her in a whisper, that was what he was. He came and went frequently, he said; his manner and his carriage were reassuring to the suspicious; he appeared, perhaps, the last man in the world to be a priest. He was a big man, as has been said; and he had a frank assured way with him; he was leaning forward, even now, as she looked at him, and seemed laying down the law, though in what was almost a whisper. Father Campion was watching him, too, she noticed; and, what she had learned of Father Campion in the last few hours led her to wonder whether there was not something of doubtfulness in his opinion of him. Father Campion suddenly shook his head sharply. "I am not of that view at all," he said. "I--" And once more his voice sank so low as to be inaudible; as the rest leaned closer about him. II Mr. Anthony Babington seemed silent and even a little displeased when, half an hour later, the visitors were all gone downstairs to supper. Three or four of them were to sleep in the house; the rest, of whom Robin was one, had Captain Fortescue's instructions as to where lodgings were prepared. But the whole company was tired out with the long ride from the coast, and would be seen no more that night. * * * * * Marjorie knew enough of the divisions of opinion among Catholics, and of Mr. Babington in particular, to have a general view as to why her companion was displeased; but more than that she did not know, nor what point in particular it was on which the argument had run. The one party--of Mr. Babington's kind--held that Catholics were, morally, in a state of war. War had been declared upon them, without justification, by the secular authorities, and physical instruments, including pursuivants and the rack, were employed against them. Then why should not they, too, employ the same kind of instruments, if they could, in return? The second party held that a religious persecution could not be held to constitute a state of war; the Apostles Peter and Paul, for example, not only did not employ the arm of flesh against the Roman Empire, but actually repudiated it. And this party further held that even the Pope's bull, relieving Elizabeth's subjects from their allegiance, did so only in an interior sense--in such a manner that while they must still regard her personal and individual rights--such rights as any human being possessed--they were not bound to render interior loyalty to her as their Queen, and need not, for example (though they were not forbidden to do so), regard it as a duty to fight for her, in the event, let us say, of an armed invasion from Spain. There, then, was the situation; and Mr. Anthony had, plainly, crossed swords this evening on the point. "The Jesuit is too simple," he said suddenly, as he strode about. "I think--" He broke off. His sister smiled upon him placidly. "You are too hot, Anthony," she said. The man turned sharply towards her. "All the praying in the world," he said, "has not saved us so far. It seems to me time--" "Perhaps our Lord would not have us saved," she said; "as you mean it." III It was not until Christmas Eve that Marjorie went to St. Paul's, for all that it was so close. But the days were taken up with the visitors; a hundred matters had to be arranged; for it was decided that before the New Year all were to be dispersed. Captain Fortescue and Robin were to leave again for the Continent on the day following Christmas Day itself. Marjorie made acquaintance during these days with more than one meeting-place of the Catholics in London. One was a quiet little house near St. Bartholomew's-the-Great, where a widow had three or four sets of lodgings, occupied frequently by priests and by other Catholics, who were best out of sight; and it was here that mass was to be said on Christmas Day. Another was in the Spanish Embassy; and here, to her joy, she looked openly upon a chapel of her faith, and from the gallery adored her Lord in the tabernacle. But even this was accomplished with an air of uneasiness in those round her; the Spanish priest who took them in walked quickly and interrupted them before they were done, and seemed glad to see the last of them. It was explained to Marjorie that the ambassador did not wish to give causeless offence to the Protestant court. And now, on Christmas Eve, Robin, Anthony and the two ladies entered the Cathedral as dusk was falling--first passing through the burial-ground, over the wall of which leaned the rows of houses in whose windows lights were beginning to burn. The very dimness of the air made the enormous heights of the great church more impressive. Before them stretched the long nave, over seven hundred feet from end to end; from floor to roof the eye travelled up the bunches of slender pillars to the dark ceiling, newly restored after the fire, a hundred and fifty feet. The tall windows on either side, and the clerestory lights above, glimmered faintly in the darkening light. But to the Catholic eyes that looked on it the desolation was more apparent than the splendour. There were plenty of people here, indeed: groups moved up and down, talking, directing themselves more and more towards the exits, as the night was coming on and the church would be closed presently; in one aisle a man was talking aloud, as if lecturing, with a crowd of heads about him. In another a number of soberly dressed men were putting up their papers and ink on the little tables that stood in a row--this was Scriveners' Corner, she was told; from a third half a dozen persons were dejectedly moving away--these were servants that had waited to be hired. But the soul of the place was gone. When they came out into the transepts, Anthony stopped them with a gesture, while a couple of porters, carrying boxes on their heads, pushed by, on their short cut through the cathedral. "It was there," he said, "that the altars stood." He pointed between the pillars on either side, and there, up little raised steps, lay the floors of the chapels. But within all was empty, except for a tomb or two, some tattered colours and the _piscinæ_ still in place. Where the altars had stood there were blank spaces of wall; piled up in one such place were rows of wooden seats set there for want of room. Opposite the entrance to the choir, where once overhead had hung the great Rood, the four stood and looked in, through a gap which the masons were mending in the high wall that had bricked off the chancel from the nave. On either side, as of old, still rose up the towering carven stalls; the splendid pavement still shone beneath, refracting back from its surface the glimmer of light from the stained windows above; but the head of the body was gone. Somewhere, beneath the deep shadowed altar screen, they could make out an erection that might have been an altar, only they knew that it was not. It was no longer the Stone of Sacrifice, whence the smoke of the mystical Calvary ascended day by day: it was the table, and no more, where bread and wine were eaten and drunk in memory of an event whose deathless energy had ceased, in this place, at least, to operate. Yet it was here, thought Marjorie, that only forty years ago, scarcely more than twenty years before she was born, on this very Night, the great church had hummed and vibrated with life. Round all the walls had sat priests, each in his place; and beside each kneeled a penitent, making ready for the joy of Bethlehem once again--wise and simple--Shepherds and Magi--yet all simple before the baffling and entrancing Mystery. There had been footsteps and voices there too--yet of men who were busy upon their Father's affairs in their Father's house, and not upon their own. They were going from altar to altar, speaking with their Friends at Court; and here, opposite where she stood and peeped in the empty cold darkness, there had burned lights before the Throne of Him Who had made Heaven and earth, and did His Father's Will on earth as it was done in Heaven.... Forty years ago the life of this church was rising on this very night, with a hum as of an approaching multitude, from hour to hour, brightening and quickening as it came, up to the glory of the Midnight Mass, the crowded church, alight from end to end, the smell of bog and bay in the air, soon to be met and crowned by the savour of incense-smoke; and the world of spirit, too, quickened about them; and the angels (she thought) came down from Heaven, as men up from the City round about, to greet Him who is King of both angels and men. And now, in this new England, the church, empty of the Divine Presence, was emptying, too, of its human visitors. She could hear great doors somewhere crash together, and the reverberation roll beneath the stone vaulting. It would empty soon, desolate and dark; and so it would be all night.... Why did not the very stones cry out? Mistress Alice touched her on the arm. "We must be going," she said. "They are closing the church." IV She had a long talk with Robin on Christmas night. The day had passed, making strange impressions on her, which she could not understand. Partly it was the contrast between the homely associations of the Feast, begun, as it was for her, with the mass before dawn--the room at the top of the widow's house was crowded all the while she was there--between these associations and the unfamiliarity of the place. She had felt curiously apart from all that she saw that day in the streets--the patrolling groups, the singers, the monstrous-headed mummers (of whom companies went about all day), two or three glimpses of important City festivities, the garlands that decorated many of the houses. It seemed to her as a shadow-show without sense or meaning, since the heart of Christmas was gone. Partly, too, no doubt, it was the memory of a former Christmas, three years ago, when she had begun to understand that Robin loved her. And he was with her again; yet all that he had stood for, to her, was gone, and another significance had taken its place. He was nearer to her heart, in one manner, though utterly removed, in another. It was as when a friend was dead: his familiar presence is gone; but now that one physical barrier is vanished, his presence is there, closer than ever, though in another fashion.... * * * * * Robin had come in to sup. Captain Fortescue would fetch him about nine o'clock, and the two were to ride for the coast before dawn. The four sat quiet after supper, speaking in subdued voices, of hopes for the future, when England should be besieged, indeed, by the spiritual forces that were gathering overseas; but they slipped gradually into talk of the past and of Derbyshire, and of rides they remembered. Then, after a while, Anthony was called away; Mistress Alice moved back to the table to see her needlework the better, and Robin and Marjorie sat together by the fire. * * * * * He told her again of the journey from Rheims, of the inns where they lodged, of the extraordinary care that was taken, even in that Catholic land, that no rumour of the nature of the party should slip out, lest some gossip precede them or even follow them to the coast of England. They carried themselves even there, he said, as ordinary gentlemen travelling together; two of them were supposed to be lawyers; he himself passed as Mr. Ballard's servant. They heard mass when they could in the larger towns, but even then not all together. The landing in England had been easier, he said, than he had thought, though he had learned afterwards that a helpful young man, who had offered to show him to an inn in Folkestone, and in whose presence Mr. Ballard had taken care to give him a good rating for dropping a bag--with loud oaths--was a well-known informer. However, no harm was done: Mr. Ballard's admirable bearing, and his oaths in particular, had seemed to satisfy the young man, and he had troubled them no more. Marjorie did not say much. She listened with a fierce attention, so much interested that she was scarcely aware of her own interest; she looked up, half betrayed into annoyance, when a placid laugh from Mistress Alice at the table showed that another was listening too. She too, then, had to give her news, and to receive messages for the Derbyshire folk whom Robin wished to greet; and it was not until Mistress Alice slipped out of the room that she uttered a word of what she had been hoping all day she might have an opportunity to say. "Mr. Audrey," she said (for she was careful to use this form of address), "I wish you to pray for me. I do not know what to do." He was silent. "At present," she said, gathering courage, "my duty is clear. I must be at home, for my mother's sake, if for nothing else. And, as I told you, I think I shall be able to do something for priests. But if my mother died--" "Yes?" he said, as she stopped again. She glanced up at his serious, deep-eyed face, half in shadow and half in light, so familiar, and yet so utterly apart from the boy she had known. "Well," she said, "I think of you as a priest already, and I can speak to you freely.... Well, I am not sure whether I, too, shall not go overseas, to serve God better." "You mean--" "Yes. A dozen or more are gone from Derbyshire, whose names I know. Some are gone to Bruges; two or three to Rome; two or three more to Spain. We women cannot do what priests can, but, at least, we can serve God in Religion." She looked at him again, expecting an answer. She saw him move his head, as if to answer. Then he smiled suddenly. "Well, however you look at me, I am not a priest.... You had best speak to one--Father Campion or another." "But--" "And I will pray for you," he said with an air of finality. Then Mistress Alice came back. * * * * * She never forgot, all her life long, the little scene that took place when Captain Fortescue came in with Mr. Babington, to fetch Robin away. Yet the whole of its vividness rose from its interior significance. Externally here was a quiet parlour; two ladies--for the girl afterwards seemed to see herself in the picture--stood by the fireplace; Mistress Alice still held her needlework gathered up in one hand, and her spools of thread and a pin-cushion lay on the polished table. And the two gentlemen--for Captain Fortescue would not sit down, and Robin had risen at his entrance--the two gentlemen stood by it. They were not in their boots, for they were not to ride till morning; they appeared two ordinary gentlemen, each hat-in-hand, and Robin had his cloak across his arm. Anthony Babington stood in the shadow by the door, and, beyond him, the girl could see the face of Dick, who had come up to say good-bye again to his old master. That was all--four men and two ladies. None raised his voice, none made a gesture. The home party spoke of the journey, and of their hopes that all would go well; the travellers, or rather the leader (for Robin spoke not one word, good or bad), said that he was sure it would be so; there was not one-tenth of the difficulty in getting out of England as of getting into it. Then, again, he said that it was late; that he had still one or two matters to arrange; that they must be out of London as soon as the gates opened. And the scene ended. Robin bowed to the two ladies, precisely and courteously; making no difference between them, and wheeled and went out, and she saw Dick's face, too, vanish from the door, and heard the voices of the two on the stairs. Marjorie returned the salute of Mr. Ballard, longing to entreat him to take good care of the boy, yet knowing that she must not and could not. Then he, too, was gone, with Anthony to see him downstairs; and Marjorie, without a word, went straight through to her room, fearing to trust her own voice, for she felt that her heart was gone with them. Yet, not for one moment did even her sensitive soul distrust any more the nature of the love that she bore to the lad. But Mistress Alice sat down again to her sewing. CHAPTER V I Marjorie was sitting in her mother's room, while her mother slept. She had been reading aloud from a bundle of letters--news from Rheims; but little by little she had seen sleep come down on her mother's face, and had let her voice trail away into silence. And so she sat quiet. * * * * * It seemed incredible that nearly a year had passed since her visit to London, and that Christmas was upon them again. Yet in this remote country place there was little to make time run slowly: the country-side wheeled gently through the courses of the year; the trees put on their green robes, changed them for russet and dropped them again; the dogs and the horses grew a little older, a beast died now and again, and others were born. The faces that she knew, servants and farmers, aged imperceptibly. Here and there a family moved away, and another into its place; an old man died and his son succeeded him, but the mother and sisters lived on in the house in patriarchal fashion. Priests came and went again unobserved; Marjorie went to the sacraments when she could, and said her prayers always. But letters came more frequently than ever to the little remote manor, carried now by some farm-servant, now left by strangers, now presented as credentials; and Booth's Edge became known in that underworld of the north, which finds no record in history, as a safe place for folks in trouble for their faith. For one whole month in the summer there had been a visitor at the house--a cousin of old Mr. Manners, it was understood; and, except for the Catholics in the place, not a soul knew him for a priest, against whom the hue and cry still raged in York. Derbyshire, indeed, had done well for the old Religion. Man after man went in these years southwards and was heard of no more, till there came back one day a gentleman riding alone, or with his servant; and it became known that one more Derbyshire man was come again to his own place to minister to God's people. Mr. Ralph Sherwine was one of them; Mr. Christopher Buxton another; and Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Garlick, it was rumoured, would not be long now.... And there had been a wonderful cessation of trouble, too. Not a priest had suffered since the two, the news of whose death she had heard two years ago. * * * * * Marjorie, then, sitting quiet over the fire that burned now all the winter in her mother's room, was thinking over these things. She had had more news from London from time to time, sent on to her chiefly by Mr. Babington, though none had come to her since the summer, and she had singled out in particular all that bore upon Father Campion. There was no doubt that the hunt was hotter every month; yet he seemed to bear a charmed life. Once he had escaped, she had heard, through the quick wit of a servant-maid, who had pushed him suddenly into a horse-pond, as the officers actually came in sight, so that he came out all mud and water-weed; and had been jeered at for a clumsy lover by the very men who were on his trail.... Marjorie smiled to herself as she nursed her knee over the fire, and remembered his gaiety and sharpness. Robin, too, was never very far from her thoughts. In some manner she put the two together in her mind. She wondered whether they would ever travel together. It was her hope that her old friend might become another Campion himself some day. A log rolled from its place in the fire, scattering sparks. She stooped to put it back, glancing first at the bed to see if her mother were disturbed; and, as she sat back again, she heard the blowing of a horse and a man's voice, fierce and low, from beyond the windows, bidding the beast hold himself up. She was accustomed now to such arrivals. They came and went like this, often without warning; it was her business to look at any credentials they bore with them, and then, if all were well, to do what she could-whether to set them on their way, or to give them shelter. A room was set aside now, in the further wing, and called openly and freely the "priest's room,"--so great was their security. She got up from her seat and went out quickly on tiptoe as she heard a door open and close beneath her in the house, running over in her mind any preparations that she would have to make if the rider were one that needed shelter. As she looked down the staircase, she saw a maid there, who had run out from the buttery, talking to a man whom she thought she knew. Then he lifted his face, and she saw that she was right: and that it was Mr. Babington. She came down, reassured and smiling; but her breath caught in her throat as she saw his face.... She told the maid to be off and get supper ready, but he jerked his head in refusal. She saw that he could hardly speak. Then she led him into the hall, taking down the lantern that hung in the passage, and placing it on the table. But her hand shook in spite of herself. "Tell me," she whispered. He sat down heavily on a bench. "It is all over," he said. "The bloody murderers!... They were gibbeted three days ago." The girl drew a long, steady breath. All her heart cried "Robin." "Who are they, Mr. Babington?" "Why, Campion and Sherwine and Brian. They were taken a month or two ago.... I had heard not a word of it, and ... and it ended three days ago." "I ... I do not understand." The man struck his hand heavily on the long table against which he leaned. He appeared one flame of fury; courtesy and gentleness were all gone from him. "They were hanged for treason, I tell you.... Treason! ... Campion!... By God! we will give them treason if they will have it so!" All seemed gone from Marjorie except the white, splashed face that stared at her, lighted up by the lantern beside him, glaring from the background of darkness. It was not Robin ... not Robin ... yet-- The shocking agony of her face broke through the man's heart-broken fury, and he stood up quickly. "Mistress Marjorie," he said, "forgive me.... I am like a madman. I am on my way from Derby, where the news came to me this afternoon. I turned aside to tell you. They say the truce, as they call it, is at an end. I came to warn you. You must be careful. I am riding for London. My men are in the valley. Mistress Marjorie--" She waved him aside. The blood was beginning again to beat swiftly and deafeningly in her ears, and the word came back. "I ... I was shocked," she said; "... you must pardon me.... Is it certain?" He tore out a bundle of papers from behind his cloak, detached one with shaking hands and thrust it before her. She sat down and spread it on the table. But his voice broke in and interrupted her all the while. "They were all three taken together, in the summer.... I ... have been in France; my letters never reached me.... They were racked continually.... They died all together; praying for the Queen ... at Tyburn.... Campion died the first...." She pushed the paper from her; the close handwriting was no more to her than black marks on the paper. She passed her hands over her forehead and eyes. "Mistress Marjorie, you look like death. See, I will leave the paper with you. It is from one of my friends who was there...." The door was pushed open, and the servant came in, bearing a tray. "Set it down," said Marjorie, as coolly as if death and horror were as far from her as an hour ago. She nodded sharply to the maid, who went out again; then she rose and spread the food within the man's reach. He began to eat and drink, talking all the time. * * * * * As she sat and watched him and listened, remembering afterwards, as if mechanically, all that he said, she was contemplating something else. She seemed to see Campion, not as he had been three days ago, not as he was now ... but as she had seen him in London--alert, brisk, quick. Even the tones of his voice were with her, and the swift merry look in his eyes.... Somewhere on the outskirts of her thought there hung other presences: the darkness, the blood, the smoking cauldron.... Oh! she would have to face these presently; she would go through this night, she knew, looking at all their terror. But just now let her remember him as he had been; let her keep off all other thoughts so long as she could.... II When she had heard the horse's footsteps scramble down the little steep ascent in the dark, and then pass into silence on the turf beyond, she closed the outer door, barred it once more, and then went back straight into the hall, where the lantern still burned among the plates. She dared not face her mother yet; she must learn how far she still held control of herself; for her mother must not hear the news: the apothecary from Derby who had ridden up to see her this week had been very emphatic. So the girl must be as usual. There must be no sign of discomposure. To-night, at least, she would keep her face in the shadow. But her voice? Could she control that too? After she had sat motionless in the cold hall a minute or two, she tested herself. "He is dead," she said softly. "He is quite dead, and so are the others. They--" But she could not go on. Great shuddering seized on her; she shook from head to foot.... Later that night Mrs. Manners awoke. She tried to move her head, but the pain was shocking, and still half asleep, she moaned aloud. Then the curtains moved softly, and she could see that a face was looking at her. "Margy! Is that you?" "Yes, mother." "Move my head; move my head. I cannot bear--" She felt herself lifted gently and strongly. The struggle and the pain exhausted her for a minute, and she lay breathing deeply. Then the ease of the shifted position soothed her. "I cannot see your face," she said. "Where is the light?" The face disappeared, and immediately, through the curtains, the mother saw the light. But still she could not see the girl's face. She said so peevishly. "It will weary your eyes. Lie still, mother, and go to sleep again." "What time is it?" "I do not know." "Are you not in bed?" "Not yet, mother." The sick woman moaned again once or twice, but thought no more of it. And presently the deep sleep of sickness came down on her again. * * * * * They rose early in those days in England; and soon after six o'clock, as Janet had seen nothing of her young mistress, she opened the door of the sleeping-room and peeped in.... A minute later Marjorie's mind rose up out of black gulfs of sleep, in which, since her falling asleep an hour or two ago, she had wandered, bearing an intolerable burden, which she could neither see nor let fall, to find the rosy-streaked face of Janet, all pinched with cold, peering into her own. She sat up, wide awake, yet with all her world still swaying about her, and stared into her maid's eyes. "What is it? What time is it?" "It is after six, mistress. And the mistress seems uneasy. I--" Marjorie sprang up and went to the bed. III On the evening of that day her mother died. * * * * * There was no priest within reach. A couple of men had ridden out early, dispatched by Marjorie within half an hour of her awaking--to Dethick, to Hathersage, and to every spot within twenty miles where a priest might be found, with orders not to return without one. But the long day had dragged out: and when dusk was falling, still neither had come back. The country was rain-soaked and all but impassable, she learned later, across valley after valley, where the streams had risen. And nowhere could news be gained that any priest was near; for, as a further difficulty, open inquiry was not always possible, in view of the news that had come to Booth's Edge last night. The girl had understood that the embers were rising again to flame in the south; and who could tell but that a careless word might kindle the fire here, too. She had been urged by Anthony to hold herself more careful than ever, and she had been compelled to warn her messengers. * * * * * It was soon after dusk had fallen--the heavy dusk of a December day--that her mother had come back again to consciousness. She opened her eyes wearily, coming back, as Marjorie had herself that morning, from that strange realm of heavy and deathly sleep, to the pale phantom world called "life"; and agonising pain about the heart stabbed her wide awake. "O Jesu!" she screamed. Then she heard her daughter's voice, very steady and plain, in her ear. "There is no priest, mother dear. Listen to me." "I cannot! I cannot!... Jesu!" Her eyes closed again for torment, and the sweat ran down her face. The slow poison that had weighted and soaked her limbs so gradually these many months past, was closing in at last upon her heart, and her pain was gathering to its last assault. The silent, humorous woman was changed into one twitching, uncontrolled incarnation of torture. Then again the voice began: "Jesu, Who didst die for love of me--upon the Cross--let me die--for love of Thee." "Christ!" moaned the woman more softly. "Say it in your heart, after me. There is no priest. So God will accept your sorrow instead. Now then--" Then the old words began--the old acts of sorrow and love and faith and hope, that mother and daughter had said together, night after night, for so many years. Over and over again they came, whispered clear and sharp by the voice in her ear; and she strove to follow them. Now and again the pain closed its sharp hands upon her heart so cruelly that all that on which she strove to fix her mind, fled from her like a mist, and she moaned or screamed, or was silent with her teeth clenched upon her lip. "My God--I am very sorry--that I have offended Thee." "Why is there no priest?... Where is the priest?" "Mother, dear, listen. I have sent for a priest ... but none has come. You remember now?... You remember that priests are forbidden now--" "Where is the priest?" "Mother, dear. Three priests were put to death only three days ago in London--for ... for being priests. Ask them to pray for you.... Say, Edmund Campion pray for me. Perhaps ... perhaps--" The girl's voice died away. For, for a full minute, an extraordinary sensation rested on her. It began with a sudden shiver of the flesh, as sharp and tingling as water, dying away in long thrills amid her hair--that strange advertisement that tells the flesh that more than flesh is there, and that the world of spirit is not only present, but alive and energetic. Then, as it passed, the whole world, too, passed into silence. The curtains that shook just now hung rigid as sheets of steel; the woman in the bed lay suddenly still, then smiled with closed eyes. The pair of maids, kneeling out of sight beyond the bed, ceased to sob; and, while the seconds went by, as real as any knowledge can be in which the senses have no part, the certain knowledge deepened upon the girl who knelt, arrested in spite of herself, that a priestly presence was here indeed.... Very slowly, as if lifting great weights, she raised her eyes, knowing that there, across the tumbled bed, where the darkness of the room showed between the parted curtains, the Presence was poised. Yet there was nothing there to see--no tortured, smoke-stained, throttling face--ah! that could not be--but neither was there the merry, kindly face, with large cheerful eyes and tender mouth smiling; no hand held the curtains that the face might peer in. Neither then nor at any time in all her life did Marjorie believe that she saw him; yet neither then nor in all her life did she doubt he had been there while her mother died. Again her mother smiled--and this time she opened her eyes to the full, and there was no dismay in them, nor fear, nor disappointment; and she looked a little to her left, where the parted curtains showed the darkness of the room.... Then Marjorie closed her eyes, and laid her head on the bed where her mother's body sank back and down into the pillows. Then the girl slipped heavily to the floor, and the maids sprang up screaming. IV It was not till two hours later that Mr. Simpson arrived. He had been found at last at Hathersage, only a few miles away, as one of the men, on his return ride, had made one last inquiry before coming home; and there he ran into the priest himself in the middle of the street. The priest had taken the man's horse and pushed on as well as he could through the dark, in the hopes he might yet be in time. Marjorie came to him in the parlour downstairs. She nodded her head slowly and gravely. "It is over," she said; and sat down. "And there was no priest?" She said nothing. She was in her house-dress, with the hood drawn over her head as it was a cold night. He was amazed at her look of self-control; he had thought to find her either collapsed or strainedly tragic: he had wondered as he came how he would speak to her, how he would soothe her, and he saw there was no need. She told him presently of the sudden turn for the worse early that morning as she herself fell asleep by the bedside; and a little of what had passed during the day. Then she stopped short as she approached the end. "Have you heard the news from London?" she said. "I mean, of our priests there?" His young face grew troubled, and he knit his forehead. "They are in ward," he said; "I heard a week ago.... They will banish them from England--they dare not do more!" "It is all finished," she said quietly. "What!" "They were hanged at Tyburn three days ago--the three of them together." He drew a hissing breath, and felt the skin of his face tingle. "You have heard that?" "Mr. Babington came to tell me last night. He left a paper with me: I have not read it yet." He watched her as she drew it out and put it before him. The terror was on him, as once or twice before in his journeyings, or as when the news of Mr. Nelson's death had reached him--a terror which shamed him to the heart, and which he loathed yet could not overcome. He still stared into her pale face. Then he took the paper and began to read it. * * * * * Presently he laid it down again. The sick terror was beginning to pass; or, rather, he was able to grip it; and he said a conventional word or two; he could do no more. There was no exultation in his heart; nothing but misery. And then, in despair, he left the subject. "And you, mistress," he said, "what will you do now? Have you no aunt or friend--" "Mistress Alice Babington once said she would come and live with me--if ... when I needed it. I shall write to her. I do not know what else to do." "And you will live here?" "Why; more than ever!" she said, smiling suddenly. "I can work in earnest now." CHAPTER VI I It was on a bright evening in the summer that Marjorie, with her maid Janet, came riding down to Padley, and about the same time a young man came walking up the track that led from Derby. In fact, the young man saw the two against the skyline and wondered who they were. Further, there was a group of four or five walking on the terrace below the house, that saw both the approaching parties, and commented upon their coming. To be precise, there were four persons in the group on the terrace, and a man-servant who hung near. The four were Mr. John FitzHerbert, his son Thomas, his son's wife, and, in the midst, leaning on Mrs. FitzHerbert's arm, was old Sir Thomas himself, and it was for his sake that the servant was within call, for he was still very sickly after his long imprisonment, in spite of his occasional releases. Mr. John saw the visitors first. "Why, here is the company all arrived together," he said. "Now, if anything hung on that--" his son broke in, uneasily. "You are sure of young Owen?" he said. "Our lives will all hang on him after this." His father clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Now, now!" he said. "I know him well enough, from my lord. He hath made a dozen such places in this county alone." Mr. Thomas glanced swiftly at his uncle. "And you have spoken with him, too, uncle?" The old man turned his melancholy eyes on him. "Yes; I have spoken with him," he said. * * * * * Five minutes later Marjorie was dismounted, and was with him. She greeted old Sir Thomas with particular respect; she had talked with him a year ago when he was first released that he might raise his fines; and she knew well enough that his liberty was coming to an end. In fact, he was technically a prisoner even now; and had only been allowed to come for a week or two from Sir Walter Aston's house before going back again to the Fleet. "You are come in good time," said Sir John, smiling. "That is young Owen himself coming up the path." There was nothing particularly noticeable about the young man who a minute later was standing before them with his cap in his hand. He was plainly of the working class; and he had over his shoulder a bag of tools. He was dusty up to the knees with his long tramp. Mr. John gave him a word of welcome; and then the whole group went slowly together back to the house, with the two men following. Sir Thomas stumbled a little going up the two or three steps into the hall. Then they all sat down together; the servant put a big flagon and a horn tumbler beside the traveller, and went out, closing the doors. "Now, my man," said Mr. John. "Do you eat and drink while I do the talking. I understand you are a man of your hands, and that you have business elsewhere." "I must be in Lancashire by the end of the week, sir." "Very well, then. We have business enough for you, God knows! This is Mistress Manners, whom you may have heard of. And after you have looked at the places we have here--you understand me?--Mistress Manners wants you at her house at Booth's Edge.... You have any papers?" Owen leaned back and drew out a paper from his bag of tools. "This is from Mr. Fenton, sir." Mr. John glanced at the address; then he turned it over and broke the seal. He stared for a moment at the open sheet. "Why, it is blank!" he said. Owen smiled. He was a grave-looking lad of eighteen or nineteen years old; and his face lighted up very pleasantly. "I have had that trick played on me before, sir, in my travels. I understand that Catholic gentlemen do so sometimes to try the fidelity of the messenger." The other laughed out loud, throwing back his head. "Why, that is a poor compliment!" he said. "You shall have a better one from us, I have no doubt." Mr. Thomas leaned over the table and took the paper. He examined it very carefully; then he handed it back. His father laughed again as he took it. "You are very cautious, my son," he said. "But it is wise enough.... Well, then," he went on to the carpenter, "you are willing to do this work for us? And as for payment--" "I ask only my food and lodging," said the lad quietly; "and enough to carry me on to the next place." "Why--" began the other in a protest. "No, sir; no more than that...." He paused an instant. "I hope to be admitted to the Society of Jesus this year or next." There was a pause of astonishment. And then old Sir Thomas' deep voice broke in. "You do very well, sir. I heartily congratulate you. And I would I were twenty years younger myself...." II After supper that night the entire party went upstairs to the chapel. Young Hugh Owen even already was beginning to be known among Catholics, for his extraordinary skill in constructing hiding-holes. Up to the present not much more had been attempted than little secret recesses where the vessels of the altar and the vestments might be concealed. But the young carpenter had been ingenious enough in two or three houses to which he had been called, to enlarge these so considerably that even two or three men might be sheltered in them; and, now that it seemed as if the persecution of recusants was to break out again, the idea began to spread. Mr. John FitzHerbert while in London had heard of his skill, and had taken means to get at the young man, for his own house at Padley. * * * * * Owen was already at work when the party came upstairs. He had supped alone, and, with a servant to guide him, had made the round of the house, taking measurements in every possible place. He was seated on the floor as they came in; three or four panels lay on the ground beside him, and a heap of plaster and stones. He looked up as they came in. "This will take me all night, sir," he said. "And the fire must be put out below." He explained his plan. The old hiding-place was but a poor affair; it consisted of a space large enough for only one man, and was contrived by a section of the wall having been removed, all but the outer row of stones made thin for the purpose; the entrance to it was through a tall sliding panel on the inside of the chapel. Its extreme weakness as a hiding-hole lay in the fact that anyone striking on the panel could not fail to hear how hollow it rang. This he proposed to do away with, unless, indeed, he left a small space for the altar vessels; and to construct instead a little chamber in the chimney of the hall that was built against this wall; he would contrive it so that an entrance was still from the chapel, as well as one that he would make over the hearth below; and that the smoke should be conducted round the little enclosed space, passing afterwards up the usual vent. The chamber would be large enough, he thought, for at least two men. He explained, too, his method of deadening the hollowness of the sound if the panel were knocked upon, by placing pads of felt on struts of wood that would be set against the panel-door. "Why, that is very shrewd!" cried Mr. John. He looked round the faces for approval. For an hour or so, the party sat and watched him at his work; and Marjorie listened to their talk. It was of that which filled the hearts of all Catholics at this time; of the gathering storm in England, of the priests that had been executed this very year--Mr. Paine at Chelmsford, in March; Mr. Forde, Mr. Shert and Mr. Johnson, at Tyburn in May, the first of the three having been taken with Father Campion at Lyford--deaths that were followed two days later by the execution of four more--one of whom, Mr. Filbie, had also been arrested at Lyford. And there were besides a great number more in prison--Mr. Cottam, it was known, had been taken at York, scarcely a week ago, and, it was said, would certainly suffer before long. They talked in low voices; for the shadow was on all their hearts. It had been possible almost to this very year to hope that the misery would be a passing one; but the time for hope was gone. It remained only to bear what came, to multiply priests, and, if necessary, martyrs, and meantime to take such pains for protection as they could. "He will be a clever pursuivant who finds this one out," said Mr. John. The carpenter looked up from his work. "But a clever one will find it," he said. Mr. Thomas was heard to sigh. III It was on the afternoon of the following day that Marjorie rode up to her house with Janet beside her, and Hugh Owen walking by her horse. He had finished his work at Padley an hour or two after dawn--for he worked at night when he could, and had then gone to rest. But he had been waiting for her when her horses were brought, and asked if he might walk with her; he had asked it simply and easily, saying that it might save his losing his way, and time was precious to him. * * * * * Marjorie felt very much interested by this lad, for he was no more than that. In appearance he was like any of his kind, with a countryman's face, in a working-dress: she might have seen him by chance a hundred times and not known him again. But his manner was remarkable, so wholly simple and well-bred: he was courteous always, as suited his degree; but he had something of the same assurance that she had noticed so plainly in Father Campion. (He talked with a plain, Northern dialect.) Presently she opened on that very point; for she could talk freely before Janet. "Did you ever know Father Campion?" she asked. "I have never spoken with him, mistress. I have heard him preach. It was that which put it in my heart to join the company." "You heard him preach?" "Yes, mistress; three or four times in Essex and Hertfordshire. I heard him preach upon the young man who came to our Saviour." "Tell me," she said, looking down at what she could see of his face. "It was liker an angel than a man," he said quietly. "I could not take my eyes off him from his first word to the last. And all were the same that were there." "Was he eloquent?" "Aye; you might call it that. But I thought it to be the Spirit of God." "And it was then you made up your mind to join the Society?" "There was no rest for me till I did. 'And Christ also went away sorrowful,' were his last words. And I could not bear to think that." Marjorie was silent through pure sympathy. This young man spoke a language she understood better than that which some of her friends used--Mr. Babington, for instance. It was the Person of Jesus Christ that was all her religion to her; it was for this that she was devout, that she went to mass and the sacraments when she could; it was this that made Mary dear to her. Was He not her son? And, above all, it was for this that she had sacrificed Robin: she could not bear that he should not serve Him as a priest, if he might. But the other talk that she had heard sometimes--of the place of religion in politics, and the justification of this or that course of public action--well, she knew that these things must be so; yet it was not the manner of her own most intimate thought, and the language of it was not hers. The two went together so a few paces, without speaking. Then she had a sudden impulse. "And do you ever think of what may come upon you?" she asked. "Do you ever think of the end? "Aye," he said. "And what do you think the end will be?" She saw him raise his eyes to her an instant. "I think," he said, "that I shall die for my faith some day." That same strange shiver that passed over her at her mother's bedside, passed over her again, as if material things grew thin about her. There was a tone in his voice that made it absolutely clear to her that he was not speaking of a fancy, but of some certain knowledge that he had. Yet she dared not ask him, and she was a middle-aged woman before the news came to her of his death upon the rack. IV It was a sleepy-eyed young man that came into the kitchen early next morning, where the ladies and the maids were hard at work all together upon the business of baking. The baking was a considerable task each week, for there were not less than twenty mouths, all told, to feed in the hall day by day, including a widow or two that called each day for rations; and a great part, therefore, of a mistress's time in such houses was taken up with such things. Marjorie turned to him, with her arms floured to the elbow. "Well?" she said, smiling. "I have done, mistress. Will it please you to see it before I go and sleep?" They had examined the house carefully last night, measuring and sounding in the deep and thin walls alike, for there was at present no convenience at all for a hunted man. Owen had obtained her consent to two or three alternative proposals, and she had then left him to himself. From her bed, that she had had prepared, with Alice Babington's, in a loft--turning out for the night the farm-men who had usually slept there, she had heard more than once the sound of distant hammering from the main front of the house where her own room lay, that had been once her mother's as well. The possibilities in this little manor were small. To construct a passage, giving an exterior escape, as had been made in some houses, would have meant here a labour of weeks, and she had told the young man she would be content with a simple hiding-hole. Yet, although she did not expect great things, and knew, moreover, the kind of place that he would make, she was as excited as a child, in a grave sort of way, at what she would see. He took her first into the parlour, where years ago Robin had talked with her in the wintry sunshine. The open chimney was on the right as they entered, and though she knew that somewhere on that same side would be one of the two entrances that had been arranged, all the difference she could see was that a piece of the wall-hanging that had been between the window and the fire was gone, and that there hung in its place an old picture painted on a panel. She looked at this without speaking: the wall was wainscoted in oak, as it had always been, six feet up from the floor. Then an idea came to her: she tilted the picture on one side. But there was no more to be seen than a cracked panel, which, it seemed to her, had once been nearer the door. She rapped upon this, but it gave back the dull sound as of wood against stone. She turned to the young man, smiling. He smiled back. "Come into the bedroom, mistress." He led her in there, through the passage outside into which the two doors opened at the head of the outside stairs; but here, too, all that she could see was that a tall press that had once stood between the windows now stood against the wall immediately opposite to the painted panel on the other side of the wall. She opened the doors of the press, but it was as it had always been: there even hung there the three or four dresses that she had taken from it last night and laid on the bed. She laughed outright, and, turning, saw Mistress Alice Babington beaming tranquilly from the door of the room. "Come in, Alice," she said, "and see this miracle." Then he began to explain it. * * * * * On this side was the entrance proper, and, as he said so, he stepped up into the press and closed the doors. They could hear him fumbling within, then the sound of wood sliding, and finally a muffled voice calling to them. Marjorie flung the doors open, and, save for the dresses, it was empty. She stared in for a moment, still hearing the movements of someone beyond, and at last the sound of a snap; and as she withdrew her head to exclaim to Alice, the young man walked into the room through the open door behind her. Then he explained it in full. The back of the press had been removed, and then replaced, in such a manner that it would slide out about eighteen inches towards the window, but only when the doors of the press were closed; when they were opened, they drew out simultaneously a slip of wood on either side that pulled the sliding door tight and immovable. Behind the back of the press, thus removed, a corresponding part of the wainscot slid in the same way, giving a narrow doorway into the cell which he had excavated between the double beams of the thick wall. Next, when the person that had taken refuge was inside, with the two sliding doors closed behind him, it was possible for him, by an extremely simple device, to turn a wooden button and thus release a little wooden machinery which controlled a further opening into the parlour, and which, at the same time, was braced against the hollow panelling and one of the higher beams in such a manner as to give it, when knocked upon, the dullness of sound the girl had noticed just now. But this door could only be opened from within. Neither a fugitive nor a pursuer could make any entrance from the parlour side, unless the wainscoting itself were torn off. Lastly, the crack in the woodwork, corresponding with two minute holes bored in the painted panel, afforded, when the picture was hung exactly straight, a view of the parlour that commanded nearly all the room. "I do not pretend that it is a fortress," said the young man, smiling gravely. "But it may serve to keep out a country constable. And, indeed, it is the best I can contrive in this house." CHAPTER VII I Marjorie found it curious, even to herself, how the press that faced the foot of the two beds where she and Alice slept side by side, became associated in her mind with the thought of Robin; and she began to perceive that it was largely with the thought of him in her intention that the idea had first presented itself of having the cell constructed at all. It was not that in her deliberate mind she conceived that he would be hunted, that he would fly here, that she would save him; but rather in that strange realm of consciousness which is called sometimes the Imagination, and sometimes by other names--that inner shadow-show on which move figures cast by the two worlds--she perceived him in this place.... It was in the following winter that she was reminded of him by other means than those of his letters. * * * * * The summer and autumn had passed tranquilly enough, so far as this outlying corner of England was concerned. News filtered through of the stirring world outside, and especially was there conveyed to her, through Alice for the most part, news that concerned the fortunes of Catholics. Politics, except in this connection, meant little enough to such as her. She heard, indeed, from time to time vague rumours of fighting, and of foreign Powers; and thought now and again of Spain, as of a country that might yet be, in God's hand, an instrument for the restoring of God's cause in England; she had heard, too, in this year, of one more rumour of the Queen's marriage with the Duke d'Alençon, and then of its final rupture. But these matters were aloof from her; rather she pondered such things as the execution of two more priests at York in August, Mr. Lacy and Mr. Kirkman, and of a third, Mr. Thompson, in November at the same place. It was on such affairs as these that she pondered as she went about her household business, or sat in the chamber upstairs with Mistress Alice; and it was of these things that she talked with the few priests that came and went from time to time in their circuits about Derbyshire. It was a life of quietness and monotony inconceivable by those who live in towns. Its sole incident lay in that life which is called Interior.... It was soon after the New Year that she met the squire of Matstead face to face. * * * * * She and Alice, with Janet and a man riding behind, were on their way back from Derby, where they had gone for their monthly shopping. They had slept at Dethick, and had had news there of Mr. Anthony, who was again in the south on one of his mysterious missions, and started again soon after dawn next day to reach home, if they could, for dinner. She knew Alice now for what she was--a woman of astounding dullness, of sterling character, and of a complete inability to understand any shades or tones of character or thought that were not her own, and yet a friend in a thousand, of an immovable stability and loyalty, one of no words at all, who dwelt in the midst of a steady kind of light which knew no dawn nor sunset. The girl entertained herself sometimes with conceiving of her friend confronted with the rack, let us say, or the gallows; and perceived that she knew with exactness what her behaviour would be: She would do all that was required of her with out speeches or protest; she would place herself in the required positions, with a faint smile, unwavering; she would suffer or die with the same tranquil steadiness as that in which she lived; and, best of all, she would not be aware, even for an instant, that anything in her behaviour was in the least admirable or exceptional. She resembled, to Marjorie's mind, that for which a strong and well-built arm-chair stands in relation to the body: it is the same always, supporting and sustaining always, and cannot even be imagined as anything else. * * * * * It was a brilliant frosty day, as they rode over the rutted track between hedges that served for a road, that ran, for the most part, a field or two away from the black waters of the Derwent. The birches stood about them like frozen feathers; the vast chestnuts towered overhead, motionless in the motionless air. As they came towards Matstead, and, at last, rode up the street, naturally enough Marjorie again began to think of Robin. As they came near where the track turned the corner beneath the churchyard wall, where once Robin had watched, himself unseen, the three riders go by, she had to attend to her horse, who slipped once or twice on the paved causeway. Then as she lifted her head again, she saw, not three yards from her, and on a level with her own face, the face of the squire looking at her from over the wall. She had not seen him, except once in Derby, a year or two before, and that at a distance, since Robin had left England; and at the sight she started so violently, in some manner jerking the reins that she held, that her horse, tired with the long ride of the day before, slipped once again, and came down all asprawl on the stones, fortunately throwing her clear of his struggling feet. She was up in a moment, but again sank down, aware that her foot was in some way bruised or twisted. There was a clatter of hoofs behind her as the servants rode up; a child or two ran up the street, and when, at last, on Janet's arm, she rose again to her feet, it was to see the squire staring at her, with his hands clasped behind his back. "Bring the ladies up to the house," he said abruptly to the man; and then, taking the rein of the girl's horse that had struggled up again, he led the way, without another word, without even turning his head, round to the way that ran up to his gates. II It was not with any want of emotion that Marjorie found herself presently meekly seated upon Alice's horse, and riding up at a foot's-pace beneath the gatehouse of the Hall. Rather it was the balance of emotions that made her so meek and so obedient to her friend's tranquil assumption that she must come in as the squire said. She was aware of a strong resentment to his brusque order, as well as to the thought that it was to the house of an apostate that she was going; yet there was a no less strong emotion within her that he had a sort of right to command her. These feelings, working upon her, dazed as she was by the sudden sharpness of her fall, and the pain in her foot, combined to drive her along in a kind of resignation in the wake of the squire. Still confused, yet with a rapid series of these same emotions running before her mind, she limped up the steps, supported by Alice and her maid, and sat down on a bench at the end of the hall. The squire, who had shouted an order or two to a peeping domestic, as he passed up the court, came to her immediately with a cup in his hand. "You must drink this at once, mistress." She took it at once, drank and set it down, aware of the keen, angry-looking face that watched her. "You will dine here, too, mistress--" he began, still with a sharp kindness.... And then, on a sudden, all grew dark about her; there was a roaring in her ears, and she fainted. * * * * * She came out of her swoon again, after a while, with that strange and innocent clearness that usually follows such a thing, to find Alice beside her, a tapestried wall behind Alice, and the sound of a crackling fire in her ears. Then she perceived that she was in a small room, lying on her back along a bench, and that someone was bathing her foot. "I ... I will not stay here--" she began. But two hands held her firmly down, and Alice's reassuring face was looking into her own. * * * * * When her mind ran clearly again, she sat up with a sudden movement, drawing her foot away from Janet's ministrations. "I do very well," she said, after looking at her foot, and then putting it to the ground amid a duet of protestations. (She had looked round the room to satisfy herself that no one else was there, and had seen that it must be the parlour that she was in. A newly-lighted fire burned on the hearth, and the two doors were closed.) Then Alice explained. It was impossible, she said, to ride on at once; the horse even now was being bathed in the stable, as his mistress in the parlour. The squire had been most considerate; he had helped to carry her in here just now, had lighted the fire with his own hands, and had stated that dinner would be sent in here in an hour for the three women. He had offered to send one of his own men on to Booth's Edge with the news, if Mistress Marjorie found herself unable to ride on after dinner. "But ... but it is Mr. Audrey!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Yes, my dear," said Alice. "I know it is. But that does not mend your foot," she said, with unusual curtness. And Marjorie saw that she still looked at her anxiously. * * * * * The three women dined together, of course, in an hour's time. There was no escape from the pressure of circumstance. It was unfortunate that such an accident should have fallen out here, in the one place in all the world where it should not; but the fact was a fact. Meanwhile, it was not only resentment that Marjorie felt: it was a strange sort of terror as well--a terror of sitting in the house of an apostate--of one who had freely and deliberately renounced that faith for which she herself lived so completely; and that it was the father of one whom she knew as she knew Robin--with whose fate, indeed, her own had been so intimately entwined--this combined to increase that indefinable fear that rested on her as she stared round the walls, and sat over the food and drink that this man provided. The climax came as they were finishing dinner: for the door from the hall opened abruptly, and the squire came in. He bowed to the ladies, as the manner was, straightening his trim, tight figure again defiantly; asked a civil question or two; directed a servant behind him to bring the horses to the parlour door in half an hour's time; and then snapped out the sentence which he was, plainly, impatient to speak. "Mistress Manners," he said, "I wish to have a word with you privately." Marjorie, trembling at his presence, turned a wavering face to her friend; and Alice, before the other could speak, rose up, and went out, with Janet following. "Janet--" cried the girl. "If you please," said the old man, with such a decisive air that she hesitated. Then she nodded at her maid; and a moment later the door closed. III "I have two matters to speak of," said the squire abruptly, sitting down in the chair that Alice had left; "the first concerns you closely; and the other less closely." She looked at him, summoning all her power to appear at her ease. He seemed far older than when she had last spoken with him, perhaps five years ago; and had grown a little pointed beard; his hair, too, seemed thinner--such of it as she could see beneath the house-cap that he wore; his face, especially about his blue, angry-looking eyes, was covered with fine wrinkles, and his hands were clearly the hands of an old man, at once delicate and sinewy. He was in a dark suit, still with his cloak upon him; and in low boots. He sat still as upright as ever, turned a little in his chair, so as to clasp its back with one strong hand. "Yes, sir?" she said. "I will begin with the second first. It is of my son Robin: I wish to know what news you have of him. He hath not written to me this six months back. And I hear that letters sometimes come to you from him." Marjorie hesitated. "He is very well, so far as I know," she said. "And when is he to be made priest?" he demanded sharply. Marjorie drew a breath to give herself time; she knew that she must not answer this; and did not know how to say so with civility. "If he has not told you himself, sir," she said, "I cannot." The old man's face twitched; but he kept his manners. "I understand you, mistress...." But then his wrath overcame him. "But he must understand he will have no mercy from me, if he comes my way. I am a magistrate, now, mistress, and--" A thought like an inspiration came to the girl; and she interrupted; for she longed to penetrate this man's armour. "Perhaps that was why he did not tell you when he was to be made priest," she said. The other seemed taken aback. "Why, but--" "He did not wish to think that his father would be untrue to his new commission," she said, trembling at her boldness and yet exultant too; and taking no pains to keep the irony out of her voice. Again that fierce twitch of the features went over the other's face; and he stared straight at her with narrowed eyes. Then a change again came over him; and he laughed, like barking, yet not all unkindly. "You are very shrewd, mistress. But I wonder what you will think of me when I tell you the second matter, since you will tell me no more of the first." He shifted his position in his chair, this time clasping both his hands together over the back. "Well; it is this in a word," he said: "It is that you had best look to yourself, mistress. My lord Shrewsbury even knows of it." "Of what, if you please?" asked the girl, hoping she had not turned white. "Why, of the priests that come and go hereabouts! It is all known; and her Grace hath sent a message from the Council--" "What has this to do with me?" He laughed again. "Well; let us take your neighbours at Padley. They will be in trouble if they do not look to their goings. Mr. FitzHerbert--" But again she interrupted him. She was determined to know how much he knew. She had thought that she had been discreet enough, and that no news had leaked out of her own entertaining of priests; it was chiefly that discretion might be preserved that she had set her hands to the work at all. With Padley so near it was thought that less suspicion would be aroused. Her name had never yet come before the authorities, so far as she knew. "But what has all this to do with me, sir?" she asked sharply. "It is true that I do not go to church, and that I pay my fines when they are demanded: Are there new laws, then, against the old faith?" She spoke with something of real bitterness. It was genuine enough; her only art lay in her not concealing it; for she was determined to press her question home. And, in his shrewd, compelling face, she read her answer even before his words gave it. "Well, mistress; it was not of you that I meant to speak--so much as of your friends. They are your friends, not mine. And as your friends, I thought it to be a kindly action to send them an advertisement. If they are not careful, there will be trouble." "At Padley?" "At Padley, or elsewhere. It is the persons that fall under the law, not places!" "But, sir, you are a magistrate; and--" He sprang up, his face aflame with real wrath. "Yes, mistress; I am a magistrate: the commission hath come at last, after six months' waiting. But I was friend to the FitzHerberts before ever I was a magistrate, and--" Then she understood; and her heart went out to him. She, too, stood up, catching at the table with a hiss of pain as she threw her weight on the bruised foot. He made a movement towards her; but she waved him aside. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Audrey, with all my heart. I had thought that you meant harm, perhaps, to my friends and me. But now I see--" "Not a word more! not a word more!" he cried harshly, with a desperate kind of gesture. "I shall do my duty none the less when the time comes--" "Sir!" she cried out suddenly. "For God's sake do not speak of duty--there is another duty greater than that. Mr. Audrey--" He wheeled away from her, with a movement she could not interpret. It might be uncontrolled anger or misery, equally. And her heart went out to him in one great flood. "Mr. Audrey. It is not too late. Your son Robin--" Then he wheeled again; and his face was distorted with emotion. "Yes, my son Robin! my son Robin!... How dare you speak of him to me?... Yes; that is it--my son Robin--my son Robin!" He dropped into the chair again, and his face fell upon his clasped hands. IV She scarcely knew how circumstances had arranged themselves up to the time when she found herself riding away again with Alice, while a man of Mr. Audrey's led her horse. They could not talk freely till he left them at the place where the stony road turned to a soft track, and it was safe going once more. Then Alice told her own side of it. "Yes, my dear; I heard him call out. I was walking in the hall with Janet to keep ourselves warm. But when I ran in he was sitting down, and you were standing. What was the matter?" "Alice," said the girl earnestly, "I wish you had not come in. He is very heart-broken, I think. He would have told me more, I think. It is about his son." "His son! Why, he--" "Yes; I know that. And he would not see him if he came back. He has had his magistrate's commission; and he will be true to it. But he is heart-broken for all that. He has not really lost the Faith, I think." "Why, my dear; that is foolish. He is very hot in Derby, I hear, against the Papists. There was a poor woman who could not pay her fines; and--" Marjorie waved it aside. "Yes; he would be very hot; but for all that, there is his son Robin you know--and his memories. And Robin has not written to him for six months. That would be about the time when he told him he was to be a magistrate." Then Marjorie told her of the whole that had passed, and of his mention of the FitzHerberts. "And what he meant by that," she said, "I do not know; but I will tell them." * * * * * She was pondering deeply all the way as she rode home. Mistress Alice was one of those folks who so long as they are answered in words are content; and Marjorie so answered her. And all the while she thought upon Robin, and his passionate old father, and attempted to understand the emotions that fought in the heart that had so disclosed itself to her--its aged obstinacy, its loyalty and its confused honourableness. She knew very well that he would do what he conceived to be his duty with all the more zeal if it were an unpleasant duty; and she thanked God that it was not for a good while yet that the lad would come home a priest. CHAPTER VIII I The warning which she had had with regard to her friends, and which she wrote on to them at once, received its fulfilment within a very few weeks. Mr. John, who was on the eve of departure for London again to serve his brother there, who was back again in the Fleet by now, wrote that he knew very well that they were all under suspicion, that he had sent on to his son the message she had given, but that he hoped they would yet weather the storm. "And as to yourself, Mistress Marjorie," he wrote, "this makes it all the more necessary that Booth's Edge should not be suspected; for what will our men do if Padley be closed to them? You have heard of our friend Mr. Garlick's capture? But that was no fault of yours. The man was warned. I hear that they will send him into banishment, only, this time." * * * * * The news came to her as she sat in the garden over her needlework on a hot evening in June. There it was as cool as anywhere in the countryside. She sat at the top of the garden, where her mother and she had sat with Robin so long before; the breeze that came over the moor bore with it the scent of the heather; and the bees were busy in the garden flowers about her. It was first the gallop of a horse that she heard; and even at that sound she laid down her work and stood up. But the house below her blocked the most of her view; and she sat down again when she heard the dull rattle of the hoofs die away again. When she next looked up a man was running towards her from the bottom of the garden, and Janet was peeping behind him from the gate into the court. As she again stood up, she saw that it was Dick Sampson. He was so out of breath, first with his ride and next with his run up the steep path, that for a moment or two he could not speak. He was dusty, too, from foot to knee; his cap was awry and his collar unbuttoned. "It is Mr. Thomas, mistress," he gasped presently. "I was in Derby and saw him being taken to the gaol.... I could not get speech with him.... I rode straight up to Padley, and found none there but the servants, and them knowing nothing of the matter. And so I rode on here, mistress." He was plainly all aghast at the blow. Hitherto it had been enough that Sir Thomas was in ward for his religion; and to this they had become accustomed. But that the heir should be taken, too, and that without a hint of what was to happen, was wholly unexpected. She made him sit down, and presently drew from him the whole tale. Mr. Anthony Babington, his master, was away to London again, leaving the house in Derby in the hands of the servants. He then--Dick Sampson--was riding out early to take a horse to be shoed, and had come back through the town-square, when he saw the group ride up to the gaol door near the Friar Gate. He, too, had ridden up to ask what was forward, and had been just in time to see Mr. Thomas taken in. He had caught his eye, but had feigned not to know him. Then the man had attempted to get at what had happened from one of the fellows at the door, but could get no more from him than that the prisoner was a known and confessed recusant, and had been laid by the heels according to orders, it was believed, sent down by the Council. Then, Dick had ridden slowly away till he had turned the corner, and then, hot foot for Padley. "And I heard the fellow say to one of his company that an informer was coming down from London on purpose to deal with Mr. Thomas." Marjorie felt a sudden pang; for she had never forgotten the one she had set eyes on in the Tower. "His name?" she said breathlessly. "Did you hear his name?" "It was Topcliffe, mistress," said Dick indifferently. "The other called it out." * * * * * Marjorie sat silent. Not only had the blow fallen more swiftly than she would have thought possible, but it was coupled with a second of which she had never dreamed. That it was this man, above all others, that should have come; this man, who stood to her mind, by a mere chance, for all that was most dreadful in the sinister forces arrayed against her--this brought misery down on her indeed. For, besides her own personal reasons for terror, there was, besides, the knowledge that the bringing of such a man at all from London on such business meant that the movement beginning here in her own county was not a mere caprice. She sat silent then--seeing once more before her the wide court of the Tower, the great keep opposite, and in the midst that thin figure moving to his hateful business.... And she knew now, in this instant, as never before, that the chief reason for her terror was that she had coupled in her mind her own friend Robin with the thought of this man, as if by some inner knowledge that their lives must cross some day--a knowledge which she could neither justify nor silence. Thank God, at least, that Robin was still safe in Rheims! II She sent him off after a couple of hours' rest, during which once more he had told his story to Mistress Alice, with a letter to Mr. Thomas's wife, who, no doubt, would have followed her lord to Derby. She had gone apart with Alice, while Dick ate and drank, to talk the affair out, and had told her of Topcliffe's presence, at which news even the placid face of her friend looked troubled; but they had said nothing more on the point, and had decided that a letter should be written in Mistress Babington's name, offering Mrs. FitzHerbert the hospitality of Babington House, and any other services she might wish. Further, they had decided that the best thing to do was to go themselves to Derby next day, in order to be at hand; since Mr. John was in London, and the sooner Mrs. Thomas had friends with her, the better. "They may keep him in ward a long time," said Mistress Alice, "before they bring him into open court--to try his courage. That is the way they do. The charge, no doubt, will be that he has harboured and assisted priests." * * * * * It seemed to Marjorie, as she lay awake that night, staring through the summer dusk at the tall press which hid so much beside her dresses, that the course on which her life moved was coming near to the rapids. Ever since she had first put her hand to the work, ever since, even, she had first offered her lover to God and let him go from her, it appeared as if God had taken her at her word, and accepted in an instant that which she offered so tremblingly. Her sight of London--the great buildings, the crowds, the visible forces of the Crown, the company of gallant gentlemen who were priests beneath their ruffs and feathers, the Tower, her glimpse of Topcliffe--these things had shown her the dreadful reality that lay behind this gentle scheming up in Derbyshire. Again, there was Mr. Babington; here, too, she had perceived a mystery which she could not understand: something moved behind the surface of which not even Mr. Babington's sister knew anything, except that, indeed, it was there. Again, there was the death of Father Campion--the very man whom she had taken as a symbol of the Faith for which she fought with her woman's wits; there was the news that came so suddenly and terribly now and again, of one more priest gone to his death.... It was like the slow rising of a storm: the air darkens; a stillness falls on the countryside; the chirp of the birds seems as a plaintive word of fear; then the thunder begins--a low murmur far across the horizons; then a whisk of light, seen and gone again, and another murmur after it. And so it gathers, dusk on dusk, stillness on stillness, murmur on murmur, deepening and thickening; yet still no rain, but a drop or two that falls and ceases again. And from the very delay it is all the more dreadful; for the storm itself must break some time, and the artillery war in the heavens, and the rain rush down, and flash follow flash, and peal peal, and the climax come. So, then, it was with her. There was no drawing back now, even had she wished it. And she wished it indeed, though she did not will it; she knew that she must stand in her place, now more than ever, when the blow had fallen so near. Now more than ever must she be discreet and resolute, since Padley itself was fallen, in effect, if not in fact; and Booth's Edge, in this valley at least, was the one hope of hunted men. She must stand, then, in her place; she must plot and conspire and scheme; she must govern her face and her manner more perfectly than ever, for the sake of that tremendous Cause. As she lay there, listening to her friend's breathing in the darkness, staring now at the doors of the press, now at the baggage that lay heaped ready for the early start, these and a thousand other thoughts passed before her. It was a long plot that had ended in this: it must have reached its maturity weeks ago; the decision to strike must have been reached before even Squire Audrey had given her the warning--for it was only by chance that she had met him and he had told her.... And he, too, Robin's father, would be in the midst of it all; he, too, that was a Catholic by baptism, must sit with the other magistrates and threaten and cajole as the manner was; and quiet Derby would be all astir; and the Bassetts would be there, and Mr. Fenton, to see how their friend fared in the dock; and the crowds would gather to see the prisoner brought out, and the hunt would be up. And she herself, she, too, must be there with the tearful little wife, who could do so little.... Thank God Robin was safe in Rheims!... III Derby was, indeed, astir as they rode in, with the servants and the baggage following behind, on the late afternoon of the next day. They had ridden by easy stages, halting at Dethick for dinner, where the Babingtons' house already hummed with dismay at the news that had come from Derby last night. Mr. Anthony was away, and all seemed distracted. They rode in by the North road, seeing for the last mile or two of their ride the towering spire of All Saints' Church high above the smoke of the houses; they passed the old bridge half a mile from the market-place, near the ancient camp; and even here overheard a sentence or two from a couple of fellows that were leaning on the parapet, that told them what was the talk of the town. It was plain that others besides the Catholics understood the taking of Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert to be a very significant matter. Babington House stood on the further side of the market-place from that on which they entered, and Alice was for going there through side streets. "They will take notice if we go straight through," she said. "It is cheese-market to-day." "They will take notice in any case," said Marjorie. "It will be over the town to-morrow that Mistress Babington is here, and it is best, therefore, to come openly, as if without fear." And she turned to beckon the servants to draw up closer behind. * * * * * The square was indeed crowded as they came in. From all the country round, and especially from Dovedale, the farmers came in on this day, or sent their wives, for the selling of cheeses; and the small oblong of the market--the smaller from its great Conduit and Cross--was full with rows of stalls and carts, with four lanes only left along the edges by which the traffic might pass; and even here the streams of passengers forced the horses to go in single file. Groups of men--farmers' servants who had driven in the carts, or walked with the pack-beasts--to whom this day was a kind of feast, stood along the edges of the booths eyeing all who went by. The inns, too, were doing a roaring trade, and it was from one of these that the only offensive comment was made. Mistress Babington rode first, as suited her dignity, preceded by one of the Dethick men whom they had taken up on their way, and who had pushed forward when they came into the town to clear the road; and Mistress Manners rode after her. The men stood aside as the cavalcade began to go between the booths, and the most of them saluted Mistress Babington. But as they were almost out of the market they came abreast one of the inns from whose wide-open doors came a roar of voices from those that were drinking within, and a group that was gathered on the step stopped talking as the party came up. Marjorie glanced at them, and noticed there was an air about two or three of the men that was plainly town-bred; there was a certain difference in the cut of their clothes and the way they wore them. Then she saw two or three whispering together, and the next moment came a brutal shout. She could not catch the sentence, but she heard the word "Papist" with an adjective, and caught the unmistakable bullying tone of the man. The next instant there broke out a confusion: a man dashed up the step from the crowd beneath, and she caught a glimpse of Dick Sampson's furious face. Then the group bore back, fighting, into the inn door; the Dethick servant leapt off his horse, leaving it in some fellow's hands, and vanished up the step; there was a rush of the crowd after him, and then the way was clear in front, over the little bridge that spanned Bramble brook. When she drew level with Alice, she saw her friend's face, pale and agitated. "It is the first time I have ever been cried at," she said. "Come; we are nearly home. There is St. Peter's spire." "Shall we not--?" began Marjorie. "No, no" (and the pale face tightened suddenly). "My fellows will give them a lesson. The crowd is on our side as yet." IV As they rode in under the archway that led in beside the great doors of Babington House, three or four grooms ran forward at once. It was plain that their coming was looked for with some eagerness. Alice's manner seemed curiously different from that of the quiet woman who had sat so patiently beside Marjorie in the manor among the hills: a certain air of authority and dignity sat on her now that she was back in her own place. "Is Mrs. FitzHerbert here?" she asked from the groom who helped her to the ground. "Yes, mistress; she came from the inn this morning, and--" "Well?" "She is in a great taking, mistress. She would eat nothing, they said." Alice nodded. "You had best be off to the inn," she said, with a jerk of her head. "A London fellow insulted us just now, and Sampson and Mallow--" She said no more. The man who held her horse slipped the reins into the hands of the younger groom who stood by him, and was away and out of the court in an instant. Marjorie smiled a little, astonished at her own sense of exultation. The blows were not to be all one side, she perceived. Then she followed Alice into the house. As they came through into the hall by the side-door that led through from the court where they had dismounted, a figure was plainly visible in the dusky light, going to and fro at the further end, with a quick, nervous movement. The figure stopped as they advanced, and then darted forward, crying out piteously: "Ah! you have come, thank God! thank God! They will not let me see him." "Hush! hush!" said Alice, as she caught her in her arms. "Mr. Bassett has been here," moaned the figure, "and he says it is Topcliffe himself who has come down on the matter.... He says he is the greatest devil of them all; and Thomas--" Then she burst out crying again. * * * * * It was an hour before they could get the full tale out of her. They took her upstairs and made her sit down, for already a couple of faces peeped from the buttery, and the servants would have gathered in another five minutes; and together they forced her to eat and drink something, for she had not tasted food since her arrival at the inn yesterday; and so, little by little, they drew the story out. Mr. Thomas and his wife were actually on their way from Norbury when the arrest had been made. Mr. Thomas had intended to pass a couple of nights in Derby on various matters of the estates; and although, his wife said, he had been somewhat silent and quiet since the warning had come to him from Mr. Audrey, even he had thought it no danger to ride through Derby on his way to Padley. He had sent a servant ahead to order rooms at the inn for those two nights, and it was through that, it appeared, that the news of his coming had reached the ears of the authorities. However that was, and whether the stroke had been actually determined upon long before, or had been suddenly decided upon at the news of his coming, it fell out that, as the husband and wife were actually within sight of Derby, on turning a corner they had found themselves surrounded by men on horses, plainly gathered there for the purpose, with a magistrate in the midst. Their names had been demanded, and, upon Mr. Thomas' hesitation, they had been told that their names were well known, and a warrant was produced, on a charge of recusancy and of aiding her Grace's enemies, drawn out against Thomas FitzHerbert, and he had been placed under arrest. Further, Mrs. FitzHerbert had been told she must not enter the town with the party, but must go either before them or after them, which she pleased. She had chosen to go first, and had been at the windows of the inn in time to see her husband go by. There had been no confusion, she said; the townsfolk appeared to know nothing of what was happening until Mr. Thomas was safely lodged in the ward. Then she burst out crying again, lamenting the horrible state of the prison, as it had been described to her, and demanding to know where God's justice was in allowing His faithful servants to be so tormented and harried.... * * * * * Marjorie watched her closely. She had met her once at Babington House, when she was still Elizabeth Westley, but had thought little or nothing of her since. She was a pale little creature, fair-haired and timorous, and had now a hunted look of misery in her eyes that was very piteous to see. It was plain they had done right in coming: this woman would be of little service to her husband. Then when Alice had said a word or two, Marjorie began her questions. "Tell me," she said gently, "had you no warning of this?" The girl shook her head. "Not beyond that which came from yourself," she said; "and we never thought--" "Hath Mr. Thomas had any priests with him lately?" "We have not had one at Norbury for the last six months, whilst we were there, at least. My husband said it was better not, and that there was a plenty of places for them to go to." "And you have not heard mass during that time?" The girl looked at her with tear-stained eyes. "No," she said. "But why do you ask that? My husband says--" "And when was the first you heard of Topcliffe? And what have you heard of him?" The other's face fell into lines of misery. "I have heard he is the greatest devil her Grace uses. He hath authority to question priests and others in his own house. He hath a rack there that he boasts makes all others as Christmas toys. My husband--" Marjorie patted her arm gently. "There! there!" she said kindly. "Your husband is not in Topcliffe's house. There will be no question of that. He is here in his own county, and--" "But that will not save him!" cried the girl. "Why--" "Tell me" interrupted Marjorie, "was Topcliffe with the men that took Mr. Thomas?" The other shook her head. "No; I heard he was not. He was come from London yesterday morning. That was the first I heard of him." Then Alice began again to soothe her gently, to tell her that her husband was in no great danger as yet, that he was well known for his loyalty, and to do her best to answer the girl's pitiful questions. And Marjorie sat back and considered. Marjorie had a remarkable knowledge of the methods of the Government, gathered from the almost endless stories she had heard from travelling priests and others; it was her business, too, to know them. Two or three things, therefore, if the girl's account was correct, were plain. First, that this was a concerted plan, and not a mere chance arrest. Mr. Audrey's message to her showed so much, and the circumstances of Topcliffe's arrival confirmed it. Next, it must be more than a simple blow struck at one man, Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert: Topcliffe would not have come down from London at all unless it were a larger quarry than Mr. Thomas that was aimed at. Thirdly, and in conclusion, it would not be easy therefore to get Mr. Thomas released again. There remained a number of questions which she had as yet no means of answering. Was it because Mr. Thomas was heir to the enormous FitzHerbert estates in this county and elsewhere, that he was struck at? Or was it the beginning, merely, of a general assault on Derbyshire, such as had taken place before she was born? Or was it that Mr. Thomas' apparent coolness towards the Faith (for that was evident by his not having heard mass for so long, and by his refusal to entertain priests just at present)--was it that lack of zeal on his part, which would, of course, be known to the army of informers scattered now throughout England, which had marked him out as the bird to be flown at? It would be, indeed, a blow to the Catholic gentry of the county, if any of the FitzHerberts should fall! She stood up presently, grave with her thoughts. Mistress Alice glanced up. "I am going out for a little," said Marjorie. "But--" "May two of your men follow me at a little distance? But I shall be safe enough. I am going to a friend's house." * * * * * Marjorie knew Derby well enough from the old days when she rode in sometimes with her father and slept at Mr. Biddell's; and, above all, she knew all that Derby had once been. In one place, outside the town, was St. Mary-in-Pratis, where the Benedictine nuns had lived; St. Leonard's had had a hospital for lepers; St. Helen's had had the Augustinian hospital for poor brothers and sisters; St. Alkmund's had held a relic of its patron saint; all this she knew by heart; and it was bitter now to be here on such business. But she went briskly out from the hall; and ten minutes later she was knocking at the door of a little attorney, the old partner of her father's, whose house faced the Guildhall across the little market-square. It was opened by an old woman who smiled at the sight of her. "Eh! come in, mistress. The master saw you ride into town. He is in the upstairs parlour, with Mr. Bassett." The girl nodded to her bodyguard, and followed the old woman in. She bowed as she passed the lawyer's confidential clerk and servant, Mr. George Beaton, in the passage--a big man, with whom she had had communications more than once on Popish affairs. Mr. John Biddell, like Marjorie's own father and his partner, was one of those quiet folks who live through storms without attracting attention from the elements, yet without the sacrifice of principle. He was a Catholic, and never pretended to be anything else; but he was so little and so harmless that no man ever troubled him. He pleaded before the magistrates unobtrusively and deftly; and would have appeared before her Grace herself or the Lord of Hell with the same timid and respectful air, in his iron-rimmed spectacles, his speckless dark suit, and his little black cap drawn down to his ears. He had communicated with Marjorie again and again in the last two or three years on the subject of wandering priests, calling them "gentlemen," with the greatest care, and allowing no indiscreet word ever to appear in his letters, He remembered King Harry, whom he had seen once in a visit of his to London; he had assisted the legal authorities considerably in the restoration under Queen Mary; and he had soundlessly acquiesced in the changes again under Elizabeth--so far, at least, as mere law was concerned. Mr. William Bassett was a very different man. First he was the brother-in-law of Sir Thomas FitzHerbert himself; and was entirely of the proper spirit to mate with that fearless family. He had considerable estates, both at Langley and Blore, in both of which places he cheerfully evaded the new laws, maintaining and helping priests in all directions; a man, in fact, of an ardent and boisterous faith which he extended (so the report ran) even to magic and astrology; a man of means, too, in spite of his frequent fines for recusancy, and aged about fifty years old at this time, with a high colour in his face and bright, merry eyes. Marjorie had spoken with him once or twice only. These two men, then, first turned round in their chairs, and then stood up to salute Marjorie, as she came into the upstairs parlour. It was a somewhat dark room, panelled where there was space for it between the books, and with two windows looking out on to the square. "I thought we should see you soon," said the attorney. "We saw you come, mistress; and the fellows that cried out on you." "They had their deserts," said Marjorie, smiling. Mr. Bassett laughed aloud. "Indeed they did," he said in his deep, pleasant voice. "There were two of them with bloody noses before all was done.... You have come for the news, I suppose, mistress?" He eyed her genially and approvingly. He had heard a great deal of this young lady in the last three or four years; and wished there were more of her kind. "That is what I have come for," said Marjorie. "We have Mrs. Thomas over at Babington House." "She'll be of no great service to her husband," said the other. "She cries and laments too much. Now--" He stopped himself from paying his compliments. It seemed to him that this woman, with her fearless, resolute face, would do very well without them. Then he set himself to relate the tale. It seemed that little Mrs. Thomas had given a true enough report. It was true that Topcliffe had arrived from London on the morning of the arrest; and Mistress Manners was perfectly right in her opinion that this signified a good deal. But, it seemed to Mr. Bassett, the Council had made a great mistake in striking at the FitzHerberts. The quarry was too strong, he said, for such birds as the Government used--too strong and too many. For, first, no FitzHerbert had ever yet yielded in his allegiance either to the Church or to the Queen's Grace; and it was not likely that Mr. Thomas would begin: and, next, if one yielded (_suadente diabolo_, and _Deus avertat_!) a dozen more would spring up. But the position was serious for all that, said Mr. Bassett (and Mr. Biddell nodded assent), for who would deal with the estates and make suitable arrangements if the heir, who already largely controlled them, were laid by the heels? But that the largeness of the undertaking was recognised by the Council, was plain enough, in that no less a man than Topcliffe (Mr. Bassett spat on the floor as he named him), Topcliffe, "the devil possessed by worse devils," was sent down to take charge of the matter. Marjorie listened carefully. "You have no fear for yourself, sir?" she asked presently, as the man sat back in his chair. Mr. Bassett smiled broadly, showing his strong white teeth between the iron-grey hair that fringed his lips. "No; I have no fear," he said. "I have a score of my men quartered in the town." "And the trial? When will that--" "The trial! Why, I shall praise God if the trial falls this year. They will harry him before magistrates, no doubt; and they will squeeze him in private. But the trial!... Why, they have not a word of treason against him; and that is what they are after, no doubt." "Treason?" "Why, surely. That is what they seek to fasten upon us all. It would not sound well that Christian should shed Christian's blood for Christianity; but that her Grace should sorrowfully arraign her subjects whom she loves and cossets so much, for treason--Why, that is as sound a cause as any in the law-books!" He smiled in a manner that was almost a snarl, and his eyes grew narrow with ironic merriment. "And Mr. Thomas--" began Marjorie hesitatingly. He whisked his glance on her like lightning. "Mr. Thomas will laugh at them all," he cried. "He is as staunch as any of his blood. I know he has been careful of late; but, then, you must remember how all the estates hang on him. But when he has his back to the wall--or on the rack for that matter--he will be as stiff as iron. They will have their work to bend him by a hair's breadth." Marjorie drew a breath of relief. She did not question Mr. Bassett's judgment. But she had had an uneasy discomfort in her heart till he had spoken so plainly. "Well, sir," she said, "that is what I chiefly came for. I wished to know if I could do aught for Mr. Thomas or his wife; and--" "You can do a great deal for his wife," said he. "You can keep her quiet and comfort her. She needs it, poor soul! I have told her for her comfort that we shall have Thomas out again in a month--God forgive me for the lie!" Marjorie stood up; and the men rose with her. "Why, what is that?" she said; and went swiftly to the window; for the noise of the crying of the cheeses and the murmur of voices had ceased all on a sudden. Straight opposite the window where she stood was the tiled flight of stairs that ran up from the market-place to the first floor of the Guildhall, a great building where the business of the town was largely done, and where the magistrates sat when there was need; and a lane that was clear of booths and carts had been left leading from that door straight across the square, so that she could see the two little brobonets--or iron guns--that guarded the door on either side. It was up this lane that she looked, and down it that there advanced a little procession, the very sight of which, it seemed, had stricken the square to silence. Already the crowd was dividing from end to end, ranging itself on either side--farmers' men shambled out of the way and turned to see; women clambered on the carts holding up their children to see, and from across the square came country-folk running, that they too might see. The steps of the Cross were already crowded with sightseers. Yet, to outward sight, the little procession was ordinary enough. First came three or four of the town-guard in livery, carrying their staves; then half a dozen sturdy fellows; then a couple of dignified gentlemen--one of them she knew: Mr. Roger Columbell, magistrate of the town--and then, walking all alone, the figure of a man, tall and thin, a little rustily, but very cleanly dressed in a dark suit, who carried his head stooping forward as if he were looking on the ground for something, or as if he deprecated so much notice. Marjorie saw no more than this clearly. She did not notice the group of men that followed in case protection were needed for the agent of the Council, nor the crowd that swirled behind. For, as the solitary figure came beneath the windows she recognised the man whom she had seen once in the Tower of London. "God smite the man!" growled a voice in her ear. "That is Topcliffe, going to the prison, I daresay." And as Marjorie turned her pale face back, she saw the face of kindly Mr. Bassett, suffused and convulsed with fury. CHAPTER IX I "Marjorie! Marjorie! Wake up! the order hath come. It is for to-night." Very slowly Marjorie rose out of the glimmering depths of sleep into which she had fallen on the hot August afternoon, sunk down upon the arm of the great chair that stood by the parlour window, and saw Mrs. Thomas radiant before her, waving a scrap of paper in her hand. Nearly two months were passed; and as yet no opportunity had been given to the prisoner's wife to visit him, and during that time it had been impossible to go back into the hills and leave the girl alone. The heat of the summer had been stifling, down here in the valley; a huge plague of grasshoppers had ravaged all England; and there were times when even in the grass-country outside Derby, their chirping had become intolerable. The heat, and the necessary seclusion, and the anxiety had told cruelly upon the country girl; Marjorie's face had perceptibly thinned; her eyes had shadows above and beneath; yet she knew she must not go; since the young wife had attached herself to her altogether, finding Alice (she said) too dull for her spirits. Mr. Bassett was gone again. There was no word of a trial; although there had been a hearing or two before the magistrates; and it was known that Topcliffe continually visited the prison. One piece of news only had there been to comfort her during this time, and that, that Mr. John's prediction had been fulfilled with regard to the captured priest, Mr. Garlick, who, back from Rheims only a few months, had been deported from England, since it was his first offence, But he would soon be over again, no doubt, and next time with death as the stake in the game. * * * * * Marjorie drew a long breath, and passed her hands over her forehead. "The order?" she said. "What order?" The girl explained, torrentially. A man had come just now from the Guildhall; he had asked for Mrs. FitzHerbert; she had gone down into the hall to see him; and all the rest of the useless details. But the effect was that leave had been given at last to visit the prisoner--for two persons, of which Mrs. FitzHerbert must be one; and that they must present the order to the gaoler before seven o'clock, when they would be admitted. She looked--such was the constitution of her mind--as happy as if it were an order for his release. Marjorie drove away the last shreds of sleep; and kissed her. "That is very good news," she said. "Now we will begin to do something." * * * * * The sun had sunk so far, when they set out at last, as to throw the whole of the square into golden shade; and, in the narrow, overhung Friar's Gate, where the windows of the upper stories were so near that a man might shake hands with his friend on the other side, the twilight had already begun. They had determined to walk, in order less to attract attention, in spite of the filth through which they knew they must pass, along the couple of hundred yards that separated them from the prison. For every housewife emptied her slops out of doors, and swept her house (when she did so at all) into the same place: now and again the heaps would be pushed together and removed, but for the most part they lay there, bones and rags and rotten fruit,--dusty in one spot, so that all blew about--dampened in others where a pail or two had been poured forth. The heat, too, was stifling, cast out again towards evening from the roofs and walls that had drunk it in all day from the burning skies. As they stood before the door at last and waited, after beating the great iron knocker on the iron plate, a kind of despair came down on Marjorie. They had advanced just so far in two months as to be allowed to speak with the prisoner; and, from her talkings with Mr. Biddell, had understood how little that was. Indeed, he had hinted to her plainly enough that even in this it might be that they were no more than pawns in the enemy's hand; and that, under a show of mercy, it was often allowed for a prisoner's friends to have free access to him in order to shake his resolution. If there was any cause for congratulation then, it lay solely in the thought that other means had so far failed. One thing at least they knew, for their comfort, that there had been no talk of torture.... It was a full couple of minutes before the door opened to show them a thin, brown-faced man, with his sleeves rolled up, dressed over his shirt and hose in a kind of leathern apron. He nodded as he saw the ladies, with an air of respect, however, and stood aside to let them come in. Then, with the same civility, he asked for the order, and read it, holding it up to the light that came through the little barred window over the door. It was an unspeakably dreary little entrance passage in which they stood, wainscoted solidly from floor to ceiling with wood that looked damp and black from age; the ceiling itself was indistinguishable in the twilight; the floor seemed composed of packed earth, three or four doors showed in the woodwork; that opposite to the one by which they had entered stood slightly ajar, and a smoky light shone from beyond it. The air was heavy and hot and damp, and smelled of mildew. The man gave the order back when he had read it, made a little gesture that resembled a bow, and led the way straight forward. They found themselves, when they had passed through the half-open door, in another passage running at right-angles to the entrance, with windows, heavily barred, so as to exclude all but the faintest twilight, even though the sun was not yet set; there appeared to be foliage of some kind, too, pressing against them from outside, as if a little central yard lay there; and the light, by which alone they could see their way along the uneven earth floor, came from a flambeau which hung by the door, evidently put there just now by the man who had opened to them; he led them down this passage to the left, down a couple of steps; unlocked another door of enormous weight and thickness and closed this behind them. They found themselves in complete darkness. "I'll be with you in a moment, mistress," said his voice; and they heard his steps go on into the dark and cease. Marjorie stood passive; she could feel the girl's hands clasp her arm, and could hear her breath come like sobs. But before she could speak, a light shone somewhere on the roof; and almost immediately the man came back carrying another flambeau. He called to them civilly; they followed. Marjorie once trod on some soft, damp thing that crackled beneath her foot. They groped round one more corner; waited, while they heard a key turning in a lock. Then the man stood aside, and they went past into the room. A figure was standing there; but for the first moment they could see no more. Great shadows fled this way and that as the gaoler hung up the flambeau. Then the door closed again behind them; and Elizabeth flung herself into her husband's arms. II When Marjorie could see him, as at last he put his wife into the single chair that stood in the cell and gave her the stool, himself sitting upon the table, she was shocked by the change in his face. It was true that she had only the wavering light of the flambeau to see him by (for the single barred window was no more than a pale glimmer on the wall), yet even that shadowy illumination could not account for his paleness and his fallen face. He was dressed miserably, too; his clothes were disordered and rusty-looking; and his features looked out, at once pinched and elongated. He blinked a little from time to time; his lips twitched beneath his ill-cut moustache and beard; and little spasms passed, as he talked, across his whole face. It was pitiful to see him; and yet more pitiful to hear him talk; for he assumed a kind of courtesy, mixed with bitterness. Now and again he fell silent, glancing with a swift and furtive movement of his eyes from one to the other of his visitors and back again. He attempted to apologise for the miserableness of the surroundings in which he received them--saying that her Grace his hostess could not be everywhere at once; and that her guests must do the best that they could. And all this was mixed with sudden wails from his wife, sudden graspings of his hands by hers. It all seemed to the quiet girl, who sat ill-at-ease on the little three-legged stool, that this was not the way to meet adversity. Then she drove down her criticism; and told herself that she ought rather to admire one of Christ's confessors. "And you bring me no hope, then, Mistress Manners?" he said presently (for she had told him that there was no talk yet of any formal trial)--"no hope that I may meet my accusers face to face? I had thought perhaps--" He lifted his eyes swiftly to hers, and dropped them again. She shook her head. "And yet that is all that I ask now--only to meet my accusers. They can prove nothing against me--except, indeed, my recusancy; and that they have known this long time back. They can prove nothing as to the harbouring of any priests--not within the last year, at any rate, for I have not done so. It seemed to me--" He stopped again, and passed his shaking hand over his mouth, eyeing the two women with momentary glances, and then looking down once more. "Yes?" said Marjorie. He slipped off from the table, and began to move about restlessly. "I have done nothing--nothing at all," he said. "Indeed, I thought--" And once more he was silent. * * * * * He began to talk presently of the Derbyshire hills of Padley and of Norbury. He asked his wife of news from home, and she gave it him, interrupting herself with laments. Yet all the while his eyes strayed to Marjorie as if there was something he would ask of her, but could not. He seemed completely unnerved, and for the first time in her life the girl began to understand something of what gaol-life must signify. She had heard of death and the painful Question; and she had perceived something of the heroism that was needed to meet them; yet she had never before imagined what that life of confinement might be, until she had watched this man, whom she had known in the world as a curt and almost masterful gentleman, careful of his dress, particular of the deference that was due to him, now become this worn prisoner, careless of his appearance, who stroked his mouth continually, once or twice gnawing his nails, who paced about in this abominable hole, where a tumbled heap of straw and blankets represented a bed, and a rickety table with a chair and a stool his sole furniture. It seemed as if a husk had been stripped from him, and a shrinking creature had come out of it which at present she could not recognise. Then he suddenly wheeled on her, and for the first time some kind of forcefulness appeared in his manner. "And my Uncle Bassett?" he cried abruptly. "What is he doing all this while?" Marjorie said that Mr. Bassett had been most active on his behalf with the lawyers, but, for the present, was gone back again to his estates. Mr. Thomas snorted impatiently. "Yes, he is gone back again," he cried, "and he leaves me to rot here! He thinks that I can bear it for ever, it seems!" "Mr. Bassett has done his utmost, sir," said Marjorie. "He exposed himself here daily." "Yes, with twenty fellows to guard him, I suppose. I know my Uncle Bassett's ways.... Tell me, if you please, how matters stand." Marjorie explained again. There was nothing in the world to be done until the order came for his trial--or, rather, everything had been done already. His lawyers were to rely exactly on the defence that had been spoken of just now; it was to be shown that the prisoner had harboured no priests; and the witnesses had already been spoken with--men from Norbury and Padley, who would swear that to their certain knowledge no priest had been received by Mr. FitzHerbert at least during the previous year or eighteen months. There was, therefore, no kind of reason why Mr. Bassett or Mr. John FitzHerbert should remain any longer in Derby. Mr. John had been there, but had gone again, under advice from the lawyers; but he was in constant communication with Mr. Biddell, who had all the papers ready and the names of the witnesses, and had made more than one application already for the trial to come on. "And why has neither my father nor my Uncle Bassett come to see me?" snapped the man. "They have tried again and again, sir," said Marjorie. "But permission was refused. They will no doubt try again, now that Mrs. FitzHerbert has been admitted." He paced up and down again for a few steps without speaking. Then again he turned on her, and she could see his face working uncontrolledly. "And they will enjoy the estates, they think, while I rot here!" "Oh, my Thomas!" moaned his wife, reaching out to him. But he paid no attention to her. "While I rot here!" he cried again. "But I will not! I tell you I will not!" "Yes, sir?" said Marjorie gently, suddenly aware that her heart had begun to beat swiftly. He glanced at her, and his face changed a little. "I will not," he murmured. "I must break out of my prison. Only their accursed--" Again he interrupted himself, biting sharply on his lip. * * * * * For an instant the girl had thought that all her old distrust of him was justified, and that he contemplated in some way the making of terms that would be disgraceful to a Catholic. But what terms could these be? He was a FitzHerbert; there was no evading his own blood; and he was the victim chosen by the Council to answer for the rest. Nothing, then, except the denial of his faith--a formal and deliberate apostasy--could serve him; and to think that of the nephew of old Sir Thomas, and the son of John, was inconceivable. There seemed no way out; the torment of this prison must be borne. She only wished he could have borne it more manfully. It seemed, as she watched him, that some other train of thought had fastened upon him. His wife had begun again her lamentations, bewailing his cell and his clothes, and his loss of liberty, asking him whether he were not ill, whether he had food enough to eat; and he hardly answered her or glanced at her, except once when he remembered to tell her that a good gift to the gaoler would mean a little better food, and perhaps more light for himself. And then he resumed his pacing; and, three or four times as he turned, the girl caught his eyes fixed on hers for one instant. She wondered what was in his mind to say. Even as she wondered there came a single loud rap upon the door, and then she heard the key turning. He wheeled round, and seemed to come to a determination. "My dearest," he said to his wife, "here is the gaoler come to turn you out again. I will ask him--" He broke off as the man stepped in. "Mr. Gaoler," he said, "my wife would speak alone with you a moment." (He nodded and winked at his wife, as if to tell her that this was the time to give him the money.) "Will you leave Mistress Manners here for a minute or two while my wife speaks with you in the passage?" Then Marjorie understood that she had been right. The man who held the keys nodded without speaking. "Then, my dearest wife," said Thomas, embracing her all of a sudden, and simultaneously drawing her towards the door, "we will leave you to speak with the man. He will come back for Mistress Manners directly." "Oh! my Thomas!" wailed the girl, clinging to him. "There, there, my dearest. And you will come and see me again as soon as you can get the order." * * * * * The instant the door was closed he came up to Marjorie and his face looked ghastly. "Mistress Manners," he said, "I dare not speak to my wife. But ... but, for Jesu's sake, get me out of here. I ... I cannot bear it.... Topcliffe comes to see me every day.... He ... he speaks to me continually of--O Christ! Christ! I cannot bear it!" He dropped suddenly on to his knees by the table and hid his face. III At Babington House Marjorie slept, as was often the custom, in the same room with her maid--a large, low room, hung all round with painted cloths above the low wainscoting. On the night after the visit to the prison, Janet noticed that her mistress was restless; and that while she would say nothing of what was troubling her, and only bade her go to bed and to sleep, she herself would not go to bed. At last, in sheer weariness, the maid slept. She awakened later, at what time she did not know, and, in her uneasiness, sat up and looked about her; and there, still before the crucifix, where she had seen her before she slept, kneeled her mistress. She cried out in a loud whisper: "Come to bed, mistress; come to bed." And, at the word, Marjorie started; then she rose, turned, and in the twilight of the summer night began to prepare herself for bed, without speaking. Far away across the roofs of Derby came the crowing of a cock to greet the dawn. CHAPTER X I It was a fortnight later that there came suddenly to Babington House old Mr. Biddell himself. Up to the present he had been careful not to do so. He appeared in the great hall an hour before dinner-time, as the tables were being set, and sent a servant for Mistress Manners. "Hark you!" he said; "you need not rouse the whole house. It is with Mistress Manners alone that my business lies." He broke off, as Mrs. FitzHerbert looked over the gallery. "Mr. Biddell!" she cried. He shook his head, but he seemed to speak with some difficulty. "It is just a rumour," he said, "such as there hath been before. I beg you--" "That ... there will be no trial at all?" "It is just a rumour," he repeated. "I did not even come to trouble you with it. It is with Mistress Manners that--" "I am coming down," cried Mrs. Thomas, and vanished from the gallery. Mr. Biddell acted with decision. He whisked out again into the passage from the court, and there ran straight into Marjorie, who was coming in from the little enclosed garden at the back of the house. "Quick!" he said. "Quick! Mrs. Thomas is coming, and I do not wish--" She led the way without a word back into the court, along a few steps, and up again to the house into a little back parlour that the steward used when the house was full. It was unoccupied now, and looked out into the garden whence she was just come. She locked the door when he had entered, and came and sat down out of sight of any that might be passing. "Sit here," she said; and then: "Well?" she asked. He looked at her gravely and sadly, shaking his head once or twice. Then he drew out a paper or two from a little lawyer's valise that he carried, and, as he did so, heard a hand try the door outside. "That is Mrs. Thomas," whispered the girl. "She will not find us." He waited till the steps moved away again. Then he began. He looked anxious and dejected. "I fear it is precisely as you thought," he said. "I have followed up every rumour in the place. And the first thing that is certain is that Topcliffe leaves Derby in two days from now. I had it as positive information that his men have orders to prepare for it. The second thing is that Topcliffe is greatly elated; and the third is that Mr. FitzHerbert will be released as soon as Topcliffe is gone." "You are sure this time, sir?" He assented by a movement of his head. "I dared not tell Mrs. Thomas just now. She would give me no peace. I said it was but a rumour, and so it is; but it is a rumour that hath truth behind it. He hath been moved, too, these three days back, to another cell, and hath every comfort." He shook his head again. "But he hath made no promise--" began Marjorie breathlessly. "It is exactly that which I am most afraid of," said the lawyer. "If he had yielded, and, consented to go to church, it would have been in every man's mouth by now. But he hath not, and I should fear it less if he had. That's the very worst part of my news." "I do not understand--" Mr. Biddell tapped his papers on the table. "If he were an open and confessed enemy, I should fear it less," he repeated. "It is not that. But he must have given some promise to Topcliffe that pleases the fellow more. And what can that be but that--" Marjorie turned yet whiter. She sighed once as if to steady herself. She could not speak, but she nodded. "Yes, Mistress Manners," said the old man. "I make no doubt at all that he hath promised to assist him against them all--against Mr. John his father, it may be, or Mr. Bassett, or God knows whom! And yet still feigning to be true! And that is not all." She looked at him. She could not conceive worse than this, if indeed it were true. "And do you think," he continued, "that Mr. Topcliffe will do all this for love, or rather, for mere malice? I have heard more of the fellow since he hath been in Derby than in all my life before; and, I tell you, he is for feathering his own nest if he can." He stopped. "Mistress, did you know that he had been out to Padley three or four times since he came to Derby?... Well, I tell you now that he has. Mr. John was away, praise God; but the fellow went all round the place and greatly admired it." "He went out to see what he could find?" asked the girl, still whispering. The other shook his head. "No, mistress; he searched nothing. I had it all from one of his fellows, through one of mine. He searched nothing; he sat a great while in the garden, and ate some of the fruit; he went through the hall and the rooms, and admired all that was to be seen there. He went up into the chapel-room, too, though there was nothing there to tell him what it was; and he talked a great while to one of the men about the farms, and the grazing, and such-like, but he meddled with nothing." (The old man's face suddenly wrinkled into fury.) "The devil went through it all like that, and admired it; and he came out to it again two or three times and did the like." He stopped to examine the notes he had made, and Marjorie sat still, staring on him. It was worse than anything she could have conceived possible. That a FitzHerbert should apostatise was incredible enough; but that one should sell his family--It was impossible. "Mr. Biddell," she whispered piteously, "it cannot be. It is some--" He shook his head suddenly and fiercely. "Mistress Manners, it is as plain as daylight to me. Do you think I could believe it without proof? I tell you I have lain awake all last night, fitting matters one into the other. I did not hear about Padley till last night, and it gave me all that I needed. I tell you Topcliffe hath cast his foul eyes on Padley and coveted it; and he hath demanded it as a price for Mr. Thomas' liberty. I do not know what else he hath promised, but I will stake my fortune that Padley is part of it. That is why he is so elated. He hath been here nearly this three months back; he hath visited Mr. FitzHerbert nigh every day; he hath cajoled him, he hath threatened him; he hath worn out his spirit by the gaol and the stinking food and the loneliness; and he hath prevailed, as he hath prevailed with many another. And the end of it all is that Mr. FitzHerbert hath yielded--yet not openly. Maybe that is part of the bargain upon the other side, that he should keep his name before the world. And on this side he hath promised Padley, if that he may but keep the rest of the estates, and have his liberty. I tell you that alone cuts all the knots of this tangle.... Can you cut them in any other manner?" * * * * * There was a long silence. From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of cheerful voices, and the clatter of lids, and from the walled garden outside the chatter of birds.... At last the girl spoke. "I cannot believe it without evidence," she said. "It may be so. God knows! But I do not.... Mr. Biddell?" "Well, mistress?" The lawyer's head was sunk on his breast; he spoke listlessly. "He will have given some writing to Mr. Topcliffe, will he not? if this be true. Mr. Topcliffe is not the man--" The old man lifted his head sharply; then he nodded. "That is the shrewd truth, mistress. Mr. Topcliffe will not trust to another's honour; he hath none of his own!" "Well," said Marjorie, "if all this be true, Mr. Topcliffe will already have that writing in his possession." She paused. "Eh?" said the lawyer. They looked at one another again in silence. It would have seemed to another that the two minds talked swiftly and wordlessly together, the trained thought of the lawyer and the quick wit of the woman; for when the man spoke again, it was as if they had spoken at length. "But we must not destroy the paper," he said, "or the fat will be in the fire. We must not let Mr. FitzHerbert know that he is found out." "No," said the girl. "But to get a view of it.... And a copy of it, to send to his family." Again the two looked each at the other in silence--as if they were equals--the old man and the girl. II It was the last night before the Londoners were to return. They had lived royally these last three months. The agent of the Council had had a couple of the best rooms in the inn that looked on to the market-square, where he entertained his friends, and now and then a magistrate or two. Even Mr. Audrey, of Matstead, had come to him once there, with another, but had refused to stay to supper, and had ridden away again alone. Downstairs, too, his men had fared very well indeed. They knew how to make themselves respected, for they carried arms always now, since the unfortunate affair a day after the arrival, when two of them had been gravely battered about by two rustic servants, who, they learned, were members of a Popish household in the town. But all the provincial fellows were not like this. There was a big man, half clerk and half man-servant to a poor little lawyer, who lived across the square--a man of no wit indeed, but, at any rate, one of means and of generosity, too, as they had lately found out--means and generosity, they understood, that were made possible by the unknowing assistance of his master. In a word it was believed among Mr. Topcliffe's men that all the refreshment which they had lately enjoyed, beyond that provided by their master, was at old Mr. Biddell's expense, though he did not know it, and that George Beaton, fool though he was, was a cleverer man than his employer. Lately, too, they had come to learn, that although George Beaton was half clerk, half man-servant, to a Papist, he was yet at heart as stout a Protestant as themselves, though he dared not declare it for fear of losing his place. On this last night they made very merry indeed, and once or twice the landlord pushed his head through the doorway. The baggage was packed, and all was in readiness for a start soon after dawn. There came a time when George Beaton said that he was stifling with the heat; and, indeed, in this low-ceilinged room after supper, with the little windows looking on to the court, the heat was surprising. The men sat in their shirts and trunks. So that it was as natural as possible that George should rise from his place and sit down again close to the door where the cool air from the passage came in; and from there, once more, he led the talk, in his character of rustic and open-handed boor; he even beat the sullen man who was next him genially over the head to make him give more room, and then he proposed a toast to Mr. Topcliffe. It was about half an hour later, when George was becoming a little anxious, that he drew out at last a statement that Mr. Topcliffe had a great valise upstairs, full of papers that had to do with his law business. (He had tried for this piece of information last night and the night before, but had failed to obtain it.) Ten minutes later again, then, when the talk had moved to affairs of the journey, and the valise had been forgotten, it was an entirely unsuspicious circumstance that George and the man that sat next him should slip out to take the air in the stable-court. The Londoner was so fuddled with drink as to think that he had gone out at his own deliberate wish; and there, in the fresh air, the inevitable result followed; his head swam, and he leaned on big George for support. And here, by the one stroke of luck that visited poor George this evening, it fell that he was just in time to see Mr. Topcliffe himself pass the archway in the direction of Friar's Gate, in company with a magistrate, who had supped with him upstairs. Up to this point George had moved blindly, step by step. He had had his instructions from his master, yet all that he had been able to determine was the general plan to find out where the papers were kept, to remain in the inn till the last possible moment, and to watch for any chance that might open to him. Truly, he had no more than that, except, indeed, a vague idea that it might be necessary to bribe one of the men to rob his master. Yet there was everything against this, and it was, indeed, a last resort. It seemed now, however, that another way was open. It was exceedingly probable that Mr. Topcliffe was off for his last visit to the prisoner, and, since a magistrate was with him, it was exceedingly improbable that he would take the paper with him. It was not the kind of paper--if, indeed, it existed at all--that more persons would be allowed to see than were parties to the very discreditable affair. And now George spoke earnestly and convincingly. He desired to see the baggage of so great a man as Mr. Topcliffe; he had heard so much of him. His friend was a good fellow who trusted him (here George embraced him warmly). Surely such a little thing would be allowed as for him, George, to step in and view Mr. Topcliffe's baggage, while the faithful servant kept watch in the passage! Perhaps another glass of ale-- III "Yes, sir," said George an hour later, still a little flushed with the amount of drink he had been forced to consume. "I had some trouble to get it. But I think this is what your honour wanted." He began to search in his deep breast-pocket. "Tell me," said Mr. Biddell. "I got the fellow to watch in the passage, sir; him that I had made drunk, while I was inside. There were great bundles of papers in the valise.... No, sir, it was strapped up only.... The most of the papers were docketed very legally, sir; so I did not have to search long. There were three or four papers in a little packet by themselves; besides a great packet that was endorsed with Mr. FitzHerbert's name, as well as Mr. Topcliffe's and my lord Shrewsbury's; and I think I should not have had time to look that through. But, by God's mercy, it was one of the three or four by themselves." He had the paper in his hand by now. The lawyer made a movement to take it. Then he restrained himself. "Tell me, first," he said. "Well, sir," said George, with a pardonable satisfaction in spinning the matter out, "one was all covered with notes, and was headed 'Padley.' I read that through, sir. It had to do with the buildings and the acres, and so forth. The second paper I could make nothing out of; it was in cypher, I think. The third paper was the same; and the fourth, sir, was that which I have here." The lawyer started. "But I told you--" "Yes, sir; I should have said that this is the copy--or, at least, an abstract. I made the abstract by the window, sir, crouching down so that none should see me. Then I put all back as before, and came out again; the fellow was fast asleep against the door." "And Topcliffe--" "Mr. Topcliffe, sir, returned half an hour afterwards in company again with Mr. Hamilton. I waited a few minutes to see that all was well, and then I came to you, sir." There was silence in the little room for a moment. It was the small back office of Mr. Biddell, where he did his more intimate business, looking out on to a paved court. The town was for the most part asleep, and hardly a sound came through the closed windows. Then the lawyer turned and put out his hand for the paper without a word. He nodded to George, who went out, bidding him good-night. * * * * * Ten minutes later Mr. Biddell walked quietly through the passengers' gate by the side of the great doors that led to the court beside Babington House, closing it behind him. He knew that it would be left unbarred till eleven o'clock that night. He passed on through the court, past the house door, to the steward's office, where through heavy curtains a light glimmered. As he put his hand on the door it opened, and Marjorie was there. He said nothing, nor did she. Her face was pale and steady, and there was a question in her eyes. For answer he put the paper into her hands, and sat down while she read it. The stillness was as deep here as in the office he had just left. IV It was a minute or two before either spoke. The girl read the paper twice through, holding it close to the little hand-lamp that stood on the table. "You see, mistress," he said, "it is as bad as it can be." She handed back the paper to him; he slid out his spectacles, put them on, and held the writing to the light. "Here are the points, you see ..." he went on. "I have annotated them in the margin. First, that Thomas FitzHerbert be released from Derby gaol within three days from the leaving of Topcliffe for London, and that he be no more troubled, neither in fines nor imprisonment; next, that he have secured to him, so far as the laws shall permit, all his inheritance from Sir Thomas, from his father, and from any other bequests whether of his blood-relations or no; thirdly, that Topcliffe do 'persecute to the death'"--(the lawyer paused, cast a glance at the downcast face of the girl) "'--do persecute to the death' his uncle Sir Thomas, his father John, and William Bassett his kinsman; and, in return for all this, Thomas FitzHerbert shall become her Grace's sworn servant--that is, Mistress Manners, her Grace's spy, pursuivant, informer and what-not--and that he shall grant and secure to Richard Topcliffe, Esquire, and to his heirs for ever, 'the manors of Over Padley and Nether Padley, on the Derwent, with six messuages, two cottages, ten gardens, ten orchards, a thousand acres of land, five hundred acres of meadow-land, six hundred acres of pasture, three hundred acres of wood, a thousand acres of furze and heath, in Padley, Grindleford and Lyham, in the parish of Hathersage, in consideration of eight hundred marks of silver, to be paid to Thomas FitzHerbert, Esquire, etc.'" The lawyer put the paper down, and pushed his spectacles on to his forehead. "That is a legal instrument?" asked the girl quietly, still with downcast eyes. "It is not yet fully completed, but it is signed and witnessed. It can become a legal instrument by Topcliffe's act; and it would pass muster--" "It is signed by Mr. Thomas?" He nodded. She was silent again. He began to tell her of how he had obtained it, and of George's subtlety and good fortune; but she seemed to pay no attention. She sat perfectly still. When he had ended, she spoke again. "A sworn servant of her Grace--" she began. "Topcliffe is a sworn servant of her Grace," he said bitterly; "you may judge by that what Thomas FitzHerbert hath become." "We shall have his hand, too, against us all, then?" "Yes, mistress; and, what is worse, this paper I take it--" (he tapped it) "this paper is to be a secret for the present. Mr. Thomas will still feign himself to be a Catholic, with Catholics, until he comes into all his inheritances. And, meantime, he will supply information to his new masters." "Why cannot we expose him?" "Where is the proof? He will deny it." She paused. "We can at least tell his family. You will draw up the informations?" "I will do so." "And send them to Sir Thomas and Mr. Bassett?" "I will do so." "That may perhaps prevent his inheritance coming to him as quickly as he thinks." The lawyer's eyes gleamed. "And what of Mrs. Thomas, mistress?" Marjorie lifted her eyes. "I do not think a great deal of Mrs. Thomas," she said. "She is honest, I think; but she could not be trusted with a secret. But I will tell Mistress Babington, and I will warn what priests I can." "And if it leaks out?" "It must leak out." "And yourself? Can you meet Mr. Thomas again just now? He will be out in three days." Marjorie drew a long breath. "No, sir; I cannot meet him. I should betray what I felt. I shall make excuses to Mrs. Thomas, and go home to-morrow." PART III CHAPTER I I The "Red Bull" in Cheapside was all alight; a party had arrived there from the coast not an hour ago, and the rooms that had been bespoken by courier occupied the greater part of the second floor; the rest of the house was already filled by another large company, spoken for by Mr. Babington, although he himself was not one of them. And it seemed to the shrewd landlord that these two parties were not wholly unknown to one another, although, as a discreet man, he said nothing. The latest arrived party was plainly come from the coast. They had arrived a little after sunset on this stormy August day, splashed to the shoulders by the summer-mud, and drenched to the skin by the heavy thunder-showers. Their baggage had a battered and sea-going air about it, and the landlord thought he would not be far away if he conjectured Rheims as their starting-point; there were three gentlemen in the party, and four servants apparently; but he knew better than to ask questions or to overhear what seemed rather over-familiar conversation between the men and their masters. There was only one, however, whom he remembered to have lodged before, over five years ago. The name of this one was Mr. Alban. But all this was not his business. His duty was to be hearty and deferential and entirely stupid; and certainly this course of behaviour brought him a quantity of guests. * * * * * Mr. Alban, about half-past nine o'clock, had finished unstrapping his luggage. It was of the most innocent description, and contained nothing that all the world might not see. He had made arrangements that articles of another kind should come over from Rheims under the care of one of the "servants," whose baggage would be less suspected. The distribution would take place in a day or two. These articles comprised five sets of altar vessels, five sets of mass-vestments, made of a stuff woven of all the liturgical colours together, a dozen books, a box of medals, another of _Agnus Deis_--little wax medallions stamped with the figure of a Lamb supporting a banner--a bunch of beads, and a heavy little square package of very thin altar-stones. As he laid out the suit of clothes that he proposed to wear next day, there was a rapping on his door. "Mr. Babington is come--sir." (The last word was added as an obvious afterthought, in case of listeners.) Robin sprang up; the door was opened by his "servant," and Anthony came in, smiling. * * * * * Mr. Anthony Babington had broadened and aged considerably during the last five years. He was still youthful-looking, but he was plainly a man and no longer a boy. And he presently said as much for his friend. "You are a man, Robin," he said.--"Why, it slipped my mind!" He knelt down promptly on the strip of carpet and kissed the palms of the hands held out to him, as is the custom to do with newly-ordained priests, and Robin murmured a blessing. Then the two sat down again. "And now for the news," said Robin. Anthony's face grew grave. "Yours first," he said. So Robin told him. He had been ordained priest a month ago, at Châlons-sur-Marne.... The college was as full as it could hold.... They had had an unadventurous journey. Anthony put a question or two, and was answered. "And now," said Robin, "what of Derbyshire; and of the country; and of my father? And is it true that Ballard is taken?" Anthony threw an arm over the back of his chair, and tried to seem at his ease. "Well," he said, "Derbyshire is as it ever was. You heard of Thomas FitzHerbert's defection?" "Mistress Manners wrote to me of it, more than two years ago." "Well, he does what he can: he comes and goes with his wife or without her. But he comes no more to Padley. And he scarcely makes a feint even before strangers of being a Catholic, though he has not declared himself, nor gone to church, at any rate in his own county. Here in London I have seen him more than once in Topcliffe's company. But I think that every Catholic in the country knows of it by now. That is Mistress Manners' doing. My sister says there has never been a woman like her." Robin's eyes twinkled. "I always said so," he said. "But none would believe me. She has the wit and courage of twenty men. What has she been doing?" "What has she not done?" cried Anthony. "She keeps herself for the most part in her house; and my sister spends a great deal of time with her; but her men, who would die for her, I think, go everywhere; and half the hog-herds and shepherds of the Peak are her sworn men. I have given your Dick to her; he was mad to do what he could in that cause. So her men go this way and that bearing her letters or her messages to priests who are on their way through the county; and she gets news--God knows how!--of what is a-stirring against us. She has saved Mr. Ludlam twice, and Mr. Garlick once, as well as Mr. Simpson once, by getting the news to them of the pursuivants' coming, and having them away into the Peak. And yet with all this, she has never been laid by the heels." "Have they been after her, then?" asked Robin eagerly. "They have had a spy in her house twice to my knowledge, but never openly; and never a shred of a priest's gown to be seen, though mass had been said there that day. But they have never searched it by force. And I think they do not truly suspect her at all." "Did I not say so?" cried Robin. "And what of my father? He wrote to me that he was to be made magistrate; and I have never written to him since." "He hath been made magistrate," said Anthony drily; "and he sits on the bench with the rest of them." "Then he is all of the same mind?" "I know nothing of his mind. I have never spoken with him this six years back. I know his acts only. His name was in the 'Bond of Association,' too!" "I have heard of that." "Why, it is two years old now. Half the gentry of England have joined it," said Anthony bitterly. "It is to persecute to the death any pretender to the Crown other than our Eliza." There was a pause. Robin understood the bitterness. "And what of Mr. Ballard?" asked Robin. "Yes; he is taken," said Anthony slowly, watching him. "He was taken a week ago." "Will they banish him, then?" "I think they will banish him." "Why, yes--it is the first time he hath been taken. And there is nothing great against him?" "I think there is not," said Anthony, still with that strange deliberateness. "Why do you look at me like that?" Anthony stood up without answering. Then he began to pace about. As he passed the door he looked to the bolt carefully. Then he turned again to his friend. "Robin," he said, "would you sooner know a truth that will make you unhappy, or be ignorant of it?" "Does it concern myself or my business?" asked Robin promptly. "It concerns you and every priest and every Catholic in England. It is what I have hinted to you before." "Then I will hear it." "It is as if I told it in confession?" Robin paused. "You may make it so," he said, "if you choose." Anthony looked at him an instant. "Well," he said, "I will not make a confession, because there is no use in that now--but--Well, listen!" he said, and sat down. II When he ceased, Robin lifted his head. He was as white as a sheet. "You have been refused absolution before for this?" "I was refused absolution by two priests; but I was granted it by a third." "Let me see that I have the tale right. "Yourself, with a number of others, have bound yourselves by an oath to kill her Grace, and to set Mary on the throne. This has taken shape now since the beginning of the summer. You yourself are now living in Mr. Walsingham's house, in Seething Lane, under the patronage of her Grace, and you show yourself freely at court. You have proceeded so far, under fear of Mr. Ballard's arrest, as to provide one of your company with clothes and necessaries that can enable him to go to court; and it was your intention, as well as his, that he should take opportunity to kill her Grace. But to-day only you have become persuaded that the old design was the better; and you wish first to arrange matters with the Queen of the Scots, so that when all is ready, you may be the more sure of a rising when that her Grace is killed, and that the Duke of Parma may be in readiness to bring an army into England. It is still your intention to kill her Grace?" "By God! it is!" said Anthony, between clenched teeth. "Then I could not absolve you, even if you came to confession. You may be absolved from your allegiance, as we all are; but you are not absolved from charity and justice towards Elizabeth as a woman. I have consulted theologians on the very point; and--" Then Anthony sprang up. "See here, Robin; we must talk this out." He flicked his fingers sharply. "See--we will talk of it as two friends." "You had better take back those words," said the priest gravely. "Why?" "It would be my duty to lay an information! I understood you spoke to me as to a priest, though not in confession." "You would!" blazed the other. "I should do so in conscience," said the priest. "But you have not yet told me as a friend, and--" "You mean--" "I mean that so long as you choose to speak to me of it, now and here, it remains that I choose to regard it as _sub sigillo_ in effect. But you must not come to me to-morrow, as if I knew it all in a plain way. I do not. I know it as a priest only." There was silence for a moment. Then Anthony stood up. "I understand," he said. "But you would refuse me absolution in any case?" "I could not give you absolution so long as you intended to kill her Grace." Anthony made an impatient gesture. "See here," he said. "Let me tell you the whole matter from the beginning. Now listen." He settled himself again in his chair, and began. * * * * * "Robin," he said, "you remember when I spoke to you in the inn on the way to Matstead; it must be seven or eight years gone now? Well, that was when the beginning was. There was no design then, such as we have to-day; but the general purpose was there. I had spoken with man after man; I had been to France, and seen Mr. Morgan there, Queen Mary's man, and my lord of Glasgow; and all that I spoke with seemed of one mind--except my lord of Glasgow, who did not say much to me on the matter. But all at least were agreed that there would be no peace in England so long as Elizabeth sat on the throne. "Well: it was after that that I fell in with Ballard, who was over here on some other affair; and I found him a man of the same mind as myself; he was all agog for Mary, and seemed afraid of nothing. Well; nothing was done for a great while. He wrote to me from France; I wrote back to him again, telling him the names of some of my friends. I went to see him in France two or three times; and I saw him here, when you yourself came over with him. But we did not know whom to trust. Neither had we any special design. Her Grace of the Scots went hither and thither under strong guards; and what I had done for her before--" Robin looked up. He was still quite pale and quite quiet. "What was that?" he said. Anthony again made his impatient gesture. He was fiercely excited; but kept himself under tolerable control. "Why, I have been her agent for a great while back, getting her letters through to her, and such like. But last year, when that damned Sir Amyas Paulet became her gaoler, I could do nothing. Two or three times my messenger was stopped, and the letters taken from him. Well; after that time I could do no more. There her Grace was, back again at Tutbury, and none could get near her. She might no more give alms, even, to the poor; and all her letters must go through Walsingham's hands. And then God helped us: she was taken last autumn to Chartley, near by which is the house of the Giffords; and since that time we have been almost merry. Do you know Gilbert Gifford?" "He hath been with the Jesuits, hath he not?" "That is the man. Well, Mr. Gilbert Gifford hath been God's angel to us. A quiet, still kind of a man--you have seen him?" "I have spoken with him at Rheims," said Robin. "I know nothing of him." "Well; he contrived the plan. He hath devised a beer-barrel that hath the beer all roundabout, so that when they push their rods in, there seems all beer within. But in the heart of the beer there is secured a little iron case; and within the iron case there is space for papers. Well, this barrel goes to and fro to Chartley and to a brewer that is a good Catholic; and within the case there are the letters. And in this way, all has been prepared--" Robin looked up again. He remained quiet through all the story; and lifted no more than his eyes. His fingers played continually with a button on his doublet. "You mean that Queen Mary hath consented to this?" "Why, yes!" "To her sister's death?" "Why, yes!" "I do not believe it," said the priest quietly. "On whose word does that stand?" "Why, on her own! Whose else's?" snapped Anthony. "You mean, you have it in her own hand, signed by her name?" "It is in Gifford's hand! Is not that enough? And there is her seal to it. It is in cypher, of course. What would you have?" "Where is she now?" asked Robin, paying no attention to the question. "She hath just now been moved again to Tixall." "For what?" "I do not know. What has that to do with the matter? She will be back soon again. I tell you all is arranged." "Tell me the rest of the story," said the priest. "There is not much more. So it stands at present. I tell you her Grace hath been tossed to and fro like a ball at play. She was at Chatsworth, as you know; she has been shut up in Chartley like a criminal; she was at Babington House even. God! if I had but known it in time!" "In Babington House! Why, when was that?" "Last year, early--with Sir Ralph Sadler, who was her gaoler then!" cried Anthony bitterly; "but for a night only.... I have sold the house." "Sold it!" "I do not keep prisons," snapped Anthony. "I will have none of it!" "Well?" "Well," resumed the other man quietly. "I must say that when Ballard was taken--" "When was that?" "Last week only. Well, when he was taken I thought perhaps all was known. But I find Mr. Walsingham's conversation very comforting, though little he knows it, poor man! He knows that I am a Catholic; and he was lamenting to me only three days ago of the zeal of these informers. He said he could not save Ballard, so hot was the pursuit after him; that he would lose favour with her Grace if he did." "What comfort is there in that?" "Why; it shows plain enough that nothing is known of the true facts. If they were after him for this design of ours do you think that Walsingham would speak like that? He would clap us all in ward--long ago." The young priest was silent. His head still whirled with the tale, and his heart was sick at the misery of it all. This was scarcely the home-coming he had looked for! He turned abruptly to the other. "Anthony, lad," he said, "I beseech you to give it up." Anthony smiled at him frankly. His excitement was sunk down again. "You were always a little soft," he said. "I remember you would have nought to do with us before. Why, we are at war, I tell you; and it is not we who declared it! They have made war on us now for the last twenty years and more. What of all the Catholics--priests and others--who have died on the gibbet, or rotted in prison? If her Grace makes war upon us, why should we not make war upon her Grace? Tell me that, then!" "Anthony, I beseech you to give it up. I hate the whole matter, and fear it, too." "Fear it? Why, I tell you, we hold them _so_." (He stretched out his lean, young hand, and clenched the long fingers slowly together.) "We have them by the throat. You will be glad enough to profit by it, when Mary reigns. What is there to fear?" "I do not know; I am uneasy. But that is not to the purpose. I tell you it is forbidden by God's--" "Uneasy! Fear it! Why, tell me what there is to fear? What hole can you find anywhere?" "I do not know. I hardly know the tale yet. But it seems to me there might be a hundred." "Tell me one of them, then." Anthony threw himself back with an indulgent smile on his face. "Why, if you will have it," said Robin, roused by the contempt, "there is one great hole in this. All hangs upon Gifford's word, as it seems to me. You have not spoken with Mary; you have not even her own hand on it." "Bah! Why, her Grace of the Scots cannot write in cypher, do you think?" "I do not know how that may be. It may be so. But I say that all hangs upon Gifford." "And you think Gifford can be a liar and a knave!" sneered Anthony. "I have not one word against him," said the priest. "But neither had I against Thomas FitzHerbert; and you know what has befallen--" Anthony snorted with disdain. "Put your finger through another hole," he said. "Well--I like not the comfort that Mr. Secretary Walsingham has given you. You told me a while ago that Ballard was on the eve of going to France. Now Walsingham is no fool. I would to God he were! He has laid enough of our men by the heels already." "By God!" cried Anthony, roused again. "I would not willingly call you a fool either, my man! But do you not understand that Walsingham believes me as loyal as himself? Here have I been at court for the last year, bowing before her Grace, and never a word said to me on my religion. And here is Walsingham has bidden me to lodge in his house, in the midst of all his spider's webs. Do you think he would do that if--" "I think he might have done so," said Robin slowly. Anthony sprang to his feet. "My Robin," he said, "you were right enough when you said you would not join with us. You were not made for this work. You would see an enemy in your own father--" He stopped confounded. Robin smiled drearily. "I have seen one in him," he said. Anthony clapped him on the shoulder, not unkindly. "Forgive me, my Robin. I did not think what I said. Well; we will leave it at that. And you would not give me absolution?" The priest shook his head. "Then give me your blessing," said Anthony, dropping on his knees. "And so we will close up the _quasi-sigillum confessionis_." III It was a heavy-hearted priest that presently, downstairs, stood with Anthony in one of the guest-rooms, and was made known to half a dozen strangers. Every word that he had heard upstairs must be as if it had never been spoken, from the instant at which Anthony had first sat down to the instant in which he had kneeled down to receive his blessing. So much he knew from his studies at Rheims. He must be to each man that he met, that which he would have been to him an hour ago. Yet, though as a man he must know nothing, his priest's heart was heavy in his breast. It was a strange home-coming--to pass from the ordered piety of the college: to the whirl of politics and plots in which good and evil span round together--honest and fiery zeal for God's cause, mingled with what he was persuaded was crime and abomination. He had thought that a priest's life would be a simple thing, but it seemed otherwise now. He spoke with those half-dozen men--those who knew him well enough for a priest; and presently, when some of his own party came, drew aside again with Anthony, who began to tell him in a low voice of the personages there. "These are all my private friends," he said, "and some of them be men of substance in their own place. There is Mr. Charnoc, of Lancashire, he with the gilt sword. He is of the Court of her Grace, and comes and goes as he pleases. He is lodged in Whitehall, and comes here but to see his friends. And there is Mr. Savage, in the new clothes, with his beard cut short. He is a very honest fellow, but of a small substance, though of good family enough." "Her Grace has some of her ladies, too, that are Catholics, has she not?" asked Robin. "There are two or three at least, and no trouble made. They hear mass when they can at the Embassies. Mendoza is a very good friend of ours." Mr. Charnoc came up presently to the two. He was a cheerful-looking man, of northern descent, very particular in his clothes, with large gold ear-rings; he wore a short, pointed beard above his stiff ruff, and his eyes were bright and fanatical. "You are from Rheims, I understand, Mr. Alban." He sat down with something of an air next to Robin. "And your county--?" he asked. "I am from Derbyshire, sir," said Robin. "From Derbyshire. Then you will have heard of Mistress Marjorie Manners, no doubt." "She is an old friend of mine," said Robin, smiling. (The man had a great personal charm about him.) "You are very happy in your friends, then," said the other. "I have never spoken with her myself; but I hear of her continually as assisting our people--sending them now up into the Peak country, now into the towns, as the case may be--and never a mistake." * * * * * It was delightful to Robin to hear her praised, and he talked of her keenly and volubly. Exactly that had happened which five years ago he would have thought impossible; for every trace of his old feeling towards her was gone, leaving behind, and that only in the very deepest intimacies of his thought, a sweet and pleasant romance, like the glow in the sky when the sun is gone down. Little by little that had come about which, in Marjorie, had transformed her when she first sent him to Rheims. It was not that reaction had followed; there was no contempt, either of her or of himself, for what he had once thought of her; but another great passion had risen above it--a passion of which the human lover cannot even guess, kindled for one that is greater than man; a passion fed, trained and pruned by those six years of studious peace at Rheims, directed by experts in humanity. There he had seen what Love could do when it could rise higher than its human channels; he had seen young men, scarcely older than himself, set out for England, as for their bridals, exultant and on fire; and back to Rheims had come again the news of their martyrdom: this one died, crying to Jesu as a home-coming child cries to his mother at the garden-gate; this one had said nothing upon the scaffold, but his face (they said who brought the news) had been as the face of Stephen at his stoning; and others had come back themselves, banished, with pain of death on their returning, yet back once more these had gone. And, last, more than once, there had crept back to Rheims, borne on a litter all the way from the coast, the phantom of a man who a year or two ago had played "cat" and shouted at the play--now a bent man, grey-haired, with great scars on wrists and ankles.... _Te Deums_ had been sung in the college chapel when the news of the deaths had come: there were no _requiems_ for such as these; and the place of the martyr in the refectory was decked with flowers.... Robin had seen these things, and wondered whether his place, too, would some day be so decked. For Marjorie, then, he felt nothing but a happy friendliness, and a real delight when he thought of seeing her again. It was glorious, he thought, that she had done so much; that her name was in all men's mouths. And he had thought, when he had first gone to Rheims, that he would do all and she nothing! He had written to her then, freely and happily. He had told her that she must give him shelter some day, as she was doing for so many. Meanwhile it was pleasant to hear her praises. "'Eve would be Eve,'" quoted Mr. Charnoc presently, in speaking of pious women's obstinacy, "'though Adam would say Nay.'" * * * * * Then, at last, when Mr. Charnoc said that he must be leaving for his own lodgings, and stood up; once more upon Robin's heart there fell the horrible memory of all that he had heard upstairs. CHAPTER II I It was strange to Robin to walk about the City, and to view all that he saw from his new interior position. The last time that he had been in his own country on that short visit with "Captain Fortescue," he had been innocent in the eyes of the law, or, at least, no more guilty than any one of the hundreds of young men who, in spite of the regulations, were sent abroad to finish their education amid Catholic surroundings. Now, however, his very presence was an offence: he had broken every law framed expressly against such cases as his; he had studied abroad, he had been "ordained beyond the seas"; he had read his mass in his own bedchamber; he had, practically, received a confession; and it was his fixed and firm intention to "reconcile" as many of "her Grace's subjects" as possible to the "Roman See." And, to tell the truth, he found pleasure in the sheer adventure of it, as would every young man of spirit; and he wore his fine clothes, clinked his sword, and cocked his secular hat with delight. The burden of what he had heard still was heavy on him. It was true that in a manner inconceivable to any but a priest it lay apart altogether from his common consciousness: he had talked freely enough to Mr. Charnoc and the rest; he could not, even by a momentary lapse, allow what he knew to colour even the thoughts by which he dealt with men in ordinary life; for though it was true that no confession had been made, yet it was in virtue of his priesthood that he had been told so much. Yet there were moments when he walked alone, with nothing else to distract him, when the cloud came down again; and there were moments, too, in spite of himself, when his heart beat with another emotion, when he pictured what might not be five years hence, if Elizabeth were taken out of the way and Mary reigned in her stead. He knew from his father how swiftly and enthusiastically the old Faith had come back with Mary Tudor after the winter of Edward's reign. And if, as some estimated, a third of England were still convincedly Catholic, and perhaps not more than one twentieth convincedly Protestant, might not Mary Stuart, with her charm, accomplish more even than Mary Tudor with her lack of it? * * * * * He saw many fine sights during the three or four days after his coming to London; for he had to wait there at least that time, until a party that was expected from the north should arrive with news of where he was to go. These were the instructions he had had from Rheims. So he walked freely abroad during these days to see the sights; and even ventured to pay a visit to Fathers Garnett and Southwell, two Jesuits that arrived a month ago, and were for the present lodging in my Lord Vaux's house in Hackney. He was astonished at Father Southwell's youthfulness. This priest had landed but a short while before, and, for the present, was remaining quietly in the edge of London with the older man; for himself was scarcely twenty-five years old, and looked twenty at the most. He was very quiet and sedate, with a face of almost feminine delicacy, and passed a good deal of his leisure, as the old lord told Robin, in writing verses. He appeared a strangely fine instrument for such heavy work as was a priest's. On another day Robin saw the Archbishop land at Westminster Stairs. It was a brilliant day of sunshine as he came up the river-bank, and a little crowd of folks at the head of the stairs drew his attention. Then he heard, out of sight, the throb of oars grow louder; then a cry of command; and, as he reached the head of the stairs and looked over, the Archbishop, with a cloak thrown over his rochet, was just stepping out of the huge gilded barge, whose blue-and-silver liveried oarsmen steadied the vessel, or stood at the salute. It was a gay and dignified spectacle as he perceived, in spite of his intense antipathy to the sight of a man who, to him, was no better than an usurper and a deceiver of the people. Dr. Whitgift, too, was no friend to Catholics: he had, for instance, deliberately defended the use of the rack against them and others, unashamed; and in one particular instance, at least, as Bishop of Worcester, had directed its exercise in the county of Denbigh. These things were perfectly known, of course, even beyond the seas, to the priests who were to go on the English mission, in surprising detail. Robin knew even that this man was wholly ignorant of Greek; he looked at him carefully as he came up the stairs, and was surprised at the kindly face of him, thin-lipped, however, though with pleasant, searching eyes. His coach was waiting outside Old Palace Yard, and Robin, following with the rest of the little crowd, saluted him respectfully as he climbed into it, followed by a couple of chaplains. As he walked on, he glanced back across the river at Lambeth. There it lay, then, the home of Warham and Pole and Morton, with the water lapping its towers. It had once stood for the spiritual State of God in England, facing its partner--(and sometimes its rival)--Westminster and Whitehall; now it was a department of the civil State merely. It was occupied by men such as Dr. Grindal, sequestrated and deprived of even his spiritual functions by the woman who now grasped all the reins of the Commonwealth; and now again by the man whom he had just seen, placed there by the same woman to carry out her will more obediently against all who denied her supremacy in matters spiritual as well as temporal, whether Papists or Independents. * * * * * The priest was astonished, as he reached the precincts of Whitehall, to observe the number of guards that were everywhere visible. He had been warned at Rheims not to bring himself into too much notice, no more than markedly to avoid it; so he did not attempt to penetrate even the outer courts or passages. Yet it seemed to him that an air of watchfulness was everywhere. At the gate towards which he looked at least half a dozen men were on formal guard, their uniforms and weapons sparkling brilliantly in the sunshine; and besides these, within the open doors he caught sight of a couple of officers. As he stood there, a man came out of one of the houses near the gate, and turned towards it: he was immediately challenged, and presently passed on within, where one of the officers came forward to speak to him. Then Robin thought he had stood looking long enough, and moved away. * * * * * He came back to the City across the fields, half a mile away from the river, and, indeed, it was a glorious sight he had before him. Here, about him, was open ground on either side of the road on which he walked; and there, in front, rose up on the slope of the hill the long line of great old houses, beyond the stream that ran down into the Thames--old Religious Houses for the most part, now disguised and pulled about beyond recognition, ranging right and left from the Ludgate itself: behind these rose again towers and roofs, and high above all the tall spire of the Cathedral, as if to gather all into one, culminant aspiration.... The light from the west lay on every surface that looked to his left, golden and rosy; elsewhere lay blue and dusky shadows. II "There is a letter for you, sir," said the landlord, who had an uneasy look on his face, as the priest came through the entrance of the inn. Robin took it. Its superscription ran shortly: "To Mr. Alban, at the Red Bull Inn in Cheapside. Haste. Haste. Haste." He turned it over; it was sealed plainly on the back without arms or any device; it was a thick package, and appeared as if it might hold an enclosure or two. Robin had learned caution in a good school, and what is yet more vital in true caution, an appearance of carelessness. He weighed the packet easily in his hand, as if it were of no value, though he knew it might contain very questionable stuff from one of his friends, and glanced at a quantity of baggage that lay heaped beside the wall. "What is all this?" he said. "Another party arrived?" "No, sir; the party is leaving. Rather, it is left already; and the gentlemen bade me have the baggage ready here. They would send for it later, they told me." This was unusually voluble from this man. Robin looked at him quickly, and away again. "What party?" he said. "The gentlemen you were with this two nights past, sir," said the landlord keenly. Robin was aware of a feeling as if a finger had been laid on his heart; but not a muscle of his face moved. "Indeed!" he said. "They told me nothing of it." Then he moved on easily, feeling the landlord's eyes in every inch of his back, and went leisurely upstairs. He reached his room, bolted the door softly behind him, and sat down. His heart was going now like a hammer. Then he opened the packet; an enclosure fell out of it, also sealed, but without direction of any kind. Then he saw that the sheet in which the packet had come was itself covered with writing, rather large and sprawling, as if written in haste. He put the packet aside, and then lifted the paper to read it. * * * * * When he had finished, he sat quite still. The room looked to him misty and unreal; the paper crackled in his shaking fingers, and a drop of sweat ran suddenly into the corner of his dry lips. Then he read the paper again. It ran as follows: "It is all found out, we think. I find myself watched at every point, and I can get no speech with B. I cannot go forth from the house without a fellow to follow me, and two of my friends have found the same. Mr. G., too, hath been with Mr. W. this three hours back. By chance I saw him come in, and he has not yet left again. Mr. Ch. is watching for me while I write this, and will see that this letter is bestowed on a trusty man who will bring it to your inn, and, with it, another letter to bid our party save themselves while they can. I do not know how we shall fare, but we shall meet at a point that is fixed, and after that evade or die together. You were right, you see. Mr. G. has acted the traitor throughout, with Mr. W.'s connivance and assistance. I beg of you, then, to carry this letter, which I send in this, to Her for whom we have forfeited our lives, or, at least, our country; or, if you cannot take it with safety, master the contents of it by rote and deliver it to her with your own mouth. She has been taken back to C. again, whither you must go, and all her effects searched." There was no signature, but there followed a dash of the pen, and then a scrawled "A.B.," as if an interruption had come, or as if the man who was with the writer would wait no longer. * * * * * A third time Robin read it through. It was terribly easy of interpretation. "B." was Ballard; "G." was Gifford; "W." was Walsingham; "Ch." was Charnoc; "Her" was Mary Stuart; "C." was Chartley. It fitted and made sense like a child's puzzle. And, if the faintest doubt could remain in the most incredulous mind as to the horrible reality of it all, there was the piled luggage downstairs, that would never be "sent for" (and never, indeed, needed again by its owners in this world). Then he took up the second sealed packet, and held it unbroken, while his mind flew like a bird, and in less than a minute he decided, and opened it. It was a piteous letter, signed again merely "A.B.," and might have been written by any broken-hearted reverent lover to his beloved. It spoke an eternal good-bye; the writer said that he would lay down his life gladly again in such a cause if it were called for, and would lay down a thousand if he had them; he entreated her to look to herself, for that no doubt every attempt would now be made to entrap her; and it warned her to put no longer any confidence in a "detestable knave, G.G." Finally, he begged that "Jesu would have her in His holy keeping," and that if matters fell out as he thought they would, she would pray for his soul, and the souls of all that had been with him in the enterprise. He read it through three or four times; every line and letter burned itself into his brain. Then he tore it across and across; then he tore the letter addressed to himself in the same manner; then he went through all the fragments, piece by piece, tearing each into smaller fragments, till there remained in his hands just a bunch of tiny scraps, smaller than snowflakes, and these he scattered out of the window. Then he went to his door, unbolted it, and walked downstairs to find the landlord. III It was not until ten days later, soon after dawn, that Robin set out on his melancholy errand. He rode out northward as soon as the gates were opened, with young "Mr. Arnold," a priest ordained with him in Rheims, and one of his party, disguised as a servant, following him on a pack-horse with the luggage. It was a misty morning, white and cheerless, with the early fog that had drifted up from the river. Last night the news had come in that Anthony and at least one other had been taken near Harrow, in disguise, and the streets had been full of riotous rejoicing over the capture. He had thought it more prudent to wait till after receiving the news, which he so much dreaded, lest haste should bring suspicion on himself, and the message that he carried; since for him, too, to disappear at once would have meant an almost inevitable association of him with the party of plotters; but it had been a hard time to pass through. Early in the morning, after Anthony's flight, he had awakened to hear a rapping upon the inn door, and, peeping from his window, had seen a couple of plainly dressed men waiting for admittance; but after that he had seen no more of them. He had deliberately refrained from speaking with the landlord, except to remark again upon the luggage of which he caught a sight, piled no longer in the entrance, but in the little room that the man himself used. The landlord had said shortly that it had not yet been sent for. And the greater part of the day--after he had told the companions that had come with him from Rheims that he had had a letter, which seemed to show that the party with whom they had made friends had disappeared, and were probably under suspicion, and had made the necessary arrangements for his own departure with young Mr. Arnold--he spent in walking abroad as usual. The days that followed had been bitter and heavy. He had liked neither to stop within doors nor to go abroad, since the one course might arouse inquiry and the second lead to his identification. He had gone to my Lord Vaux's house again and again, with his friend and without him; he had learned of the details of Anthony's capture, though he had not dared even to attempt to get speech with him; and, further, that unless the rest of the men were caught, it would not be easy to prove anything against him. One thing, therefore, he prayed for with all his heart--that the rest might yet escape. He told his party something of the course of events, but not too much. On the Sunday that intervened he went to hear mass in Fetter Lane, where numbers of Catholics resorted; and there, piece by piece, learned more of the plot than even Anthony had told him. Mr. Arnold was a Lancashire man and a young convert of Oxford--one of that steady small stream that poured over to the Continent--a sufficiently well-born and intelligent man to enjoy acting as a servant, which he did with considerable skill. It was common enough for gentlemen to ride side by side with their servants when they had left the town; and by the time that the two were clear of the few scattered houses outside the City gates, Mr. Arnold urged on his horse; and they rode together. Robin was in somewhat of a difficulty as to how far he was justified in speaking of what he knew. It was true that he was not at liberty to use what Anthony had originally told him; but the letter and the commission which he had received certainly liberated his conscience to some degree, since it told him plainly enough that there was a plot on behalf of Mary, that certain persons, one or two of whom he knew for himself, were involved in it, that they were under suspicion, and that they had fled. Ordinary discretion, however, was enough to make him hold his tongue, beyond saying, as he had said already to the rest of them, that he was the bearer of a message from Mr. Babington, now in prison, to Mary Stuart. Mr. Arnold had been advertised that he might take up his duties in Lancashire as soon as he liked; but, because of his inexperience and youth, it had been decided that he had better ride with "Mr. Alban" so far as Chartley at least, and thence, if all were well, go on to Lancaster itself, where his family was known, and whither he could return, for the present, without suspicion. * * * * * The roads, such as they were, were in a terrible state still with the heavy rain of a few days ago, and the further showers that had fallen in the night. They made very poor progress, and by dinner-time were not yet in sight of Watford. But they pushed on, coming at last about one o'clock to that little town, all gathered together in the trench of the low hills. There was a modest inn in the main street, with a little garden behind it; and while Mr. Arnold took the horses off for watering, Robin went through to the garden, sat down, and ordered food to be served for himself and his man together. The day was warmer, and the sun came out as they sat over their meal. When they had done, Robin sent his friend off again for the horses. They must not delay longer than was necessary, if they wished to sleep at Leighton, and give the horses their proper rest. * * * * * When he was left alone, he fell a-thinking once more; and, what with the morning's ride and the air and the sunshine, and the sense of liberty, he was inclined to be more cheerful. Surely England was large enough to hide the rest of the plotters for a time, until they could get out of it. Anthony was taken, indeed, yet, without the rest, he might very well escape conviction. Robin had not been challenged in any way; the gatekeepers had looked at him, indeed, as he came out of the City; but so they always did, and the landlady here had run her eyes over him; but that was the way of landladies who wished to know how much should be charged to travellers. And if he had come out so easily, why should not his friends? All turned now, to his mind, on whether the rest of the conspirators could evade the pursuivants or not. He stood up presently to stretch his legs before mounting again, and as he stood up he heard running footsteps somewhere beyond the house: they died away; but then came the sound of another runner, and of another, and he heard voices calling. Then a window was flung up beyond the house; steps came rattling down the stairs within and passed out into the street. It was probably a bull that had escaped, or a mad dog, he thought, or some rustic excitement of that kind, and he thought he would go and see it for himself; so he passed out through the house, just in time to meet Mr. Arnold coming round with the horses. "What was the noise about?" he asked. The other looked at him. "I heard none, sir," he said. "I was in the stable." Robin looked up and down the street. It seemed as empty as it should be on a summer's day; two or three women were at the doors of their houses, and an old dog was asleep in the sun. There was no sign of any disturbance. "Where is the woman of the house?" asked Robin. "I do not know, sir." They could not go without paying; but Robin marvelled at the simplicity of these folks, to leave a couple of guests free to ride away; he went within again and called out, but there was no one to be seen. "This is laughable," he said, coming out again. "Shall we leave a mark behind us and be off?" "Are they all gone, sir?" asked the other, staring at him. "I heard some running and calling out just now," said Robin. "I suppose a message must have been brought to the house." Then, as he stood still, hesitating, a noise of voices arose suddenly round the corner of the street, and a group of men with pitchforks ran out from a gateway on the other side, fifty yards away, crossed the road, and disappeared again. Behind them ran a woman or two, a barking dog, and a string of children. But Robin thought he had caught a glimpse of some kind of officer's uniform at the head of the running men, and his heart stood still. IV Neither of the two spoke for a moment. "Wait here with the horses," said Robin. "I must see what all this is about." * * * * * Mr. Arnold was scarcely more than a boy still, and he had all the desire of a boy, if he saw an excited crowd, to join himself to it. But he was being a servant just now, and must do what he was told. So he waited patiently with the two horses that tossed their jingling heads and stamped and attempted to kick flies off impossibly remote parts of their bodies. Certainly, the excitement was growing. After he had seen his friend walk quickly down the road and turn off where the group of rustically-armed men had disappeared in the direction where newly-made haystacks shaded their gables beyond the roofs of the houses, several other figures appeared through the opposite gateway in hot pursuit. One was certainly a guard of some kind, a stout, important-looking fellow, who ran and wheezed as he ran loud enough to be heard at the inn door. The women standing before the houses, too, presently were after the rest--all except one old dame, who put her head forth, and peered this way and that with a vindictive anger at having been left all alone. More yet showed themselves--children dragging puppies after them, an old man with a large rusty sword, a couple of lads each with a pike--these appeared, like figures in a pantomime play, whisking into sight from between the houses, and all disappearing again immediately. And then, all on a sudden, a great clamour of voices began, all shouting together, as if some quarry had been sighted: it grew louder, sharp cries of command rang above the roar. Then there burst out of the side, where all had gone in, a ball of children, which exploded into fragments and faced about, still with a couple of puppies that barked shrilly; and then, walking very fast and upright, came Mr. Robin Audrey, white-faced and stern, straight up to where the lad waited with the horses. Robin jerked his head. "Quick!" he said. "We must be off, or we shall be here all night." He gathered up his reins for mounting. "What is it, sir?" asked the other, unable to be silent. "They have caught some fellows," he said. "And the inn-account, sir?" Robin pulled out a couple of coins from his pouch. "Put that on the table within," he said. "We can wait no longer. Give me your reins!" His manner was so dreadful that the young man dared ask no more. He ran in, laid the coins down (they were more than double what could have been asked for their entertainment), came out again, and mounted his own horse that his friend held. As they rode down the street, he could not refrain from looking back, as a great roar of voices broke out again; but he could see no more than a crowd of men, with the pitchforks moving like spears on the outskirt, as if they guarded prisoners within, come out between the houses and turn up towards the inn they themselves had just left. * * * * * As they came clear of the village and out again upon the open road, Robin turned to him, and his face was still pale and stern. "Mr. Arnold," he said, "those were the last of my friends that I told you of. Now they have them all, and there is no longer any hope. They found them behind the haystacks next to the garden where we dined. They must have been there all night." CHAPTER III I It was in the evening of the fourth day after their start that, riding up alongside of the Blythe, they struck out to the northwest, away from the trees, and saw the woods of Chartley not half a mile away. Robin sighed with relief, though, as a fact, his adventure was scarcely more than begun, since he had yet to learn how he could get speech with the Queen; but, at least, he was within sight of her, and of his own country as well. Far away, eastwards, beyond the hills, not twenty miles off, lay Derby. * * * * * It had been a melancholy ride, in spite of the air of freedom through which they rode, since news had come to them, in more than one place, of the fortunes of the Babington party. A courier, riding fast, had passed them as they sighted Buckingham; and by the time they came in, he was gone again, on Government business (it was said), and the little town hummed with rumours, out of which emerged, at any rate, the certainty that the whole company had been captured. At Coventry, again, the tidings had travelled faster than themselves; for here it was reported that Mr. Babington and Mr. Charnoc had been racked; and in Lichfield, last of all, the tale was complete, and (as they learned later) tolerably accurate too. It was from a clerk in the inn there that the story came, who declared that there was no secrecy about the matter any longer, and that he himself had seen the tale in writing. It ran as follows: The entire plot had been known from the beginning, Gilbert Gifford had been an emissary of Walsingham's throughout; and every letter that passed to and from the various personages had passed through the Secretary's hands and been deciphered in his house. There never had been one instant in which Mr. Walsingham had been at fault, or in the dark: he had gone so far, it was reported, as to insert in one of the letters that was to go to Mr. Babington a request for the names of all the conspirators, and in return there had come from him, not only a list of the names, but a pictured group of them, with Mr. Babington himself in the midst. This picture had actually been shown to her Grace in order that she might guard herself against private assassination, since two or three of the group were in her own household. "It is like to go hard with the Scots Queen!" said the clerk bitterly. "She has gone too far this time." Robin said nothing to commit himself, for he did not know on which side the man ranged himself; but he drew him aside after dinner, and asked whether it might be possible to get a sight of the Queen. "I am riding to Derby," he said, "with my man. But if to turn aside at Chartley would give us a chance of seeing her, I would do so. A queen in captivity is worth seeing. And I can see you are a man of influence." The clerk looked at him shrewdly; he was a man plainly in love with his own importance, and the priest's last words were balm to him. "It might be done," he said. "I do not know." Robin saw the impression he had made, and that the butter could not be too thick. "I am sure you could do it for me," he said, "if any man could. But I understand that a man of your position may be unwilling--" The clerk solemnly laid a hand on the priest's arm. "Well, I will tell you this," he said. "Get speech with Mr. Bourgoign, her apothecary. He alone has access to her now, besides her own women. It might be he could put you in some private place to see her go by." This was not much use, thought Robin; but, at least, it gave him something to begin at: so he thanked the clerk solemnly and reverentially, and was rewarded by another discreet pat on the arm. * * * * * The sight of the Chartley woods, tall and splendid in the light of the setting sun, and already tinged here and there with the first marks of autumn, brought his indecision to a point; and he realized that he had no plan. He had heard that Mary occasionally rode abroad, and he hoped perhaps to get speech with her that way; but what he had heard from the clerk and others showed him that this small degree of liberty was now denied to the Queen. In some way or another he must get news of Mr. Bourgoign. Beyond that he knew nothing. * * * * * The great gates of Chartley were closed as the two came up to them. There was a lodge beside them, and a sentry stood there. A bell was ringing from the great house within the woods, no doubt for supper-time, but there was no other human being besides the sentry to be seen. So Robin did not even check his weary horse; but turned only, with a deliberately curious air, as he went past and rode straight on. Then, as he rounded a corner he saw smoke going up from houses, it seemed, outside the park. "What is that?" asked Arnold suddenly. "Do you hear--?" A sound of a galloping horse grew louder behind them, and a moment afterwards the sound of another. The two priests were still in view of the sentry; and knowing that Chartley was guarded now as if it had all the treasures of the earth within, Robin reflected that to show too little interest might arouse as sharp suspicion as too much. So he wheeled his horse round and stopped to look. They heard the challenge of the sentry within, and then the unbarring of the gates. An instant later a courier dashed out and wheeled to the right, while at the same time the second galloper came to view--another courier on a jaded horse; and the two passed--the one plainly riding to London, the second arriving from it. The gates were yet open; but the second was challenged once more before he was allowed to pass and his hoofs sounded on the road that led to the house. Then the gates clashed together again. Robin turned his horse's head once more towards the houses, conscious more than ever how near he was to the nerves of England's life, and what tragic ties they were between the two royal cousins, that demanded such a furious and frequent exchange of messages. "We must do our best here," he said, nodding towards the little hamlet. II It was plainly a newly-grown little group of houses that bordered the side of the road away from the enclosed park--sprung up as a kind of overflow lodging for the dependants necessary to such a suddenly increased household; for the houses were no more than wooden dwellings, ill-roofed and ill-built, with the sap scarcely yet finished oozing from the ends of the beams and the planks. Smoke was issuing, in most cases, from rough holes cut in the roofs, and in the last rays of sunshine two or three men were sitting on stools set out before the houses. Robin checked his horse before a man whose face seemed kindly, and who saluted courteously the fine gentleman who looked about with such an air. "My horse is dead-spent," he said curtly. "Is there an inn here where my man and I can find lodging?" The man shook his head, looking at the horse compassionately. He had the air of a groom about him. "I fear not, sir, not within five miles; at least, not with a room to spare." "This is Chartley, is it not?" asked the priest, noticing that the next man, too, was listening. "Aye, sir." "Can you tell me if my friend Mr. Bourgoign lodges in the house, or without the gates?" "Mr. Bourgoign, sir? A friend of yours?" "I hope so," said Robin, smiling, and keeping at least within the letter of truth. The man mused a moment. "It is possible he might help you, sir. He lodges in the house; but he comes sometimes to see a woman that is sick here." Robin demanded where she lived. "At the last house, sir--a little beyond the rest. She is one of her Grace's kitchen-women. They moved her out here, thinking it might be the fever she had." This was plainly a communicative fellow; but the priest thought it wiser not to take too much interest. He tossed the man a coin and rode on. * * * * * The last house was a little better built than the others, and stood further back from the road. Robin dismounted here, and, with a nod to Mr. Arnold, who was keeping his countenance admirably, walked up to the door and knocked on it. It was opened instantly, as if he were expected, but the woman's face fell when she saw him. "Is Mr. Bourgoign within?" asked the priest. The woman glanced over him before answering, and then out to where the horses waited. "No, sir," she said at last. "We were looking for him just now...." (She broke off.) "He is coming now," she said. Robin turned, and there, walking down the road, was an old man, leaning on a stick, richly and soberly dressed in black, wearing a black beaver hat on his head. A man-servant followed him at a little distance. The priest saw that here was an opportunity ready-made; but there was one more point on which he must satisfy himself first, and what seemed to him an inspiration came to his mind. "He looks like a minister," he said carelessly. A curious veiled look came over the woman's face. Robin made a bold venture. He smiled full in her face. "You need not fear," he said. "I quarrel with no man's religion;" and, at the look in her face at this, he added: "You are a Catholic, I suppose? Well, I am one too. And so, I suppose, is Mr. Bourgoign." The woman smiled tremulously, and the fear left her eyes. "Yes, sir," she said. "All the friends of her Grace are Catholics, I think." He nodded to her again genially. Then, turning, he went to meet the apothecary, who was now not thirty yards away. * * * * * It was a pathetic old figure that was hobbling towards him. He seemed a man of near seventy years old, with a close-cropped beard and spectacles on his nose, and he carried himself heavily and ploddingly. Robin argued to himself that it must be a kindly man who would come out at this hour--perhaps the one hour he had to himself--to visit a poor dependant. Yet all this was sheer conjecture; and, as the old man came near, he saw there was something besides kindliness in the eyes that met his own. He saluted boldly and deferentially. "Mr. Bourgoign," he said in a low voice, "I must speak five minutes with you. And I ask you to make as if you were my friend." The old man stiffened like a watch-dog. It was plain that he was on his guard. "I do not know you, sir." "I entreat you to do as I ask. I am a priest, sir. I entreat you to take my hand as if we were friends." A look of surprise went over the physician's face. "You can send me packing in ten minutes," went on Robin rapidly, at the same time holding out his hand. "And we will talk here in the road, if you will." There was still a moment's hesitation. Then he took the priest's hand. "I am come straight from London," went on Robin, still speaking clearly, yet with his lips scarcely moving. "A fortnight ago I talked with Mr. Babington." The old man drew his arm close within his own. "You have said enough, or too much, at present, sir. You shall walk with me a hundred yards up this road, and justify what you have said." "We have had a weary ride of it, Mr. Bourgoign.... I am on the road to Derby," went on Robin, talking loudly enough now to be overheard, as he hoped, by any listeners. "And my horse is spent.... I will tell you my business," he added in a lower tone, "as soon as you bid me." Fifty yards up the road the old man pressed his arm again. "You can tell me now, sir," he said. "But we will walk, if you please, while you do so." * * * * * "First," said Robin, after a moment's consideration as to his best beginning, "I will tell you the name I go by. It is Mr. Alban. I am a newly-made priest, as I told you just now; I came from Rheims scarcely a fortnight ago. I am from Derbyshire; and I will tell you my proper name at the end, if you wish it." "Repeat the blessing of the deacon by the priest at mass," murmured Mr. Bourgoign to the amazement of the other, without the change of an inflection in his voice or a movement of his hand. "_Dominus sit in corde tuo et in labiis_--" began the priest. "That is enough, sir, for the present. Well?" "Next," said Robin, hardly yet recovered from the extraordinary promptness of the challenge--"Next, I was speaking with Mr. Babington a fortnight ago." "In what place?" "In the inn called the 'Red Bull,' in Cheapside." "Good. I have lodged there myself," said the other. "And you are one--" "No, sir," said Robin, "I do not deny that I spoke with them all--with Mr. Charnoc and--" "That is enough of those names, sir," said the other, with a small and fearful lift of his white eyebrows, as if he dreaded the very trees that nearly met overhead in this place. "And what is your business?" "I have satisfied you, then--" began Robin. "Not at all, sir. You have answered sufficiently so far; that is all. I wish to know your business." "The night following the day on which the men fled, of whom I have just spoken, I had a letter from--from their leader. He told me that all was lost, and he gave me a letter to her Grace here--" He felt the thin old sinews under his hand contract suddenly, and paused. "Go on, sir," whispered the old voice. "A letter to her Grace, sir. I was to use my discretion whether I carried it with me, or learned it by rote. I have other interests at stake besides this, and I used my discretion, and destroyed the letter." "But you have some writing, no doubt--" "I have none," said Robin. "I have my word only." There was a pause. "Was the message private?" "Private only to her Grace's enemies. I will tell you the substance of it now, if you will." The old man, without answering, steered his companion nearer to the wall; then he relinquished the supporting arm, and leaned himself against the stones, fixing his eyes full upon the priest, and searching, as it seemed, every feature of his face and every detail of his dress. "Was the message important, sir?" "Important only to those who value love and fidelity." "I could deliver it myself, then?" "Certainly, sir. If you will give me your word to deliver it to her Grace, as I deliver it to you, and to none else, I will ride on and trouble you no more." "That is enough," said the physician decidedly. "I am completely satisfied, Mr. Alban. All that remains is to consider how I can get you to her Grace." "But if you yourself will deliver--" began Robin. An extraordinary spasm passed over the other's face, that might denote any fierce emotion, either of anger or grief. "Do you think it is that?" he hissed. "Why, man, where is your priesthood? Do you think the poor dame within would not give her soul for a priest?... Why, I have prayed God night and day to send us a priest. She is half mad with sorrow; and who knows whether ever again in this world--" He broke off, his face all distorted with pain; and Robin felt a strange thrill of glory at the thought that he bore with him, in virtue of his priesthood only, so much consolation. He faced for the first time that tremendous call of which he had heard so much in Rheims--that desolate cry of souls that longed and longed in vain for those gifts which a priest of Christ could alone bestow.... "... The question is," the old man was saying more quietly, "how to get you in to her Grace. Why, Sir Amyas opens her letters even, and reseals them again! He thinks me a fool, and that I do not know what he does.... Do you know aught of medicine?" he asked abruptly. "I know only what country folks know of herbs." "And their names--their Latin names, man?" pursued the other, leaning forward. Robin half smiled. "Now you speak of it," he said, "I have learned a good many, as a pastime, when I was a boy. I was something of a herbalist, even. But I have forgotten--" "Bah! that would be enough for Sir Amyas--" He turned and spat venomously at the name. "Sir Amyas knows nothing save his own vile trade. He is a lout--no more. He is as grim as a goose, always. And you have a town air about you," he went on, running his eyes critically over the young man's dress. "Those are French clothes?" "They were bought in France." The two stood silent. Robin's excitement beat in all his veins, in spite of his weariness. He had come to bear a human message only to a bereaved Queen; and it seemed as if his work were to be rather the bearing of a Divine message to a lonely soul. He watched the old man's face eagerly. It was sunk in thought.... Then Mr. Bourgoign took him abruptly by the arm. "Give me your arm again," he said. "I am an old man. We must be going back again. It seems as if God heard our prayers after all. I will see you disposed for to-night--you and your man and the horses, and I will send for you myself in the morning. Could you say mass, think you? if I found you a secure place--and bring Our Lord's Body with you in the morning?" He checked the young man, to hear his answer. "Why, yes," said Robin. "I have all things that are needed." "Then you shall say mass in any case ... and reserve our Lord's Body in a pyx.... Now listen to me. If my plan falls as I hope, you must be a physician to-morrow, and have practised your trade in Paris. You have been in Paris?" "No, sir." "Bah!... Well, no more has Sir Amyas!... You have practised your trade in Paris, and God has given you great skill in the matter of herbs. And, upon hearing that I was in Chartley, you inquired for your old friend, whose acquaintance you had made in Paris, five years ago. And I, upon hearing you were come, secured your willingness to see my patient, if you would but consent. Your reputation has reached me even here; you have attended His Majesty in Paris on three occasions; you restored Mademoiselle �lise, of the family of Guise, from the very point of death. You are but a young man still; yet--Bah! It is arranged. You understand? Now come with me." CHAPTER IV I In spite of his plans and his hopes and his dreams, it was with an amazement beyond all telling, that Mr. Robert Alban found himself, at nine o'clock next morning, conducted by two men through the hall at Chartley to the little parlour where he was to await Sir Amyas Paulet and the Queen's apothecary. * * * * * Matters had been arranged last night with that promptness which alone could make the tale possible. He had walked back with the old man in full view of the little hamlet, to all appearances, the best of old friends; and after providing for a room in the sick woman's house for Robin himself, another in another house for Mr. Arnold, and stabling for the horses in a shed where occasionally the spent horses of the couriers were housed when Chartley stables were overflowing--after all this had been arranged by Mr. Bourgoign in person, the two walked on to the great gates of the park, where they took an affectionate farewell within hearing of the sentry, the apothecary promising to see Sir Amyas that night and to communicate with his friend in the morning. Robin had learned previously how strict was the watch set about the Queen's person, particularly since the news of the Babington plot had first reached the authorities, and of the extraordinary difficulty to the approach of any stranger to her presence. Nau and Curle, her two secretaries, had been arrested and perhaps racked a week or ten days before; all the Queen's papers had been taken from her, and even her jewellery and pictures sent off to Elizabeth; and the only persons ordinarily allowed to speak with her, besides her gaoler, were two of her women, and Mr. Bourgoign himself. That morning then, before six o'clock, Robin had said mass in the sick woman's room and given her communion, with her companion, who answered his mass, as it was thought more prudent that the other priest should not even be present; and, at the close of the mass he had reserved in a little pyx, hidden beneath his clothes, a consecrated particle. Mr. Bourgoign had said that he would see to it that the Queen should be fasting up to ten o'clock that day. And now the last miracle had been accomplished. A servant had come down late the night before, with a discreet letter from the apothecary, saying that Sir Amyas had consented to receive and examine for himself the travelling physician from Paris; and here now went Robin, striving to remember the old Latin names he had learned as a boy, and to carry a medical air with him. * * * * * The parlour in which he found himself was furnished severely and even rather sparely, owing, perhaps, he thought, to the temporary nature of the household. It was the custom in great houses to carry with the family, from house to house, all luxuries such as extra hangings or painted pictures or carpets, as well as even such things as cooking utensils; and in the Queen's sudden removal back again from Tixall, many matters must have been neglected. The oak wainscoting was completely bare; and over the upper parts of the walls in many places the stones showed through between the ill-fitting tapestries. A sheaf of pikes stood in one corner; an oil portrait of an unknown worthy in the dress of fifty years ago hung over one of the doors; a large round oak table, with ink-horn and pounce-box, stood in the centre of the room with stools beside it: there was no hearth or chimney visible; and there was no tapestry upon the floor: a skin only lay between the windows. The priest sat down and waited. He had enough to occupy his mind; for not only had he the thought of the character he was to sustain presently under the scrutiny of a suspicious man; but he had the prospect, as he hoped, of coming into the presence of the most-talked-of woman in Europe, and of ministering to her as a priest alone could do, in her sorest need. His hand went to his breast as he considered it, and remembered What he bore ... and he felt the tiny flat circular case press upon his heart.... For his imagination was all aflame at the thought of Mary. Not only had he been kindled again and again in the old days by poor Anthony's talk, until the woman seemed to him half-deified already; but man after man had repeated the same tale, that she was, in truth, that which her lean cousin of England desired to be thought--a very paragon of women, innocent, holy, undefiled, yet of charm to drive men to their knees before her presence. It was said that she was as one of those strange moths which, confined behind glass, will draw their mates out of the darkness to beat themselves to death against her prison; she was exquisite, they said, in her pale beauty, and yet more exquisite in her pain; she exuded a faint and intoxicating perfume of womanliness, like a crushed herb. Yet she was to be worshipped, rather than loved--a sacrament to be approached kneeling, an incarnate breath of heaven, the more lovely from the vileness into which her life had been cast and the slanders that were about her name.... More marvellous than all was that those who knew her best and longest loved her most; her servants wept or groaned themselves into fevers if they were excluded from her too long; of her as of the Wisdom of old might it be said that, "They who ate her hungered yet, and they who drank her thirsted yet."... It was to this miracle of humanity, then, that this priest was to come.... * * * * * He sat up suddenly, once more pressing his hand to his breast, where his Treasure lay hidden, as he heard steps crossing the paved hall outside. Then he rose to his feet and bowed as a tall man came swiftly in, followed by the apothecary. II It was a lean, harsh-faced man that he saw, long-moustached and melancholy-eyed--"grim as a goose," as the physician had said--wearing, even in this guarded household, a half-breast and cap of steel. A long sword jingled beside him on the stone floor and clashed with his spurred boots. He appeared the last man in the world to be the companion of a sorrowing Queen; and it was precisely for this reason that he had been chosen to replace the courtly lord Shrewsbury and the gentle Sir Ralph Sadler. (Her Grace of England said that she had had enough of nurses for gaolers.) His voice, too, resembled the bitter clash of a key in a lock. "Well, sir," he said abruptly, "Mr. Bourgoign tells me you are a friend of his." "I have that honour, sir." "You met in Paris, eh?... And you profess a knowledge of herbs beyond the ordinary?" "Mr. Bourgoign is good enough to say so." "And you are after her Grace of Scotland, as they call her, like all the rest of them, eh?" "I shall be happy to put what art I possess at her Grace of Scotland's service." "Traitors say as much as that, sir." "In the cause of treachery, no doubt, sir." Sir Amyas barked a kind of laugh. "_Vous avez raisong_," he said with a deplorable accent. "As her Grace would say. And you come purely by chance to Chartley, no doubt!" The sneer was unmistakable. Robin met it full. "Not for one moment, sir. I was on my way to Derby. I could have saved a few miles if I had struck north long ago. But Chartley is interesting in these days." (He saw Mr. Bourgoign's eyes gleam with satisfaction.) "That is honest at least, sir. And why is Chartley interesting?" "Because her Grace is here," answered Robin with sublime simplicity. Sir Amyas barked again. It seemed he liked this way of talk. For a moment or two his eyes searched Robin--hard, narrow eyes like a dog's; he looked him up and down. "Where are your drugs, sir?" Robin smiled. "A herbalist does not need to carry drugs," he said. "They grow in every hedgerow if a man has eyes to see what God has given him." "That is true enough. I would we had more talk about God His Majesty in this household, and less of Popish trinkets and fiddle-faddle.... Well, sir; do you think you can cure her ladyship?" "I have no opinion on the point at all, sir. I do not know what is the matter with her--beyond what Mr. Bourgoign has told me," he added hastily, remembering the supposed situation. The soldier paid no attention. Like all slow-witted men, he was following up an irrelevant train of thought from his own last sentence but one. "Fiddle-faddle!" he said again. "I am sick of her megrims and her vapours and her humours. Has she not blood and bones like the rest of us? And yet she cannot take her food nor her drink, nor sleep like an honest woman. And I do not wonder at it; for that is what she is not. They will say she is poisoned, I dare say.... Well, sir; I suppose you had best see her; but in my presence, remember, sir; in my presence." Robin's spirits sank like a stone.... Moreover, he would be instantly detected as a knave (though that honestly seemed a lesser matter to him), if he attempted to talk medically in Sir Amyas' presence; unless that warrior was truly as great a clod as he seemed. He determined to risk it. He bowed. "I can at least try my poor skill, sir," he said. Sir Amyas instantly turned, with a jerk of his head to beckon them, and clanked out again into the hall. There was not a moment's opportunity for the two conspirators to exchange even a word; for there, in the hall, stood the two men who had brought Robin in, to keep guard; and as the party passed through to the foot of the great staircase, he saw on each landing that was in sight another sentry, and, at a door at the end of the overhead gallery, against which hung a heavy velvet curtain, stood the last, a stern figure to keep guard on the rooms of a Queen, with his body-armour complete, a steel hat on his head and a pike in his hand. It was to this door that Sir Amyas went, acknowledging with a lift of the finger the salute of his men. (It was plain that this place was under strict military discipline.) With the two, the real and the false physician following him, he pulled aside the curtain and rapped imperiously on the door. It was opened after a moment's delay by a frightened-faced woman. "Her Grace?" demanded the officer sharply. "Is she still abed?" "Her Grace is risen, sir," said the woman tremulously; "she is in the inner room." Sir Amyas strode straight on, pulled aside a second curtain hanging over the further door, rapped upon that, too, and without even waiting for an answer this time, beyond the shrill barking of dogs within, opened it and passed in. Mr. Bourgoign followed; and Robin came last. The door closed softly behind him. III The room was furnished with more decency than any he had seen in this harsh house; for, although at the time he thought that he had no eyes for anything but one figure which it contained, he found himself afterwards able to give a very tolerable account of its general appearance. The walls were hung throughout with a dark-blue velvet hanging, stamped with silver fleur-de-lys. There were tapestries on the floor, between which gleamed the polished oak boards, perfectly kept, by the labours (no doubt) of her Grace's two women (since such things would be mere "fiddle-faddle" to the honest soldier); a graceful French table ran down the centre of the room, very delicately carved, and beneath it two baskets from which looked out the indignant heads of a couple of little spaniels; upon it, at the nearer end, were three or four cages of turtle-doves, melancholy-looking in this half-lit room; old, sun-bleached curtains of the same material as that which hung on the walls, shrouded the two windows on the right, letting but a half light into the room: there was a further door, also curtained, diagonally opposite that by which the party had entered; and in the centre of the same wall a tall blue canopy, fringed with silver, rose to the ceiling. Beneath it, on a daïs of a single step, stood a velvet chair, with gilded arms, and worked with the royal shield in the embroidery of the back--with a crowned lion _sejant, guardant_, for the crest above the crown. Half a dozen more chairs were ranged about the table; and, on a couch, with her feet swathed in draperies, with a woman standing over her behind, as if she had just risen up from speaking in her ear, lay the Queen of the Scots. A tall silver and ebony crucifix, with a couple of velvet-bound, silver-clasped little books, stood on the table within reach of her hand, and a folded handkerchief beside them. Mary was past her prime long ago; she was worn with sorrow and slanders and miseries; yet she appeared to the priest's eyes, even then, like a figure of a dream. It was partly, no doubt, the faintness of the light that came in through the half-shrouded windows that obliterated the lines and fallen patches that her face was beginning to bear; and she lay, too, with her back even to such light as there was. Yet for all that, and even if he had not known who she was, Robin could not have taken his eyes from her face. She lay there like a fallen flower, pale as a lily, beaten down at last by the waves and storms that had gone over her; and she was more beautiful in her downfall and disgrace, a thousand times, than when she had come first to Holyrood, or danced in the Courts of France. Now it is not in the features one by one that beauty lies but rather in the coincidence of them all. Her face was almost waxen now, blue shadowed beneath the two waves of pale hair; she had a small mouth, a delicate nose, and large, searching hazel eyes. Her head-dress was of white, with silver pins in it; a light white shawl was clasped cross-wise over her shoulders; and she wore a loose brocaded dressing-gown beneath it. Her hands, clasped as if in prayer, emerged out of deep lace-fringed sleeves, and were covered with rings. But it was the air of almost superhuman delicacy that breathed from her most forcibly; and, when she spoke, a ring of assured decision revealed her quiet consciousness of royalty. It was an extraordinary mingling of fragility and power, of which this feminine and royal room was the proper frame. Sir Amyas knelt perfunctorily, as if impatient of it; and rose up again at once without waiting for the signal. Mary lifted her fingers a little as a sign to the other two. "I have brought the French doctor, madam," said the soldier abruptly. "But he must see your Grace in my presence." "Then you might as well have spared him, and yourself, the pains, sir," came the quiet, dignified voice. "I do not choose to be examined in your presence." Robin lifted his eyes to her face; but although he thought he caught an under air of intense desire towards him and That which he bore, there was no faltering in the tone of her voice. It was, as some man said, as "soft as running water heard by night." "This is absurd, madam. I am responsible for your Grace's security and good health. But there are lengths--" "You have spoken the very word," said the Queen. "There are lengths to which none of us should go, even to preserve our health." "I tell you, madam--" "There is no more to be said, sir," said the Queen, closing her eyes again. "But what do I know of this fellow? How can I tell he is what he professes to be?" barked Sir Amyas. "Then you should never have admitted him at all," said the Queen, opening her eyes again. "And I will do the best that I can--" "But, madam, your health is my care; and Mr. Bourgoign here tells me--" "The subject does not interest me," murmured the Queen, apparently half asleep. "But I will retire to the corner and turn my back, if that is necessary," growled the soldier. There was no answer. She lay with closed eyes, and her woman began again to fan her gently. * * * * * Robin began to understand the situation a little better. It was plain that Sir Amyas was a great deal more anxious for the Queen's health than he pretended to be, or he would never have tolerated such objections. The Queen, too, must know of this, or she would not have ventured, with so much at stake, to treat him with such maddening rebuffs. There had been rumours (verified later) that Elizabeth had actually caused it to be suggested to Sir Amyas that he should poison his prisoner decently and privately, and thereby save a great deal of trouble and scandal; and that Sir Amyas had refused with indignation. Perhaps, if all this were true, thought Robin, the officer was especially careful on this very account that the Queen's health should be above suspicion. He remembered that Sir Amyas had referred just now to a suspicion of poison.... He determined on the bold line. "Her Grace has spoken, sir," he said modestly. "And I think I should have a word to say. It is plain to me, by looking at her Grace, that her health is very far from what it should be--" (he paused significantly)--"I should have to make a thorough examination, if I prescribed at all; and, even should her Grace consent to this being done publicly, for my part I would not consent. I should be happy to have her women here, but--" Sir Amyas turned on him wrathfully. "Why, sir, you said downstairs--" "I had not then seen her Grace. But there is no more to be said--" He kneeled again as if to take his leave, stood up, and began to retire to the door. Mr. Bourgoign stood helpless. Then Sir Amyas yielded. "You shall have fifteen minutes, sir. No more," he cried harshly. "And I shall remain in the next room." He made a perfunctory salute and strode out. The Queen opened her eyes, waited for one tense instant till the door closed; then she slipped swiftly off the couch. "The door!" she whispered. The woman was across the room in an instant, on tip-toe, and drew the single slender bolt. The Queen made a sharp gesture; the woman fled back again on one side, and out through the further door, and the old man hobbled after her. It was as if every detail had been rehearsed. The door closed noiselessly. Then the Queen rose up, as Robin, understanding, began to fumble with his breast. And, as he drew out the pyx, and placed it on the handkerchief (in reality a corporal), apparently so carelessly laid by the crucifix, Mary sank down in adoration of her Lord. "Now, _mon père_," she whispered, still kneeling, but lifting her star-bright eyes. And the priest went across to the couch where the Queen had lain, and sat down on it. "_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_--" began Mary. IV When the confession was finished, Robin went across, at the Queen's order, and tapped with his finger-nail upon the door, while she herself remained on her knees. The door opened instantly, and the two came in, the woman first, bearing two lighted tapers. She set these down one on either side of the crucifix, and herself knelt with the old physician. ... Then Robin gave holy communion to the Queen of the Scots.... V She was back again on her couch now, once more as drowsy-looking as ever. The candlesticks were gone again; the handkerchief still in its place, and the woman back again behind the couch. The two men kneeled close beside her, near enough to hear every whisper. "Listen, gentlemen," she said softly, "I cannot tell you what you have done for my soul to-day--both of you, since I could never have had the priest without my friend.... I cannot reward you, but our Lord will do so abundantly.... Listen, I know that I am going to my death, and I thank God that I have made my peace with Him. I do not know if they will allow me to see a priest again. But I wish to say this to both of you--as I said just now in my confession, to you, _mon père_--that I am wholly and utterly guiltless of the plot laid to my charge; that I had neither part nor wish nor consent in it. I desired only to escape from my captivity.... I would have made war, if I could, yes, but as for accomplishing or assisting in her Grace's death, the thought was never near me. Those whom I thought my friends have entrapped me, and have given colour to the tale. I pray our Saviour to forgive them as I do; and with that Saviour now in my breast I tell you--and you may tell all the world if you will--that I am guiltless of what they impute to me. I shall die for my Religion, and nothing but that. And I thank you again, _mon père, et vous, mon ami, que vous avez_...." Her voice died away in inaudible French, and her eyes closed. * * * * * Robin's eyes were raining tears, but he leaned forward and kissed her hand as it lay on the edge of the couch. He felt himself touched on the shoulder, and he stood up. The old man's eyes, too, were brimming with tears. "I must let Sir Amyas in," he whispered. "You must be ready." "What shall I say?" "Say that you will prescribe privately, to me: and that her Grace's health is indeed delicate, but not gravely impaired.... You understand?" Robin nodded, passing his sleeve over his eyes. The woman touched the Queen's shoulder to rouse her, and Mr. Bourgoign opened the door. VI "And now, sir," said Mr. Bourgoign, as the two passed out from the house half an hour later, "I have one more word to say to you. Listen carefully, if you please, for there is not much time." He glanced behind him, but the tall figure was gone from the door; there remained only the two pikemen that kept ward over the great house on the steps. "Come this way," said the physician, and led the priest through into the little walled garden on the south. "He will think we are finishing our consultation." * * * * * "I cannot tell you," he said presently, "all that I think of your courage and your wit. You made a bold stroke when you told him you would begone again, unless you could see her Grace alone, and again when you said you had come to Chartley because she was here. And you may go again now, knowing you have comforted a woman in her greatest need. They sent her chaplain from her when she left here for Tixall in July, and she has not had him again yet. She is watched at every point. They have taken all her papers from her, and have seduced M. Nau, I fear. Did you hear anything of him in town?" "No," said the priest. "I know nothing of him." "He is a Frenchman, and hath been with her Grace more than ten years. He hath written her letters for her, and been privy to all her counsels. And I fear he hath been seduced from her at last. It was said that Mr. Walsingham was to take him into his house.... Well, but we have not time for this. What I have to ask you is whether you could come again to us?" He peered at the priest almost timorously. Robin was startled. "Come again?" he said. "Why--" "You see you have already won to her presence, and Sir Amyas is committed to it that you are a safe man. I shall tell her Grace, too, that she must eat and drink well, and get better, if she would see you again, for that will establish you in Sir Amyas' eyes." "But will she not have a priest?" "I know nothing, Mr. Alban. They even shut me up here when they took her to Tixall; and even now none but myself and her two women have access to her. I do not know even if her Grace will be left here. There has been talk among the men of going to Fotheringay. I know nothing, from day to day. It is a ... a _cauchemar_. But they will certainly do what they can to shake her. It grows more rigorous every day. And I thought, that if you would tell me whether a message could reach you, and if her chaplain is not allowed to see her again, you might be able to come again. I would tell Sir Amyas how much good you had done to her last time, with your herbs; and, it might be, you could see her again in a month or two perhaps--or later." Robin was silent. The greatness of the affair terrified him; yet its melancholy drew him. He had seen her on whom all England bent its thoughts at this time, who was a crowned Queen, with broad lands and wealth, who called Elizabeth "sister"; yet who was more of a prisoner than any in the Fleet or Westminster Gatehouse, since those at least could have their friends to come to them. Her hidden fires, too, had warmed him--that passion for God that had burst from her when her gaoler left her, and she had flung herself on her knees before her hidden Saviour. It may be he had doubted her before (he did not know); but there was no more doubt in him after her protestation of her innocence. He began to see now that she stood for more than her kingdom or her son or the plots attributed to her, that she was more than a mere great woman, for whose sake men could both live and die; he began to see in her that which poor Anthony had seen--a champion for the Faith of them all, an incarnate suffering symbol, in flesh and blood, of that Religion for which he, too, was in peril--that Religion, which, in spite of all clamour to the contrary, was the real storm-centre of England's life. He turned then to the old man with a suddenly flushed face. "A message will always reach me at Mistress Manners' house, at Booth's Edge, near Hathersage, in Derbyshire. And I will come from there, or from the world's end, to serve her Grace." CHAPTER V I "First give me your blessing, Mr. Alban," said Marjorie, kneeling down before him in the hall in front of them all. She was as pale as a ghost, but her eyes shone like stars. * * * * * It was a couple of months after his leaving Chartley before he came at last to Booth's Edge. First he had had to bestow Mr. Arnold in Lancashire, for suspicion was abroad; and it was a letter from Marjorie herself, reaching him in Derby, at Mr. Biddell's house, that had told him of it, and bidden him go on with his friend. The town had never been the same since Topcliffe's visit; and now that Babington House was no longer in safe Catholic hands, a great protection was gone. He had better go on, she said, as if he were what he professed to be--a gentleman travelling with his servant. A rumour had come to her ears that the talk in the town was of the expected arrival of a new priest to take Mr. Garlick's place for the present, and every stranger was scrutinised. So he had taken her advice; he had left Derby again immediately, and had slowly travelled north; then, coming round about from the north, after leaving his friend, saying mass here and there where he could, crossing into Yorkshire even as far west as Wakefield, he had come at last, through this wet November day, along the Derwent valley and up to Booth's Edge, where he arrived after sunset, to find the hall filled with folks to greet him. He was smiling himself, though his eyes were full of tears, by the time that he had done giving his blessings. Mr. John FitzHerbert was come up from Padley, where he lived now for short times together, greyer than ever, but with the same resolute face. Mistress Alice Babington was there, still serene looking, but with a new sorrow in her eyes; and, clinging to her, a thin, pale girl all in black, who only two months before had lost both daughter and husband; for the child had died scarcely a week or two before her father, Anthony Babington, had died miserably on the gallows near St. Giles' Fields, where he had so often met his friends after dark. It was a ghastly tale, told in fragments to Robin here and there during his journeyings by men in taverns, before whom he must keep a brave face. And a few farmers were there, old Mr. Merton among them, come in to welcome the son of the Squire of Matstead, returned under a feigned name, unknown even to his father, and there, too, was honest Dick Sampson, come up from Dethick to see his old master. So here, in the hall he knew so well, himself splashed with red marl from ankle to shoulder, still cloaked and spurred, one by one these knelt before him, beginning with Marjorie herself, and ending with the youngest farm-boy, who breathed heavily as he knelt down and got up round-eyed and staring. "And his Reverence will hear confessions," proclaimed Marjorie to the multitude, "at eight o'clock to-night; and he will say mass and give holy communion at six o'clock to-morrow morning." II He had to hear that night, after supper, and before he went to keep his engagement in the chapel-room, the entire news of the county; and, in his turn, to tell his own adventures. The company sat together before the great hall-fire, to take the dessert, since there would have been no room in the parlour for all who wished to hear. (He heard the tale of Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert, traitor, apostate and sworn man of her Grace, later, when he had come down again from the chapel-room, and the servants had gone.) But now it was of less tragic matters, and more triumphant, that they talked: he told of his adventures since he had landed in August; of his riding in Lancashire and Yorkshire, and of the fervour that he met with there (in one place, he said, he had reconciled the old minister of the parish, that had been made priest under Mary thirty years ago, and now lay dying); but he said nothing at that time of what he had seen of her Grace of Scotland, and Chartley: and the rest, on the other hand, talked of what had passed in Derby, of all that Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Garlick had done; of the arrest and banishment of the latter, and his immediate return; of the hanging of Mr. Francis Ingolby, in York, which had made a great stir in the north that summer, since he was the son of Sir Francis, of Ripley Castle; as well as of the deaths of many others--Mr. Finglow in August; Mr. Sandys, in the same month, in Gloucester; and of Mr. Lowe, Mr. Adams and Mr. Dibdale, all together at Tyburn, the news of which had but just come to Derbyshire; and of Mistress Clitheroe, that had been pressed to death in York, for the very crime which Mistress Marjorie Manners was perpetrating at this moment, namely, the assistance and harbourage of priests; or, rather, for refusing to plead when she had been arrested for that crime, lest she should bring them into trouble. And then at last they began to speak of Mary in Fotheringay and at that a maid came in to say that it was eight o'clock, and would his Reverence come up, as a few had to travel home that night and to come again next day.... * * * * * It was after nine o'clock before he came downstairs again, to find the gentlefolk alone in the little parlour that opened from the hall. It gave him a strange thrill of pleasure to see them there in the firelight; the four of them only--Mr. John in the midst, with the three ladies; and an empty chair waiting for the priest. He would hear their confessions presently when the servants were gone to bed. A great mug of warm ale stood by his place, to comfort him after his long ride and his spiritual labours. Mr. John told him first the news of his own son, as was his duty to do; and he told it without bitterness, in a level voice, leaning his cheek on his hand. It appeared that Mr. Thomas still passed for a Catholic among the simpler folk; but with none else. All the great houses round about had the truth as an open secret; and their doors were closed to him; neither had any priest been near him, since the day when Mr. Simpson met him alone on the moors and spoke to him of his soul. Even then Mr. Thomas had blustered and declared that there was no truth in the tale; and had so ridden away at last, saying that such pestering was enough to make a man lose his religion altogether. "As for me," said Mr. John, "he has not been near me, nor I near him. He lives at Norbury for the most part. My brother is attempting to set aside the disposition he had made in his favour; but they say that it will be made to stand; and that my son will get it all yet. But he has not troubled us at Padley; nor will he, I think." "He is at Norbury, you say, sir?" "Yes; but he goes here and there continually. He has been to London to lay informations, I have no doubt, for I know that he hath been seen there in Topcliffe's company.... It seems that we are to be in the thick of the conflict. We have had above a dozen priests in this county alone arraigned for treason, and the most of them executed." His voice had gone lower, and trembled once or twice as he talked. It was plain that he could not bear to speak much more against the son that had turned against him and his Faith, for the sake of his own liberty and the estates he had hoped to have. Robin made haste to turn the talk. "And my father, sir?" Mr. John looked at him tenderly. "You must ask Mistress Marjorie of him," he said. "I have not seen him these three years." Robin turned to the girl. "I have had no more news of him since what I wrote to you," she said quietly. "After I had spoken with him, and he had given me the warning, he held himself aloof." "Hath he been at any of the trials at Derby?" She bowed her head. "He was at the trial of Mr. Garlick," she said; "last year; and was one of those who spoke for his banishment." * * * * * And then, on a sudden, Mistress Alice moved in her corner, where she sat with the widow of her brother. "And what of her Grace?" she said. "Is it true what Dick told us before supper, that Parliament hath sentenced her?" Robin shook his head. "I hear so much gossip," he said, "in the taverns, that I believe nothing. I had not heard that. Tell me what it was." He was in a torment of mind as to what he should say of his own adventure at Chartley. On the one side it was plain that no rumour of the tale must get abroad or he would never be able to come to her again; on the other side, no word had come from Mr. Bourgoign, though two months had passed. He knew, indeed, what all the world knew by now, that a trial had been held by over forty lords in Fotheringay Castle, whither the Queen had been moved at the end of September, and that reports had been sent of it to London. But for the rest he knew no more than the others. Tales ran about the country on every side. One man would say that he had it from London direct that Parliament had sentenced her; another that the Queen of England had given her consent too; a third, that Parliament had not dared to touch the matter at all; a fourth, that Elizabeth had pardoned her. But, for Robin, his hesitation largely lay in his knowledge that it was on the Babington plot that all would turn, and that this would have been the chief charge against her; and here, but a yard away from him, in the gloom of the chimney-breast sat Anthony's wife and sister. How could he say that this was so, and yet that he believed her wholly innocent of a crime which he detested? He had dreaded this talk the instant that he had seen them in the hall and heard their names. But Mistress Alice would not be put off. She repeated what she had said. Dick had come up from Dethick only that afternoon, and was now gone again, so that he could not be questioned; but he had told his mistress plainly that the story in Derby, brought in by couriers, was that Parliament had consented and had passed sentence on her Grace; that her Grace herself had received the news only the day before; but that the warrant was not signed. "And on what charge?" asked Robin desperately. Mistress Alice's voice rang out proudly; but he saw her press the girl closer as she spoke. "That she was privy to the plot which my ... my brother had a hand in." Then Robin drew a breath and decided. "It may be so," he said. "But I do not believe she was privy to it. I spoke with her Grace at Chartley--" There was a swift movement in the half circle. "I spoke with her Grace at Chartley," he said. "I went to her under guise of a herbalist: I heard her confession and gave her communion; and she declared publicly, before two witnesses, after she had had communion, that she was guiltless." * * * * * Robin was no story-teller; but for half an hour he was forced to become one, until his hearers were satisfied. Even here, in the distant hills, Mary's name was a key to a treasure-house of mysteries. It was through this country, too, that she had passed again and again. It was at old Chatsworth--the square house with the huge Italian and Dutch gardens, that a Cavendish had bought thirty years ago from the Agards--that she had passed part of her captivity; it was in Derby that she had halted for a night last year; it was near Burton that she had slept two months ago on her road to Fotheringay; and to hear now of her, from one who had spoken to her that very autumn, was as a revelation. So Robin told it as well as he could. "And it may be," he said, "that I shall have to go again. Mr. Bourgoign said that he would send to me if he could. But I have heard no word from him." (He glanced round the watching faces.) "And I need not say that I shall hear no word at all, if the tale I have told you leak out." "Perhaps she hath a chaplain again," said Mr. John, after pause. "I do not think so," said the priest. "If she had none at Chartley, she would all the less have one at Fotheringay." "And it may be you will be sent for again?" asked Marjorie's voice gently from the darkness. "It may be so," said the priest. "The letter is to be sent here?" she asked. "I told Mr. Bourgoign so." "Does any other know you are here?" "No, Mistress Marjorie." There was a pause. "It is growing late," said Mr. John. "Will your Reverence go upstairs with me; and these ladies will come after, I think." III If it had been a great day for Robin that he should come back to his own country after six years, and be received in this house of strange memories; that he should sit upstairs as a priest, and hear confessions in that very parlour where nearly seven years ago he had sat with Marjorie as her accepted lover--if all this had been charged, to him, with emotions and memories which, however he had outgrown them, yet echoed somewhere wonderfully in his mind; it was no less a kind of climax and consummation to the girl whose house this was, and who had waited so long to receive back a lover who came now in so different a guise. But it must be made plain that to neither of them was there a thought or a memory that ought not to be. To those who hold that men are no better, except for their brains, than other animals; that they are but, after all, bundles of sense from which all love and aspiration take their rise--to such the thing will seem simply false. They will say that it was not so; that all that strange yearning that Marjorie had to see the man back again; that the excitement that beat in Robin's heart as he had ridden up the well-remembered slope, all in the dark, and had seen the lighted windows at the top; that these were but the old loves in the disguise of piety. But to those who understand what priesthood is, for him that receives it, and for the soul that reverences it, the thing is a truism. For the priest was one who loved Christ more than all the world; and the woman one who loved priesthood more than herself. Yet her memories of him that remained in her had, of course, a place in her heart; and, though she knelt before him presently in the little parlour where once he had kneeled before her, as simply as a child before her father, and told her sins, and received Christ's pardon, and went away to make room for the next--though all this was without a reproach in her eyes; yet, as she went she knew that she must face a fresh struggle, and a temptation that would not have been one-tenth so fierce if it had been some other priest that was in peril. That peril was Fotheringay, where (as she knew well enough) every strange face would be scrutinized as perhaps nowhere else in all England; and that temptation lay in the knowledge that when that letter should come (as she knew in her heart it would come), it would be through her hands that it would pass--if it passed indeed. * * * * * While the others went to the priest one by one, Marjorie kneeled in her room, fighting with a devil that was not yet come to her, as is the way with sensitive consciences. CHAPTER VI I The suspense at Fotheringay grew deeper with every day that passed. Christmas was come and gone, and no sign was made from London, so far, at least, as the little town was concerned. There came almost daily from the castle new tales of slights put upon the Queen, and now and again of new favours granted to her. Her chaplain, withdrawn for a while, had been admitted to her again a week before Christmas; a crowd had collected to see the Popish priest ride in, and had remarked on his timorous air; and about the same time a courier had been watched as he rode off to London, bearing, it was rumoured, one last appeal from one Queen to the other. On the other hand, it was known that Mary no longer had her daïs in her chamber, and that the billiard-table, which she never used, had been taken away again. But all this had happened before Christmas, and now a month had gone by, and although this or that tale of discourtesy from gaoler to prisoner leaked out through the servants; though it was known that the crucifix which Mary had hung up in the place where her daïs had stood remained undisturbed--though this argument or the other could be advanced in turn by men sitting over their wine in the taverns, that the Queen's cause was rising or falling, nothing was truly known the one way or the other. It had been proclaimed, by trumpet, in every town in England, that sentence of death was passed; yet this was two or three months ago, and the knowledge that the warrant had not yet been signed seemed an argument to some that now it never would be. * * * * * A group was waiting (as a group usually did wait) at the village entrance to the new bridge lately built by her Grace of England, towards sunset on an evening late in January. This situation commanded, so far as was possible, every point of interest. It was the beginning of the London road, up which so many couriers had passed; it was over this bridge that her Grace of Scotland herself had come from her cross-country journey from Chartley. On the left, looking northwards, rose the great old collegiate church, with its graceful lantern tower, above the low thatched stone houses of the village; on the right, adjoining the village beyond the big inn, rose the huge keep of the castle and its walls, within its double moats, ranged in form of a fetterlock of which the river itself was its straight side. Beyond, the low rolling hills and meadows met the chilly January sky. For four months now the village had been transformed into a kind of camp. The castle itself was crammed to bursting. The row of little windows beside the hall on the first floor, visible only from the road that led past the inn parallel to the river, marked the lodgings of the Queen, where, with the hall also for her use, she lived continually; the rest of the castle was full of men-at-arms, officers, great lords who came and went--these, with the castellan's rooms and those of his people, Sir Amyas' lodgings, and the space occupied by Mary's own servants--all these filled the castle entirely. For the rest--the garrison not on duty, the grooms, the couriers, the lesser servants, the suites of the visitors, and even many of the visitors themselves--these filled the two inns of the little town completely, and overflowed everywhere into the houses of the people. It was a vision of a garrison in war-time that the countryfolk gaped at continually; the street sparkled all day with liveries and arms; archers went to and fro; the trample of horses, the sharp military orders at the changings of guard outside and within the towered gateway that commanded the entrance over the moats, the songs of men over their wine in the tavern-parlours-- these things had become matters of common observation, and fired many a young farm-man with a zeal for arms. The Queen herself was a mystery. They had seen, for a moment, as she drove in after dark last September, a coach (in which, it was said, she had sat with her back to the horses) surrounded by guards; patient watchers had, perhaps, half a dozen times altogether caught a glimpse of a woman's face, at a window that was supposed to be hers, look out for an instant over the wall that skirted the moat. But that was all. They heard the trumpets' cry within the castle; and even learned to distinguish something of what each signified--the call for the changing of guards, the announcement of dinner and supper; the warning to the gatekeepers that persons were to pass out. But of her, round whom all this centred, of the prison-queen of this hive of angry bees, they knew less than of her Grace of England whom once they had seen ride in through these very gates. Tales, of course, were abundant--gossip from servant to servant, filtering down at last, distorted or attenuated, to the rustics who watched and exclaimed; but there was not a soldier who kept her, not a cook who served her, of whom they did not know more than of herself. There were even parties in the village; or, rather, there was a silent group who did not join in the universal disapproval, but these were queer and fantastic persons, who still held to the old ways and would not go to church with the rest. A little more material had been supplied for conversation by the events of to-day. It had positively been reported, by a fellow who had been to see about a room for himself in the village, that he had been turned out of the castle to make space for her Grace's chaplain. This was puzzling. Had not the Popish priest already been in the castle five or six weeks? Then why should he now require another chamber? The argument waxed hot by the bridge. One said that it was another priest that was come in disguise; another, that once a Popish priest got a foothold in a place he was never content till he got the whole for himself; a third, that the fellow had simply lied, and that he was turned out because he had been caught by Sir Amyas making love to one of the maids. Each was positive of his own thesis, and argued for it by the process of re-assertion that it was so, and that his opponents were fools. They spat into the water; one got out a tobacco pipe that a soldier had given him and made a great show of filling it, though he had no flint to light it with; another proclaimed that for two figs he would go and inquire at the gateway itself.... To this barren war of the schools came a fact at last, and its bearer was a gorgeous figure of a man-at-arms (who, later, got into trouble by talking too much), who came swaggering down the road from the New Inn, blowing smoke into the air, with his hat on one side, and his breast-piece loose; and declared in that strange clipped London-English of his that he had been on guard at the door of Sir Amyas' room, and had heard him tell Melville the steward and De Préau the priest that they must no longer have access to her Grace, but must move their lodgings elsewhere within the castle. This, then, had to be discussed once more from the beginning. One said that this was an evident sign that the end was to come and that Madam was to die; another that, on the contrary, it was plain that this was not so, but that rather she was to be compelled by greater strictness to acknowledge her guilt; a third, that it was none of these things, but rather that Madam was turning Protestant at last in order to save her life, and had devised this manner of ridding herself of the priest. And the soldier damned them all round as block-fools, who knew nothing and talked all the more for it. * * * * * The dark was beginning to fall before the group broke up, and none of them took much notice of a young man on a fresh horse, who rode quietly out of the yard of the New Inn as the saunterers came up. One of them, three minutes later, however, heard suddenly from across the bridge the sound of a horse breaking into a gallop and presently dying away westwards beyond Perry Lane. II Within the castle that evening nothing happened that was of any note to its more careless occupants. All was as usual. The guard at the towers that controlled the drawbridge across the outer moat was changed at four o'clock; six men came out, under an officer, from the inner court; the words were exchanged, and the six that went off duty marched into the armoury to lay by their pikes and presently dispersed, four to their rooms in the east side of the quadrangle, two to their quarters in the village. From the kitchen came the clash of dishes. Sir Amyas came out from the direction of the keep, where he had been conferring with Mr. FitzWilliam, the castellan, and passed across to his lodging on the south. A butcher hurried in, under escort of a couple of men from the gate, with a covered basket and disappeared into the kitchen entry. All these things were observed idly by the dozen guards who stood two at each of the five doors that gave upon the courtyard. Presently, too, hardly ten minutes after the guard was changed, three figures came out at the staircase foot where Sir Amyas had just gone in, and stood there apparently talking in low voices. Then one of them, Mr. Melville, the Queen's steward, came across the court with Mr. Bourgoign towards the outer entrance, passed under it, and presently Mr. Bourgoign came back and wheeled sharply in to the right by the entry that led up to the Queen's lodging. Meanwhile the third figure, whom one of the men had thought to be M. de Préau, had gone back again towards Mr. Melville's rooms. That was all that was to be seen, until half an hour later, a few minutes before the drawbridge was raised for the night, the steward came back, crossed the court once more and vanished into the entry opposite. It was about this time that the young man had ridden out from the New Inn. Then the sun went down; the flambeaux were lighted beneath the two great entrances--in the towered archway across the moat, and the smaller vaulted archway within, as well as one more flambeau stuck into the iron ring by each of the four more court-doors, and lights began to burn in the windows round about. The man at Sir Amyas' staircase looked across the court and idly wondered what was passing in the rooms opposite on the first floor where the Queen was lodged. He had heard that the priest had been forced to change his room, and was to sleep in Mr. Melville's for the present; so her Grace would have to get on without him as well as she could. There would be no Popish mass to-morrow, then, in the oratory that he had heard was made upstairs.... He marvelled at the superstition that made this a burden.... At a quarter before six a trumpet blew, and presently the tall windows of the hall across the court from him began to kindle. That was for her Grace's supper to be served. At five minutes to six another trumpet sounded, and M. Landet, the Queen's butler, hurried out with his white rod to take his place for the entrance of the dishes. Finally, through the ground-floor window at the foot of the Queen's stair, the man caught a glimpse of moving figures passing towards the hall. That would be her Grace going in state to her supper with her women; but, for the first time, without either priest to say grace or steward to escort her. He saw, too, the couple of guards under the inner archway come to the salute as the little procession came for an instant within their view; and Mr. Newrins, the butler of the castle, stop suddenly and pull off his cap as he was hurrying in to be in time for the supper of the gentlemen that was served in the keep half an hour after the Queen's. * * * * * Meanwhile, ten miles away, along the Uppingham and Leicester track, rode a young man through the dark. III Sunday, too, passed as usual. At half-past eight the bells of the church pealed out for the morning service, and the village street was thronged with worshippers and a few soldiers. At nine o'clock they ceased, and the street was empty. At eleven o'clock the trumpets sounded to announce change of guard, and to tell the kitchen folk that dishing-time was come. Half an hour later once more the little procession glinted a moment through the ground-floor window of the Queen's stair as her Grace went to dinner. (She was not very well, the cooks had reported, and had eaten but little last night.) At twelve o'clock she came out again and went upstairs; and at the same time, in Leicester, a young man, splashed from head to foot, slipped off a draggled and exhausted horse and went into an inn, ordering a fresh horse to be ready for him at three o'clock. And so once more the sun went down, and the little rituals were performed, and the guards were changed, and M. Landet, for the last time in his life (though he did not know it), came out from the kitchen with his white rod to bear it before the dishes of a Queen; and Sir Amyas walked in from the orchard and was saluted, and Mr. FitzWilliam went his rounds, and the drawbridge was raised. And, at the time that the drawbridge was raised, a young man on a horse was wondering when he should see the lights of Burton.... IV The first that Mistress Manners knew of his coming in the early hours of Monday morning, was when she was awakened by Janet in the pitch darkness shaking her shoulder. "It is a young man," she said, "on foot. His horse fell five miles off. He is come with a letter from Derby." Sleep fell from Marjorie like a cloak. This kind of thing had happened to her before. Now and then such a letter would come from a priest who lacked money or desired a guide or information. She sprang out of bed and began to put on her outer dress and her hooded cloak, as the night was cold. "Bring him into the hall," she said. "Get beer and some food, and blow the fire up." Janet vanished. When the mistress came down five minutes later, all had been done as she had ordered. The turf and wood fire leaped in the chimney; a young man, still with his hat on his head and drawn down a little over his face, was sitting over the hearth, steaming like a kettle, eating voraciously. Janet was waiting discreetly by the doors. Marjorie nodded to her, and she went out; she had learned that her mistress's secrets were not always her own as well. "I am Mistress Manners," she said. "You have a letter for me?" The young man stood up. "I know you well enough, mistress," he said. "I am John Merton's son." Marjorie's heart leaped with relief. In spite of her determination that this must be a letter from a priest, there had still thrust itself before her mind the possibility that it might be that other letter whose coming she had feared. She had told herself fiercely as she came downstairs just now, that it could not be. No news was come from Fotheringay all the winter; it was common knowledge that her Grace had a priest of her own. And now that this was John Merton's son-- She smiled. "Give me the letter," she said. "I should have known you, too, if it were not for the dark." "Well, mistress," he said, "the letter was to be delivered to you, Mr. Melville said; but--" "Who?" "Mr. Melville, mistress: her Grace's steward at Fotheringay." * * * * * He talked on a moment or two, beginning to say that Mr. Melville himself had come out to the inn, that he, as Melville's own servant, had been lodging there, and had been bidden to hold himself in readiness, since he knew Derbyshire.... But she was not listening. She only knew that that had fallen which she feared. "Give me the letter," she said again. He sat down, excusing himself, and fumbled with his boot; and by the time that he held it out to her, she was in the thick of the conflict. She knew well enough what it meant--that there was no peril in all England like that to which this letter called her friend, there, waiting for him in Fotheringay where every strange face was suspected, where a Popish priest was as a sheep in a den of wolves, where there would be no mercy at all if he were discovered; and where, if he were to be of use at all, he must adventure himself in the very spot where he would be most suspected, on a task that would be thought the last word in treason and disobedience. And, worst of all, this priest had lodged in the tavern where the conspirators had lodged; he had talked with them the night before their flight, and now, here he was, striving to get access to her for whom all had been designed. Was there a soul in England that could doubt his complicity?... And it was to her own house here in Derbyshire that he had come for shelter; it was here that he had said mass yesterday; and it must be from this house that he must ride, on one of her horses; and it must be her hand that gave him the summons. Last of all, it was she, Marjorie Manners, that had sent him to this life, six years ago. Then, as she took the letter, the shrewd woman in her spoke. It was irresistible, and she seemed to listen to voice that was not hers. "Does any here know that you are come?" "No, mistress." "If I bade you, and said that I had reasons for it, you would ride away again alone, without a word to any?" "Why, yes, mistress!" (Oh! the plan was irresistible and complete. She would send this messenger away again on one of her own horses as far as Derby; he could leave the horse there, and she would send a man for it to-morrow. He would go back to Fotheringay and would wait, he and those that had sent him. And the priest they expected would not come. He, too, himself, had ceased to expect any word from Mr. Bourgoign; he had said a month ago that surely none would come now. He had been away from Booth's Edge, in fact, for nearly a month, and had scarcely even asked on his return last Saturday to Padley, whether any message had come. Why, it was complete--complete and irresistible! She would burn the letter here in this hall-fire when the man was gone again; and say to Janet that the letter had been from a travelling priest that was in trouble, and that she had sent the answer. And Robin would presently cease to look for news, and the end would come, and there would be no more trouble.) "Do you know what is in the letter?" she whispered sharply. ("Sit down again and go on eating.") He obeyed her. "Yes, mistress," he said. "The priest was taken from her on Saturday. Mr. Bourgoign had arranged all in readiness for that." "You said Mr. Melville." "Mr. Melville is a Protestant, mistress; but he is very well devoted to her Grace, and has done as Mr. Bourgoign wished." "Why must her Grace have a priest at once? Surely for a few days--" He glanced up at her, and she, conscious of her own falseness, thought he looked astonished. "I mean that they will surely give her her priest back, again presently; and"--(her voice faltered)--"and Mr. Alban is spent with his travelling." "They mean to kill her, mistress. There is no doubt of it amongst those of us that are Catholics. And it is that she may have a priest before she dies, that--" He paused. "Yes?" she said. "Her Grace had a fit of crying, it is said, when her priest was taken from her. Mr. Melville was crying himself, even though--" He stopped, himself plainly affected. * * * * * Then, in a great surge, her own heart rose up, and she understood what she was doing. As in a vision, she saw her own mother crying out for the priest that never came; and she understood that horror of darkness that falls on one who, knowing what the priest can do, knowing the infinite consolations which Christ gives, is deprived, when physical death approaches, of that tremendous strength and comfort. Indeed, she recognised to the full that when a priest cannot be had, God will save and forgive without him; yet what would be the heartlessness, to say nothing of the guilt, of one that would keep him away? For what, except that this strength and comfort might be at the service of Christ's flock, had her own life been spent? It was expressly for this that she had lived on in England when peace and the cloister might be hers elsewhere; and now that her own life was touched, should she fail?... The blindness passed like a dream, and her soul rose up again on a wave of pain and exaltation.... "Wait," she said. "I will go and awaken him, and bid him come down." V An hour later, as the first streaks of dawn slit the sky to the eastwards over the moors, she stood with Janet and Mistress Alice and Robin by the hall fire. She had said not a word to any of the struggle she had passed through. She had gone upstairs resolutely and knocked on his door till he had answered, and then whispered, "The letter is come.... I will have food ready"; slipping the letter beneath the door. Then she had sent Janet to awaken a couple of men that slept over the stables; and bid them saddle two horses at once; and herself had gone to the buttery to make ready a meal. Then Mistress Alice had awakened and come downstairs, and the three women had waited on the priest, as, in boots and cloak, he had taken some food. Then, as the sound of the horses' feet coming round from the stables at the back had reached them, she had determined to tell Robin before he went of how she had played the coward. She went out with him to the entry between the hall and the buttery, holding the others back with a glance. "I near destroyed the letter," she said simply, with downcast eyes, "and sent the man away again. I was afraid of what might fall at Fotheringay.... May Christ protect you!" She said no more than that, but turned and called the others before he could speak. As he gathered up the reins a moment later, before mounting, the three women kneeled down in the lighted entry and the two farm-men by the horses' heads, and the priest gave them his blessing. CHAPTER VII I It was not until after dawn on Wednesday, the twenty-fifth of January, as the bells were ringing in the parish church for the Conversion of St. Paul, that the two draggled travellers rode in over the bridge of Fotheringay, seeing the castle-keep rise grim and grey out of the river-mists on the right; and, passing on, dismounted in the yard of the New Inn. They had had one or two small misadventures by the way, and young Merton, through sheer sleepiness, had so reeled in his saddle on the afternoon of Monday, that the priest had insisted that they should both have at least one good night's rest. But they had ridden all Tuesday night without drawing rein, and Robin, going up to the room that he was to share with the young man, fell upon the bed, and asleep, all in one act. * * * * * He was awakened by the trumpets sounding for dinner in the castle-yard, and sat up to find young John looking at him. The news that he brought drove the last shreds of sleep from his brain. "I have seen Mr. Melville, my master, sir. He bids me say it is useless for Mr. Bourgoign, or anyone else, to attempt anything with Sir Amyas for the present. Mr. Melville hath spoken to Sir Amyas as to his separation from her Grace, and could get no reason for it. But the same day--it was of Monday--her Grace's butler was forbidden any more to carry the white rod before her dishes. This is as much as to signify, Mr. Melville says, that her Grace's royalty shall no longer protect her. It is their intention, he says, to degrade her first, before they execute her. And we may look for the warrant any day, my master says." The young man stared at him mournfully. "And M. de Préau?" "M. de Préau goes about as a ghost. He will come and speak with your Reverence before the day is out. Meanwhile, Mr. Melville says you may walk abroad freely. Sir Amyas never goes forth of the castle now, and none will notice. But they might take notice, Mr. Melville says, if you were to lie all day in your chamber." * * * * * It was after dinner, as Robin rose from the table in a parlour, where he had dined with two or three lawyers and an officer of Mr. FitzWilliam, that John Merton came to him and told him that a gentleman was waiting. He went upstairs and found the priest, a little timorous-looking man, dressed like a minister, pacing quickly to and fro in the tiny room at the top of the house where John and he were to sleep. The Frenchman seized his two hands and began to pour out in an agitated whisper a torrent of French and English. Robin disengaged himself. "You must sit down, M. de Préau," he said, "and speak slowly, or I shall not understand one word. Tell me precisely what I must do. I am here to obey orders--no more. I have no design in my head at all. I will do what Mr. Bourgoign and yourself decide." * * * * * It was pathetic to watch the little priest. He interrupted himself by a thousand apostrophes; he lifted hands and eyes to the ceiling repeatedly; he named his poor mistress saint and martyr; he cried out against the barbarian land in which he found himself, and the bloodthirsty tigers with whom, like a second Daniel, he himself had to consort; he expatiated on the horrible risk that he ran in venturing forth from the castle on such an errand, saying that Sir Amyas would wring his neck like a hen's, if he so much as suspected the nature of his business. He denounced, with feeble venom, the wickedness of these murderers, who would not only slay his mistress's body, but her soul as well, if they could, by depriving her of a priest. Incidentally, however, he disclosed that at present there was no plan at all for Robin's admission. Mr. Bourgoign had sent for him, hoping that he might be able to reintroduce him once more on the same pretext as at Chartley; but the incident of Monday, when the white rod had been forbidden, and the conversation of Sir Amyas to Mr. Melville had made it evident that an attempt at present would be worse than useless. "You must yourself choose!" he cried, with an abominable accent. "If you will imperil your life by remaining, our Lord will no doubt reward you in eternity; but, if not, and you flee, not a man will blame you--least of all myself, who would, no doubt, flee too, if I but dared." This was frank and humble, at any rate. Robin smiled. "I will remain," he said. The Frenchman seized his hands and kissed them. "You are a hero and a martyr, monsieur! We will perish together, therefore." II After the Frenchman's departure, and an hour's sleep in that profundity of unconsciousness that follows prolonged effort, Robin put on his sword and hat and cloak, having dressed himself with care, and went slowly out of the inn to inspect the battlefield. He carried himself deliberately, with a kind of assured insolence, as if he had supreme rights in this place, and were one of that crowd of persons--great lords, lawyers, agents of the court--to whom for the last few months Fotheringay had become accustomed. He turned first to the right towards the castle, and presently was passing down its long length. It looked, indeed, a royal prison. A low wall on his right protected the road from the huge outer moat that ran, in the shape of a fetterlock, completely round all the buildings; and beyond it, springing immediately from the edge of the water, rose the massive outer wall, pierced here and there with windows. He thought that he could make out the tops of the hall windows in one place, beyond the skirting wall, the pinnacles of the chapel in another, and a row of further windows that might be lodgings in a third; but from without here nothing was certain, except the gigantic keep, that stood high to the west, and the strong towers that guarded the drawbridge; this, as he went by, was lowered to its place, and he could look across it into the archway, where four men stood on guard with their pikes. The inner doors, however, were closed beyond them, and he could see nothing of the inner moat that surrounded the court, nor the yard itself. Neither did he think it prudent to ask any questions, though he looked freely about him; since the part he must play for the present plainly was that of one who had a right here and knew what he did. He came back to the inn an hour later, after a walk through the village and round the locked church: this was a splendid building, with flying buttresses and a high tower, with exterior carvings of saints and evangelists all in place. But it looked desolate to him, and he was the more dejected, as he seemed no nearer to the Queen than before, and with little chance of getting there. Meanwhile, there was but one thing to be done, and that the hardest of all--to wait. Perhaps in a few days he might get speech with Mr. Bourgoign; yet for the present that, too, as the priest had told him, was out of the question. III Five days were gone by, Sunday had come and gone, and yet there had been no news, except a letter conveyed to him by Merton, written by Mr. Bourgoign himself, telling him that he had news that Mr. Beale, the Clerk of the Council, was to arrive some time that week, and that this presaged the approach of the end. He would, therefore, do his utmost within the next few days to approach Sir Amyas and ask for the admission of the young herbalist who had done her Grace so much good at Chartley. He added that if any question were to be raised as to why he had been so long in the place, and why, indeed, he had come at all, he was to answer fearlessly that Mr. Bourgoign had sent for him. On the Sunday night Robin could not sleep. Little by little the hideous suspense was acting upon him, and the knowledge that not a hundred yards away from him the wonderful woman whom he had seen at Chartley, the loving and humble Catholic, who had kneeled so ardently before her Lord, the Queen who had received from him the sacraments for which she thirsted--the knowledge that she was breaking her heart, so near, for the consolation which a priest only could give, and that he, a priest, was free to go through all England, except through that towered gateway past which he walked every day--this increased his misery and his longing. The very day he had been through--the Sunday on which he could neither say nor even hear mass (for, because of the greatness of that which was at stake, he had thought it wiser to bring with him nothing that could arouse suspicion)--and the hearing of the bells from the church calling to Protestant prayers, and the sight of the crowds going and returning--this brought him lower than he had been since his first coming to England. He lay then in the darkness, turning from side to side, thinking of these things, listening to the breathing of the young man who lay on blankets at the foot of his bed. About midnight he could lie there no longer. He got out of bed noiselessly, stepped across the other, went to the window-seat and sat down there, staring out, with eyes well accustomed to the darkness, towards the vast outline against the sky which he knew was the keep of the castle. No light burned there to relieve its brutality. It remained there, implacable as English justice, immovable as the heart of Elizabeth and the composure of the gaoler who kept it.... Then he drew out Mr. Maine's rosary and began to recite the "Sorrowful Mysteries."... He supposed afterwards that he had begun to doze; but he started, wide-awake, at a sudden glare of light in his eyes, as if a beacon had flared for an instant somewhere within the castle enclosure. It was gone again, however; there remained the steady monstrous mass of building and the heavy sky. Then, as he watched, it came again, without warning and without sound--that same brilliant flare of light, against which the towers and walls stood out pitch-black. A third time it came, and all was dark once more. * * * * * In the morning, as he sat over his ale in the tavern below, he listened, without lifting his eyes, engrossed, it seemed, in a little book he was reading, to the excited talk of a group of soldiers. One of them, he said, had been on guard beneath the Queen's windows last night, and between midnight and one o'clock had seen three times a brilliant light explode itself, like soundless gunpowder, immediately over the room where she slept. And this he asserted, over and over again. IV On the following Saturday John Merton came up into the room where the priest was sleeping after dinner and awakened him. "If you will come at once with me, sir, you can have speech with Mr. Bourgoign. My master has sent me to tell you so; Mr. Bourgoign has leave to go out." Robin said nothing. It was the kind of opportunity that must not be imperilled by a single word that might be overheard. He threw on his great cloak, buckled his sword on, and followed with every nerve awake. They went up the street leading towards the church, and turned down a little passage-way between two of the larger houses; the young man pushed on a door in the wall; and Robin went through, to find himself in a little enclosed garden with Mr. Bourgoign gathering herbs from the border, not a yard from him. The physician said nothing; he glanced sharply up and pointed to a seat set under the shelter of the wall that hid the greater part of the garden from the house to which it belonged; and as Robin reached it, Mr. Bourgoign, still gathering his herbs, began to speak in an undertone. "Do not speak except very softly, if you must," he said. "The Queen is sick again; and I have leave to gather herbs for her in two or three gardens. It was refused to me at first and then granted afterwards. From that I look for the worst.... Beale will come to-morrow, I hear.... Paulet refused me leave the first time, I make no doubt, knowing that all was to end within a day or two: then he granted it me, for fear I should suspect his reason. (Can you hear me, sir?)" Robin nodded. His heart thumped within him. "Well, sir; I shall tell Sir Amyas to-morrow that my herbs do no good--that I do not know what to give her Grace. I have seen her Grace continually, but with a man in the room always.... Her Grace knows that you are here, and bids me thank you with all her heart.... I shall speak to Sir Amyas, and shall tell him that you are here: and that I sent for you, but did not dare to ask leave for you until now. If he refuses I shall know that all is finished, and that Beale has brought the warrant with him.... If he consents I shall think that it is put off for a little...." He was very near to Robin now, still, with a critical air pushing the herbs this way and that, selecting one now and again. "Have you anything to say to me, sir? Do not speak loud. The fellow that conducted me from the castle is drinking ale in the house behind. He did not know of this door on the side.... Have you anything to say?" "Yes," said Robin. "What is it?" "Two things. The first is that I think one of the fellows in the inn is doubtful of me. Merton tells me he has asked a great number of questions about me. What had I best do?" "Who is he?" "He is a servant of my lord Shrewsbury's who is in the neighbourhood." The doctor was silent. "Am I in danger?" asked the priest quietly. "Shall I endanger her Grace?" "You cannot endanger her Grace. She is near her end in any case. But for yourself--" "Yes." "You are endangering yourself every instant by remaining," said the doctor dryly. "The second matter--" began Robin. "But what of yourself--" "Myself must be endangered," said Robin softly. "The second matter is whether you cannot get me near her Grace in the event of her execution. I could at least give her absolution _sub conditione_." Mr. Bourgoign shot a glance at him which he could not interpret. "Sir," he said; "God will reward you.... As regards the second matter it will be exceedingly difficult. If it is to be in the open court, I may perhaps contrive it. If it is to be in the hall, none but known persons would be admitted.... Have you anything more, sir?" "No." "Then you had best be gone again at once.... Her Grace prays for you.... She had a fit of weeping last night to know that a priest was here and she not able to have him.... Do you pray for her...." V Sunday morning dawned; the bells pealed out; the crowds went by the church and came back to dinner; and yet no word had come to the inn. Robin scarcely stirred out all that day for fear a summons should come and he miss it. He feigned a little illness and sat wrapped up in the corner window of the parlour upstairs, whence he could command both roads--that which led to the Castle, and that which led to the bridge over which Mr. Beale must come. He considered it prudent also to do this, because of the fellow of whom Merton had told him--a man that looked like a groom, and who was lent, he heard, with one or two others by his master to do service at the Castle. Robin's own plan had been distinct ever since M. de Préau had brought him the first message. He bore himself, as has been said, assuredly and confidently; and if he were questioned would simply have said that he had business connected with the Castle. This, asserted in a proper tone, would probably have its effect. There was so much mystery, involving such highly-placed personages from the Queen of England downwards, that discretion was safer than curiosity. * * * * * It was growing towards dark when Robin, after long and fruitless staring down the castle road, turned himself to the other. The parlour was empty at this hour except for himself. He saw the group gathering as usual at the entrance to the bridge to watch the arrivals from London, who, if there were any, generally came about this time. Then, as he looked, he saw two horsemen mount the further slope of the bridge, and come full into view. Now there was nothing whatever about these two persons, in outward appearance, to explain the strange effect they had upon the priest. They could not possibly be the party for which he was watching. Mr. Beale would certainly come with a great company. They were, besides, plainly no more than serving-men: one wore some kind of a livery; the other, a strongly-built man who sat his horse awkwardly, was in new clothes that did not fit him. They rode ordinary hackneys; and each had luggage strapped behind his saddle. All this the priest saw as they came up the narrow street and halted before the inn door. They might, perhaps, be servants of Mr. Beale; yet that did not seem probable as there was no sign of a following party. The landlord came out on to the steps beneath; and after a word or two, they slipped off their horses wearily, and led them round into the court of the inn. All this was usual enough; the priest had seen such arrivals a dozen times at this very door; yet he felt sick as he looked at them. There appeared to him something terrible and sinister about them. He had seen the face of the liveried servant; but not of the other: this one had carried his head low, with his great hat drawn down on his head. The priest wondered, too, what they carried in their trunks. * * * * * When he went down to supper in the great room of the inn, he could not forbear looking round for them. But only one was to be seen--the liveried servant who had done the talking. Robin turned to his neighbour--a lawyer with whom he had spoken a few times. "That is a new livery to me," he said, nodding towards the stranger. "That?" said the lawyer. "That? Why, that is the livery of Mr. Walsingham. I have seen it in London." * * * * * Towards the end of supper a stir broke out among the servants who sat at the lower end of the room near the windows that looked out upon the streets. Two or three sprung up from the tables and went to look out. "What is that?" cried the lawyer. "It is Mr. Beale going past, sir," answered a voice. Robin lifted his eyes with an effort and looked. Even as he did so there came a trampling of horses' hoofs; and then, in the light that streamed from the windows, there appeared a company on horseback. They were too far away from where he sat, and the lights were too confusing, for him to see more than the general crowd that went by--perhaps from a dozen to twenty all told. But by them ran the heads of men who had waited at the bridge to see them go by; and a murmuring of voices came even through the closed windows. It was plain that others besides those who were close to her Grace, saw a sinister significance in Mr. Beale's arrival. VI Robin had hardly reached his room after supper and a little dessert in the parlour, before Merton came in. He drew his hand out of his breast as he entered, and, with a strange look, gave the priest a folded letter. Robin took it without a word and read it through. After a pause he said to the other: "Who were those two men that came before supper? I saw them ride up." "There is only one, sir. He is one of Mr. Walsingham's men." "There were two," said the priest. "I will inquire, sir," said the young man, looking anxiously from the priest's face to the note and back again. Robin noticed it. "It is bad news," he said shortly. "I must say no more.... Will you inquire for me; and come and tell me at once." When the young man had gone Robin read the note again before destroying it. "I spoke to Sir A. to-day. He will have none of it. He seemed highly suspicious when I spoke to him of you. If you value your safety more than her Grace's possible comfort, you had best leave at once. In any case, use great caution." Then, in a swift, hurried hand there followed a post-script: "Mr. B. is just now arrived, and is closeted with Sir A. All is over, I think." * * * * * Ten minutes later Merton came back and found the priest still in the same attitude, sitting on the bed. "They will have none of it, sir," he said. "They say that one only came, in advance of Mr. Beale." He came a little closer, and Robin could see that he was excited. "But you are right, sir, for all their lies. I saw supper plates and an empty flagon come down from the stair that leads to the little chamber above the kitchen." CHAPTER VIII I Overhead lay the heavy sky of night-clouds like a curved sheet of dark steel, glimmering far away to the left with gashes of pale light. In front towered the twin gateway, seeming in the gloom to lean forward to its fall. Lights shone here and there in the windows, vanished and appeared again, flashing themselves back from the invisible water beneath. About, behind and on either side, there swayed and murmured this huge crowd--invisible in the darkness--peasants, gentlemen, clerks, grooms--all on an equality at last, awed by a common tragedy into silence, except for words exchanged here and there in an undertone, or whispered and left unanswered, or sudden murmured prayers to a God who hid Himself indeed. Now and again, from beyond the veiling walls came the tramp of men; once, three or four brisk notes blown on a horn; once, the sudden rumble of a drum; and once, when the silence grew profound, three or four blows of iron on wood. But at that the murmur rose into a groan and drowned it again.... So the minutes passed.... Since soon after midnight the folks had been gathering here. Many had not slept all night, ever since the report had run like fire through the little town last evening, that the sentence had been delivered to the prisoner. From that time onwards the road that led down past the Castle had never been empty. It was now moving on to dawn, the late dawn of February; and every instant the scene grew more distinct. It was possible for those pushed against the wall, or against the chains of the bridge that had been let down an hour ago, to look down into the chilly water of the moat; to see not the silhouette only of the huge fortress, but the battlements of the wall, and now and again a steel cap and a pike-point pass beyond it as the sentry went to and fro. Noises within the Castle grew more frequent. The voice of an officer was heard half a dozen times; the rattle of pike-butts, the clash of steel. The melancholy bray of the horn-blower ran up a minor scale and down again; the dub-dub of a drum rang out, and was thrown back in throbs by the encircling walls. The galloping of horses was heard three or four times as a late-comer tore up the village street and was forced to halt far away on the outskirts of the crowd--some country squire, maybe, to whom the amazing news had come an hour ago. Still there was no movement of the great doors across the bridge. The men on guard there shifted their positions; nodded a word or two across to one another; changed their pikes from one hand to the other. It seemed as if day would come and find the affair no further advanced.... Then, without warning (for so do great climaxes always come), the doors wheeled back on their hinges, disclosing a line of pikemen drawn up under the vaulted entrance; a sharp command was uttered by an officer at their head, causing the two sentries to advance across the bridge; a great roaring howl rose from the surging crowd; and in an instant the whole lane was in confusion. Robin felt himself pushed this way and that; he struggled violently, driving his elbows right and left; was lifted for a moment clean from his feet by the pressure about him; slipped down again; gained a yard or two; lost them; gained three or four in a sudden swirl; and immediately found his feet on wood instead of earth; and himself racing desperately as a loose group of runners, across the bridge; and beneath the arch of the castle-gate. II When he was able to take breath again, and to substitute thought for blind instinct, he found himself tramping in a kind of stream of men into what appeared an impenetrably packed crowd. He was going between ropes, however, which formed a lane up which it was possible to move. This lane, after crossing half the court, wheeled suddenly to one side and doubled on itself, conducting the newcomers behind the crowd of privileged persons that had come into the castle overnight, or had been admitted three or four hours ago. These persons were all people of quality; many of them, out of a kind of sympathy for what was to happen, were in black. They stood there in rows, scarcely moving, scarcely speaking, some even bare-headed, filling up now, so far as the priest could see, the entire court, except in that quarter in which he presently found himself--the furthest corner away from where rose up the tall carved and traceried windows of the banqueting-hall. Yet, though no man spoke above an undertone, a steady low murmur filled the court from side to side, like the sound of a wagon rolling over a paved road. He reached his place at last, actually against the wall of the soldiers' lodgings, and found, presently, that a low row of projecting stones enabled him to raise himself a few inches, and see, at any rate, a little better than his neighbours. He had perceived one thing instantly--namely, that his dream of getting near enough to the Queen to give her absolution before her death was an impossible one. He had known since yesterday that the execution was to take place in the hall, and here was he, within the court certainly, yet as far as possible away from where he most desired to be. * * * * * The last two days had gone by in a horror that there is no describing. All the hours of them he had passed at his parlour window, waiting hopelessly for the summons which never came. John Merton had gone to the castle and come back, each time with more desolate news. There was not a possibility, he said, when the news was finally certified, of getting a place in the hall. Three hundred gentlemen had had those places already assigned; four or five hundred more, it was expected, would have space reserved for them in the courtyard. The only possibility was to be early at the gateway, since a limited number of these would probably be admitted an hour or so before the time fixed for the execution. The priest had seen many sights from his parlour window during those two days. On Monday he had seen, early in the morning, Mr. Beale ride out with his men to go to my lord Shrewsbury, who was in the neighbourhood, and had seen him return in time for dinner, with a number of strangers, among whom was an ecclesiastic. On inquiry, he found this to be Dr. Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, who had been appointed to attend Mary both in her lodgings and upon the scaffold. In the afternoon the street was not empty for half an hour. From all sides poured in horsemen; gentlemen riding in with their servants; yeomen and farmers come in from the countryside, that they might say hereafter that they had at least been in Fotheringay when a Queen suffered the death of the axe. So the dark had fallen, yet lights moved about continually, and horses' hoofs never ceased to beat or the voices of men to talk. Until he fell asleep at last in his window-seat, he listened always to these things; watched the lights; prayed softly to himself; clenched his nails into his hands for indignation; and looked again. On the Tuesday morning came the sheriff, to dine at the castle with Sir Amyas--a great figure of a man, dignified and stalwart, riding in the midst of his men. After dinner came the Earl of Kent, and, last of all, my lord Shrewsbury himself--he who had been her Grace's gaoler, until he proved too kind for Elizabeth's taste--now appointed, with peculiar malice, to assist at her execution. He looked pale and dejected as he rode past beneath the window. Yet all this time the supreme horror had been that the end was not absolutely certain. All in Fotheringay were as convinced as men could be, who had not seen the warrant nor heard it read, that Mr. Beale had brought it with him on Sunday night; the priest, above all, from his communications with Mr. Bourgoign, was morally certain that the terror was come at last.... It was not until the last night of Mary's life on earth was beginning to close in that John Merton came up to the parlour, white and terrified, to tell him that he had been in his master's room half an hour ago, and that Mr. Melville had come in to them, his face all slobbered with tears, and had told him that he had but just come from her Grace's rooms, and had heard with his own ears the sentence read to her, and her gallant and noble answer.... He had bidden him to go straight off to the priest, with a message from Mr. Bourgoign and himself, to the effect that the execution was appointed for eight o'clock next morning; and that he was to be at the gate of the castle not later than three o'clock, if, by good fortune, he might be admitted when the gates were opened at seven. III And now that the priest was in his place, he began again to think over that answer of the Queen. The very words of it, indeed, he did not know for a month or two later, when Mr. Bourgoign wrote to him at length; but this, at least, he knew, that her Grace had said (and no man contradicted her at that time) that she would shed her blood to-morrow with all the happiness in the world, since it was for the cause of the Catholic and Roman Church that she died. It was not for any plot that she was to die: she professed again, kissing her Bible as she did so, that she was utterly guiltless of any plot against her sister. She died because she was of that Faith in which she had been born, and which Elizabeth had repudiated. As for death, she did not fear it; she had looked for it during all the eighteen years of her imprisonment. It was at a martyrdom, then, that he was to assist.... He had known that, without a doubt, ever since the day that Mary had declared her innocence at Chartley. There had been no possibility of thinking otherwise; and, as he reflected on this, he remembered that he, too, was guilty of the same crime;... and he wondered whether he, too, would die as manfully, if the need for it ever came. * * * * * Then, in an instant, he was called back, by the sudden crash of horns and drums playing all together. He saw again the ranks of heads before him: the great arched windows of the hall on the other side of the court, the grim dominating keep, and the merciless February morning sky over all. It was impossible to tell what was going on. On all sides of him men jostled and murmured aloud. One said, "She is coming down"; another, "It is all over"; another, "They have awakened her." "What is it? what is it?" whispered Robin to the air, watching waves of movement pass over the serried heads before him. The lights were still burning here and there in the windows, and the tall panes of the hall were all aglow, as if a great fire burned within. Overhead the sky had turned to daylight at last, but they were grey clouds that filled the heavens so far as he could see. Meanwhile, the horns brayed in unison, a rough melody like the notes of bugles, and the drums beat out the time. Again there was a long pause--in which the lapse of time was incalculable. Time had no meaning here: men waited from incident to incident only--the moving of a line of steel caps, a pause in the music, a head thrust out from a closed window and drawn back again.... Again the music broke out, and this time it was an air that they played--a lilting melancholy melody, that the priest recognised, yet could not identify. Men laughed subduedly near him; he saw a face wrinkled with bitter mirth turned back, and he heard what was said. It was "Jumping Joan" that was being played--the march consecrated to the burning of witches. He had heard it long ago, as a boy.... Then the rumour ran through the crowd, and spent itself at last in the corner where the priest stood trembling with wrath and pity. "She is in the hall." It was impossible to know whether this were true, or whether she had not been there half an hour already. The horror was that all might be over, or not yet begun, or in the very act of doing. He had thought that there would be some pause or warning--that a signal would be given, perhaps, that all might bare their heads or pray, at this violent passing of a Queen. But there was none. The heads surged and quieted; murmurs burst out and died again; and all the while the hateful, insolent melody rose and fell; the horns bellowed; the drums crashed. It sounded like some shocking dance-measure; a riot of desperate spirits moved in it, trampling up and down, as if in one last fling of devilish gaiety.... * * * * * Then suddenly the heads grew still; a wave of motionlessness passed over them, as if some strange sympathy were communicated from within those tall windows. The moments passed and passed. It was impossible to hear those murmurs, through the blare of the instruments; there was one sound only that could penetrate them; and this, rising from what seemed at first the wailing of a child, grew and grew into the shrill cries of a dog in agony. At the noise once more a roar of low questioning surged up and fell. Simultaneously the music came to an abrupt close; and, as if at a signal, there sounded a great roar of voices, all shouting together within the hall. It rose yet louder, broke out of doors, and was taken up by those outside. The court was now one sea of tossing heads and open mouths shouting--as if in exultation or in anger. Robin fought for his place on the projecting stones, clung to the rough wall, gripped a window-bar and drew himself yet higher. Then, as he clenched himself tight and stared out again towards the tall windows that shone in bloody flakes of fire from the roaring logs within; a sudden and profound silence fell once more before being shattered again by a thousand roaring throats.... For there, in full view beyond the clear glass stood a tall, black figure, masked to the mouth, who held in his out-stretched hands a wide silver dish, in which lay something white and round and slashed with crimson.... PART IV CHAPTER I I "There is no more to be said, then," said Marjorie, and leaned back, with a white, exhausted face. "We can do no more." * * * * * It was a little council of Papists that was gathered--a year after the Queen's death at Fotheringay--in Mistress Manners' parlour. Mr. John FitzHerbert was there; he had ridden up an hour before with heavy news from Padley and its messenger. Mistress Alice was there, quiet as ever, yet paler and thinner than in former years (Mistress Babington herself had gone back to her family last year). And, last, Robin himself was there, having himself borne the news from Derby. He had had an eventful year, yet never yet had he come within reach of the pursuivant. But he had largely effected this by the particular care which he had observed with regard to Matstead, and his silence as to his own identity. Extraordinary care, too, was observed by his friends, who had learned by now to call him even in private by his alias; and it appeared certain that beyond a dozen or two of discreet persons it was utterly unsuspected that the stately bearded young gentleman named Mr. Robert Alban--the "man of God," as, like other priests, he was commonly called amongst the Catholics--had any connection whatever with the hawking, hunting, and hard-riding lover of Mistress Manners. It was known, indeed, that Mr. Robin had gone abroad years ago to be made priest; but those who thought of him at all, or, at least as returned, believed him sent to some other part of England, for the sake of his father, and it was partly because of the very fact that his father was so hot against the Papists that it had been thought safe at Rheims to send him to Derbyshire, since this would be the very last place in which he would be looked for. He had avoided Matstead then--riding through it once only by night, with strange emotions--and had spent most of his time in the south of Derbyshire, crossing more than once over into Stafford and Chester, and returning to Padley or to Booth's Edge once in every three or four months. He had learned a hundred lessons in these wanderings of his. The news that he had now brought with him was of the worst. He had heard from Catholics in Derby that Mr. Simpson, returned again after his banishment, recaptured a month or two ago, and awaiting trial at the Lent Assizes, was beginning to falter. Death was a certainty for him this time, and it appeared that he had seemed very timorous before two or three friends who had visited him in gaol, declaring that he had done all that a man could do, that he was being worn out by suffering and privation, and that there was some limit, after all, to what God Almighty should demand. Marjorie had cried out just now, driven beyond herself at the thought of what all this must mean for the Catholics of the countryside, many of whom already had fallen away during the last year or two beneath the pitiless storm of fines, suspicions, and threats--had cried out that it was impossible that such a man as Mr. Simpson could fall; that the ruin it would bring upon the Faith must be proportionate to the influence he already had won throughout the country by his years of labour; entreating, finally, when the trustworthiness of the report had been forced upon her at last, that she herself might be allowed to go and see him and speak with him in prison. This, however, had been strongly refused by her counsellors just now. They had declared that her help was invaluable; that the amazing manner in which her little retired house on the moors had so far evaded grave suspicion rendered it one of the greatest safeguards that the hunted Catholics possessed; that the work she was doing by her organization of messengers and letters must not be risked, even for the sake of a matter like this.... She had given in at last. But her spirit seemed broken altogether. II "There is one more matter," said Robin presently, uncrossing one splashed leg from over the other. "I had not thought to speak of it; but I think it best now to do so. It concerns myself a little; and, therefore, if I may flatter myself, it concerns my friends, too." He smiled genially upon the company; for if there was one thing more than another he had learned in his travels, it was that the tragic air never yet helped any man. Marjorie lifted her eyes a moment. "Mistress Manners," he said, "you remember my speaking to you after Fotheringay, of a fellow of my lord Shrewsbury's who honoured me with his suspicions?" She nodded. "I have never set eyes on him from that day to this--to this," he added. "And this morning in the open street in Derby whom should I meet with but young Merton and his father. (Her Grace's servants have suffered horribly since last year. But that is a tale for another day.) Well: I stopped to speak with these two. The young man hath left Mr. Melville's service a while back, it seems; and is to try his fortune in France. Well; we were speaking of this and that, when who should come by but a party of men and my lord Shrewsbury in the midst, riding with Mr. Roger Columbell; and immediately behind them my friend of the 'New Inn' of Fotheringay. It was all the ill-fortune in the world that it should be at such moment; if he had seen me alone he would have thought no more of me; but seeing me with young Jack Merton, he looked from one to the other. And I will stake my hat he knew me again." Marjorie was looking full at him now. "What was my lord Shrewsbury doing in Derby with Mr. Columbell?" mused Mr. John, biting his moustaches. "It was the very question I put to myself," said Robin. "And I took the liberty of seeing where they went. They went to Mr. Columbell's own house, and indoors of it. The serving-men held the horses at the door. I watched them awhile from Mr. Biddell's window; but they were still there when I came away at last." "What hour was that?" asked the old man. "That would be after dinner-time. I had dined early; and I met them afterwards. My lord would surely be dining with Mr. Columbell. But that is no answer to my question. It rather pierces down to the further point, Why was my lord Shrewsbury dining with Mr. Columbell? Shrewsbury is a great lord; Mr. Columbell is a little magistrate. My lord hath his own house in the country, and there be good inns in Derby." He stopped short. "What is the matter, Mistress Manners?" he asked. "What of yourself?" she said sharply; "you were speaking of yourself." Robin laughed. "I had forgotten myself for once!... Why, yes; I intended to ask the company what I had best do. What with this news of Mr. Simpson, and the report Mistress Manners gives us of the country-folk, a poor priest must look to himself in these days; and not for his own sake only. Now, my lord Shrewsbury's man knows nothing of me except that I had strange business at Fotheringay a year ago. But to have had strange business at Fotheringay a year ago is a suspicious circumstance; and--" "Mr. Alban," broke in the old man, "you had best do nothing at all. You were not followed from Derby; you are as safe in Padley or here as you could be anywhere in England. All that you had best do is to remain here a week or two and not go down to Derby again for the present. I think that showing of yourself openly in towns hath its dangers as well as its safeguards." Mr. John glanced round. Marjorie bowed her head in assent. "I will do precisely as you say," said Robin easily. "And now for the news of her Grace's servants." He had already again and again told the tale of Fotheringay so far as he had seen it in this very parlour. At first he had hardly found himself able to speak of it without tears. He had described the scene he had looked upon when, in the rush that had been made towards the hall after Mary's head had been shown at the window, he had found a place, and had been forced along, partly with his will and partly against it, right through the great doors into the very place where the Queen had suffered; and he had told the story so well that his listeners had seemed to see it for themselves--the great hall hung with black throughout; the raised scaffold at the further end beside the fire that blazed on the wide hearth; the Queen's servants being led away half-swooning as he came in; the dress of velvet, the straw and the bloody sawdust, the beads and all the other pitiful relics being heaped upon the fire as he stood there in the struggling mob; and, above all, the fallen body, in its short skirt and bodice lying there where it fell beside the low, black block. He had told all this as he had seen it for himself, until the sheriff's men drove them all forth again into the court; and he had told, too, of all that he had heard afterwards, that had happened until my lord Shrewsbury's son had ridden out at a gallop to take the news to court, and the imprisoned watchers had been allowed to leave the Castle; how the little dog, that he had heard wailing, had leapt out as the head fell at the third stroke, so that he was all bathed in his mistress' blood--one of the very spaniels, no doubt, which he himself had seen at Chartley; how the dog was taken away and washed and given afterwards into Mr. Melville's charge; how the body and the head had been taken upstairs, had been roughly embalmed, and laid in a locked chamber; how her servants had been found peeping through the keyhole and praying aloud there, till Sir Amyas had had the hole stopped up. He had told them, too, of the events that followed; of the mass M. de Préau had been permitted to say in the Queen's oratory on the morning after; and of the oath that he had been forced to take that he would not say it again; of the destruction of the oratory and the confiscation of the altar furniture and vestments. All this he had told, little by little; and of the Queen's noble bearing upon the scaffold, her utter fearlessness, her protestations that she died for her religion and for that only, and of the pesterings of Dr. Fletcher, Dean of Peterborough, who had at last given over in despair, and prayed instead. The rest they knew for themselves--of the miserable falseness of Elizabeth, who feigned, after having signed the warrant and sent it, that it was Mr. Davison's fault for doing as she told him; and of her accusations (accusations that deceived no man) against those who had served her; of the fires made in the streets of all great towns as a mark of official rejoicing over Mary's death; and of the pitiful restitution made by the great funeral in Peterborough, six months after, and the royal escutcheons and the tapers and the hearse, and all the rest of the lying pretences by which the murderess sought to absolve her victim from the crime of being murdered. Well; it was all over.... * * * * * And now he told them of what he had heard to-day from young Merton in Derby; of how Nau, Mary's French secretary--the one who had served her for eleven years and had been loaded by her kindness--had been rewarded also by Elizabeth, and that the nature of his services was unmistakable; while all the rest of them, who had refused utterly to take any part in the insolent mourning at Peterborough, either in the Cathedral or at the banquet, had fallen under her Grace's displeasure, so that some of them, even now, were scarcely out of ward, Mr. Bourgoign alone excepted, since he was allowed to take the news of the death to their Graces of France, and had, most wisely, remained there ever since. * * * * * So the party sat round the fire in the same little parlour where they had sat so often before, with the lutes and wreaths embroidered on the hangings and Icarus in the chariot of the sun; and Robin, after telling his tale, answered question after question, till silence fell, and all sat motionless, thinking of the woman who, while dead, yet spoke. Then Mr. John stood up, clapped the priest on the back, and said that they two must be off to Padley for the night. III They had all risen to their feet when a knocking came on the door, and Janet looked in. She seemed a little perturbed. "If you please, sir," she said to Mr. John, "one of your men is come up from Padley; and wishes to speak to you alone." Mr. John gave a quick glance at the others. "If you will allow me," he said, "I will go down and speak with him in the hall." The rest sat down again. It was the kind of interruption that might be wholly innocent; yet, coming when it did, it affected them a little. There seemed to be nothing but bad news everywhere. The minutes passed, yet no one returned. Once Marjorie went to the door and listened, but there was only the faint wail of the winter wind up the stairs to be heard. Then, five minutes later, there were steps and Mr. John came in. His face looked a little stern, but he smiled with his mouth. "We poor Papists are in trouble again," he said. "Mistress Manners, you must let us stay here all night, if you will; and we will be off early in the morning. There is a party coming to us from Derby--to-morrow or next day: it is not known which." "Why, yes! And what party?" said Marjorie, quietly enough, though she must have guessed its character. The smile left his mouth. "It is my son that is behind it," he said. "I had wondered we had not had news of him! There is to be a general search for seminarists in the High Peak" (he glanced at Robin), "by order of my lord Shrewsbury. Your namesake, mistress, Mr. John Manners, and our friend Mr. Columbell, are commissioned to search; and Mr. Fenton and myself are singled out to be apprehended immediately. Thomas knows that I am at Padley, and that Mr. Eyre will come in there for Candlemas, the day after to-morrow; in that I recognize my son's knowledge. Well, I will dispatch my man who brought the news to Mr. Eyre to bid him to avoid the place; and we two, Mr. Alban and myself, will make our way across the border into Stafford." "There are none others coming to Padley to-morrow?" asked Marjorie. "None that I know of. They will come in sometimes without warning; but I cannot help that. Mr. Fenton will be at Tansley: he told me so." "How did the news come?" asked Robin. "It seems that the preacher Walton, in Derby, hath been warned that we shall be delivered to him two days hence. It was his servant that told one of mine. I fear he will be a-preparing his sermons to us, all for nothing." He smiled bitterly again. Robin could see the misery in this man's heart at the thought that it was his own son who had contrived this. Mr. Thomas had been quiet for many months, no doubt in order to strike the more surely in his new function as "sworn man" of her Grace. Yet he would seem to have failed. "We shall not get our candles then, this year either," smiled Mr. Thomas. "Lanterns are all that we shall have." * * * * * There was not much time to be lost. Luggage had to be packed, since it would not be safe for the three to return until at least two or three weeks had passed; and Marjorie, besides, had to prepare a list of places and names that must be dealt with on their way--places where word must be left that the hunt was up again, and names of particular persons that were to be warned. Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam were in the county, and these must be specially informed, since they were known, and Mr. Garlick in particular had already suffered banishment and returned again, so that there would be no hope for him if he were once more captured. The four sat late that night; and Robin wondered more than ever, not only at the self-command of the girl, but at her extraordinary knowledge of Catholic affairs in the county. She calculated, almost without mistake, as was afterwards shown, not only which priests were in Derbyshire, but within a very few miles of where they would be and at what time: she showed, half-smiling, a kind of chart which she had drawn up, of the movements of the persons concerned, explaining the plan by which each priest (if he desired) might go on his own circuit where he would be most needed. She lamented, however, the fewness of the priests, and attributed to this the growing laxity of many families--living, it might be, in upland farms or in inaccessible places, where they could but very seldom have the visits of the priest and the strength of the sacraments. Before midnight, therefore, the two travellers had complete directions for their journey, as well as papers to help their memories, as to where the news was to be left. And at last Mr. John stood up and stretched himself. "We must go to bed," he said. "We must be booted by five." Marjorie nodded to Alice, who stood up, saying she would show him where his bed had been prepared. Robin lingered for a moment to finish his last notes. "Mr. Alban," said Marjorie suddenly, without lifting her eyes from the paper on which she wrote. "Yes?" "You will take care to-morrow, will you not?" she said. "Mr. John is a little hot-headed. You must keep him to his route?" "I will do my best," said Robin, smiling. She lifted her clear eyes to his without tremor or shame. "My heart would be broken altogether if aught happened to you. I look to you as our Lord's chief soldier in this county." "But--" "That is so," she said. "I do not know any man who has been made perfect in so short a time. You hold us all in your hands." CHAPTER II I It was in Mr. Bassett's house at Langley that the news of the attack on Padley reached the two travellers a month later, and it bore news in it that they little expected. For it seemed that, entirely unexpectedly, there had arrived at Padley the following night no less than three of the FitzHerbert family, Mr. Anthony the seventh son, with two of his sisters, as well as Thomas FitzHerbert's wife, who rode with them, whether as a spy or not was never known. Further, Mr. Fenton himself, hearing of their coming, had ridden up from Tansley, and missed the messenger that Marjorie had sent out. They had not arrived till late, missing again, by a series of mischances, the scouts Marjorie had posted; and, on discovering their danger, had further discovered the house to be already watched. They judged it better, therefore, as Marjorie said in her letter, to feign unconsciousness of any charge against them, since there was no priest in the house who could incriminate them. All this the travellers learned for the first time at Langley. They had gone through into Staffordshire, as had been arranged, and there had moved about from house to house of Catholic friends without any trouble. It was when at last they thought it safe to be moving homewards, and had arrived at Langley, that they found Marjorie's letter awaiting them. It was addressed to Mr. John FitzHerbert and was brought by Robin's old servant, Dick Sampson. "The assault was made," wrote Marjorie, "according to the arrangement. Mr. Columbell himself came with a score of men and surrounded the house very early, having set watchers all in place the evening before: they had made certain they should catch the master and at least a priest or two. But I have very heavy news, for all that; for there had come to the house after dark Mr. Anthony FitzHerbert, with two of his sisters, Mrs. Thomas FitzHerbert and Mr. Fenton himself, and they have carried the two gentlemen to the Derby gaol. I have had no word from Mr. Anthony, but I hear that he said that he was glad that his father was not taken, and that his own taking he puts down to his brother's account, as yourself, sir, also did. The men did no great harm in Padley beyond breaking a panel or two: they were too careful, I suppose, of what they think will be Mr. Topcliffe's property some day! And they found none of the hiding-holes, which is good news. The rest of the party they let go free again for the present. "I have another piece of bad news, too--which is no more than what we had looked for: that Mr. Simpson at the Assizes was condemned to death, but has promised to go to church, so that his life is spared if he will do so. He is still in the gaol, however, where I pray God that Mr. Anthony may meet with him and bring him to a better mind; so that he hath not yet denied our Lord, even though he hath promised to do so. "May God comfort and console you, Mr. FitzHerbert, for this news of Mr. Anthony that I send." * * * * * The letter ended with messages to the party, with instructions for their way of return if they should come within the next week; and with the explanation, given above, of the series of misfortunes by which any came to be at Padley that night, and how it was that they did not attempt to break out again. * * * * * The capture of Mr. Anthony was, indeed, one more blow to his father; but Robin was astonished how cheerfully he bore it; and said as much when they two were alone in the garden. The grey old man smiled, while his eyelids twitched a little. "They say that when a man is whipped he feels no more after awhile. The former blows prepare him and dull his nerves for the later, which, I take it, is part of God's mercy. Well, Mr. Alban, my father hath been in prison a great while now; my son Thomas is a traitor, and a sworn man of her Grace; I myself have been fined and persecuted till I have had to sell land to pay the fines with. I have seen family after family fall from their faith and deny it. So I take it that I feel the joy that I have a son who is ready to suffer for it, more than the pain I have in thinking on his sufferings. The one may perhaps atone for the sins of the other, and yet help him to repentance." * * * * * Life here at Langley was more encouraging than the furtive existence necessary in the north of Derbyshire. Mr. Bassett had a confident way with him that was like wine to fainting hearts, and he had every reason to be confident; since up to the present, beyond being forced to pay the usual fines for recusancy, he had scarcely been troubled at all; and lived in considerable prosperity, having even been sheriff of Stafford in virtue of his other estates at Blore. His house at Langley was a great one, standing in a park, and showing no signs of poverty; his servants were largely Catholic; he entertained priests and refugees of all kinds freely, although discreetly; and he laughed at the notion that the persecution could be of long endurance. The very first night the travellers had come he had spoken with considerable freedom after supper. "Look more hearty!" he cried. "The Spanish fleet will be here before summer to relieve us of all troubles, as of all heretics, too. Her Grace will have to turn her coat once more, I think, when that comes to pass." Mr. John glanced at him doubtfully. "First," he said, "no man knows whether it will come. And, next, I for one am not sure if I even wish for it." Mr. Bassett laughed loudly. "You will dance for joy!" he said. "And why do you not know whether you wish it to come?" "I have no taste to be a Spanish subject." "Why, nor have I! But the King of Spain will but sail away again when he hath made terms against the privateers, whether they be those that ply on the high seas against men's bodies, or here in England against their souls. There will be no subjection of England beyond that." Mr. John was silent. "Why, I heard from Sir Thomas but a week ago, to ask for a little money to pay his fines with. He said that repayment should follow so soon as the fleet should come. Those were his very words." "You sent the money, then?" "Why, yes; I made shift that a servant should throw down a bag with ten pounds in it, into a bush, and that Brittlebank--your brother's man--should see him do it! And lo! when we looked again, the bag was gone!" He laughed again with open mouth. Certainly he was an inspiriting man with a loud bark of his own; but Robin imagined that he would not bite too cruelly for all that. But he saw another side of him presently. "What was that matter of Mr. Sutton, the priest who was executed in Stafford last year?" asked Mr. John suddenly. The face of the other changed as abruptly. His eyes became pin-points under his grey eyebrows and his mouth tightened. "What of him?" he said. "It was reported that you might have stayed the execution, and would not. I did not believe a word of it." "It is true," said Mr. Bassett sharply--"at least a portion of it." "True?" "Listen," cried the other suddenly, "and tell me what you would have done. Mr. Sutton was taken, and was banished, and came back again, as any worthy priest would do. Then he was taken again, and condemned. I did my utmost to save him, but I could not. Then, as I would never have any part in the death of a priest for his religion, another was appointed to carry the execution through. Three days before news was brought to me by a private hand that Mr. Sutton had promised to give the names of priests whom he knew, and of houses where he had said mass, and I know not what else; and it was said to me that I might on this account stay the execution until he had told all that he could. Now I knew that I could not save his life altogether; that was forfeited and there could be no forgiveness. All that I might do was to respite him for a little--and for what? That he might damn his own soul eternally and bring a great number of good men into trouble and peril of death for themselves. I sent the messenger away again, and said that I would listen to no such tales. And Mr. Sutton died like a good priest three days after, repenting, I doubt not, bitterly, of the weakness into which he had fallen. Now, sir, what would you have done in my place?" He wagged his face fiercely from side to side. Mr. John put his hand over his eyes and nodded without speaking. Robin sat silent: it was not only for priests, it seemed, that life presented a tangle. II The evening before the two left for the north again, Mr. Bassett took them both into his own study. It was a little room opening out of his bedroom, and was more full of books than Robin had ever seen, except in the library at Rheims, in any room in the world. A shelf ran round the room, high on the wall, and was piled with manuscripts to the ceiling. Beneath, the book-shelves that ran nearly round the room were packed with volumes, and a number more lay on the table and even in the corners. "This is my own privy chamber," said Mr. Bassett to the priest. "My other friends have seen it many a time, but I thought I would show it to your Reverence, too." Robin looked round him in wonder: he had no idea that his host was a man of such learning. "All the books are ranged in their proper places," went on the other. "I could put my finger on any of them blind-fold. But this is the shelf I wished you to see." He took him to one that was behind the door, holding up the candle that he might see. The shelf had a box or two on it, besides books, and these he opened and set on the table. Robin looked in, as he was told, but could understand nothing that he saw: in one was a round ball of crystal on a little gold stand, wrapped round in velvet; in another some kind of a machine with wheels; in a third, some dried substances, as of herbs, tied together with silk. He inspected them gravely, but was not invited to touch them. Then his host touched him on the breast with one finger, and recoiled, smiling. "This is my magic," he said. "John here does not like it; neither did poor Mr. Fenton when he was here; but I hold there is no harm in such things if one does but observe caution." "What do you do with them, sir?" inquired the priest curiously, for he was not sure whether the man was serious. "Well, sir, I hold that God has written His will in the stars, and in the burning of herbs, and in the shining of the sun, and such things. There is no black magic here. But, just as we read in the sky at morning, if it be red or yellow, whether it will be foul or fair, so I hold that God has written other secrets of His in other things; and that by observing them and judging rightly we may guess what He has in store. I knew that a prince was to die last year before ever it happened. I knew that a fleet of ships will come to England this year, before ever an anchor is weighed. And I would have you notice that here are Mr. FitzHerbert and your Reverence, too, fleeing for your lives; and here sit I safe at home; and all, as I hold, because I have been able to observe by my magic what is to come to pass." "But that strikes at the doctrine of free-will," cried the priest. "No, sir; I think it does not. God's foreknowledge doth not hinder the use of our free-will (which is a mystery, no doubt, yet none the less true). Then why should God's foreknowledge any more hinder our free-will, when He chooses to communicate it to us?" Robin was silent. He knew little or nothing of these things, except from his theological reading. Yet he felt uneasy. The other said nothing. "And the stars, too?" he asked. "I hold," said Mr. Bassett, "that the stars have certain influences and powers upon those that are born under their signs. I do not hold that we are so ruled by these that we have no action of our own, any more than we are compelled to be wet through by rain or scorched by the sun: we may always come into a house or shelter beneath a tree, and thus escape them. So, too, I hold, with the stars. There is an old saying, sir: 'The fool is ruled by his stars; the wise man rules them.' That is, in a nutshell, my faith in the matter. I have told Mr. Fenton's fortune here, and Mr. FitzHerbert's, only they will never listen to me." Robin looked round the room. It was dark outside long ago; they had supped at sunset, and sat for half an hour over their banquet of sweetmeats and wine before coming upstairs. And the room, too, was as dark as night, except where far off in the west, beyond the tall trees of the park, a few red streaks lingered. He felt oppressed and miserable. The place seemed to him sinister. He hated these fumblings at locks that were surely meant to remain closed. Yet he did not know what to say. Mr. John had wandered off to one of the windows and was humming uneasily to himself. Then, suddenly, an intense curiosity overcame him. His life was a strange and perilous one; he carried it in his hand every day. In the morning he could not be sure but that he would be fleeing before evening. As he fell asleep, he could not be sure that he would not be awakened to a new dream. He had long ago conquered those moods of terror which, in spite of his courage, had come down on him sometimes, in some lonely farm, perhaps, where flight would be impossible--or, in what was far more dangerous, in some crowded inn where every movement was known--these had passed, he thought, never to come back. But in that little book-lined room, with these curious things in boxes on the table, and his merry host peering at him gravely, and the still evening outside; with the knowledge that to-morrow he was to ride back to his own country, whence he had fled for fear of his life, six weeks ago; leaving the security of this ex-sheriff's house for the perils of the Peak and all that suspected region from which even now, probably, the pursuit had not altogether died away--here a sudden intense desire to know what the future might hold overcame him. "Tell me, sir," he said. "You have told Mr. FitzHerbert's fortune, you say, as well as others. Have you told mine since I have been here?" There was a moment's silence. Mr. John was silent, with his back turned. Robin looked up at his host, wondering why he did not answer. Then Mr. Bassett took up the candle. "Come," he said; "we have been here long enough." CHAPTER III I "There will be a company of us to-night," said Mr. John to the two priests, as he helped them to dismount. "Mr. Alban has sent his man forward from Derby to say that he will be here before night." "Mr. Ludlam and I are together for once," said Mr. Garlick. "We must separate again to-morrow, he is for the north again, he tells me. There has been no more trouble?" "Not a word of it. They were beaten last time and will not try again, I think, for the present. You heard of the attempt at Candlemas, then?" * * * * * It had been a quiet time enough ever since Lent, throughout the whole county; and it seemed as if the heat of the assault had cooled for want of success. Plainly a great deal had been staked upon the attack on Padley, which, for its remoteness from towns, was known to be a meeting-place where priests could always find harbourage. And, indeed, it was time that the Catholics should have a little breathing space. Things had been very bad with them--the arrest of Mr. Simpson, and, still more, his weakness (though he had not as yet actually fulfilled his promise of going to church, and was still detained in gaol); the growing lukewarmness of families that seldom saw a priest; the blows struck at the FitzHerbert family; and, above all, the defection of Mr. Thomas--all these things had brought the hearts of the faithful very low. Mr. John himself had had an untroubled time since his return a little before Easter; but he had taken the precaution not to remain too long at Padley at one time; he had visited his other estates at Swynnerton and elsewhere, and had even been back again at Langley. But there had been no hint of any pursuit. Padley had remained untouched; the men went about their farm business; the housekeeper peered from her windows, without a glimpse of armed men such as had terrified the household on Candlemas day. It was only last night, indeed, that the master had returned, in time to meet the two priests who had asked for shelter for a day or two. They had stayed here before continually, as well as at Booth's Edge, during their travels, both in the master's absence and when he was at home. There were a couple of rooms kept vacant always for "men of God"; and all priests who came were instructed, of course (in case of necessity), as to the hiding-holes that Mr. Owen had contrived a few years before. Never, however, had there been any use made of them. * * * * * It was a hot July afternoon when the two priests were met to-day by Mr. John outside the arched gate that ran between the hall and the buttery. They had already dined at a farm a few miles down the valley, but they were taken round the house at once to the walled garden, where drink and food were set out. Here their dusty boots were pulled off; they laid aside their hats, and were presently at their ease again. They were plain men, these two; though Mr. Garlick had been educated at Oxford, and, before his going to Rheims, had been schoolmaster at Tideswell. In appearance he was a breezy sunburnt man, with very little of the clerk about him, and devoted to outdoor sports (which was something of a disguise to him since he could talk hawking and riding in mixed company with a real knowledge of the facts). He spoke in a loud voice with a strong Derbyshire accent, which he had never lost and now deliberately used. Mr. Ludlam looked for more of the priest: he was a clean-shaven man, of middle-age, with hair turning to grey on his temples, and with a very pleasant disarming smile; he spoke very little, but listened with an interested and attentive air. Both were, of course, dressed in the usual riding costume of gentlemen, and used good horses. It was exceedingly good to sit here, with the breeze from over the moors coming down on them, with cool drink before them, and the prospect of a secure day, at any rate, in this stronghold. Their host, too, was contented and serene, and said so, frankly. "I am more at peace, gentlemen," he said, "than I have been for the past five years. My son is in gaol yet; and I am proud that he should be there, since my eldest son--" (he broke off a moment). "And I think the worst of the storm is over. Her Grace is busying herself with other matters." "You mean the Spanish fleet, sir?" said Mr. Garlick. He nodded. "It is not that I look for final deliverance from Spain," he said. "I have no wish to be aught but an Englishman, as I said to Mr. Bassett a while ago. But I think the fleet will distract her Grace for a while; and it may very well mean that we have better treatment hereafter." "What news is there, sir?" "I hear that the Londoners buzz continually with false alarms. It was thought that the fleet might arrive on any day; but I understand that the fishing-boats say that nothing as yet been seen. By the end of the month, I daresay, we shall have news." So they talked pleasantly in the shade till the shadows began to lengthen. They were far enough here from the sea-coast to feel somewhat detached from the excitement that was beginning to seethe in the south. At Plymouth, it was said, all had been in readiness for a month or two past; at Tilbury, my lord Leicester was steadily gathering troops. But here, inland, it was more of an academic question. The little happenings in Derby; the changes of weather in the farms; the deaths of old people from the summer heats--these things were far more vital and significant than the distant thunders of Spain. A beacon or two had been piled on the hills, by order of the authorities, to pass on the news when it should come; a few lads had disappeared from the countryside to drill in Derby marketplace; but except for these things, all was very much as it had been from the beginning. The expected catastrophe meant little more to such folk than the coming of the Judgment Day--certain, but infinitely remote from the grasp of the imagination. * * * * * The three were talking of Robin as they came down towards the house for supper, and, as they turned the corner, he himself was at that moment dismounting. He looked surprisingly cool and well-trimmed, considering his ride up the hot valley. He had taken his journey easily, he said, as he had had a long day yesterday. "And I made a round to pay a visit to Mistress Manners," he said. "I found her a-bed when I got there; and Mrs. Alice says she will not be at mass to-morrow. She stood too long in the sun yesterday, at the carrying of the hay; it is no more than that." "Mistress Manners is a marvel to me," said Garlick, as they went towards the house. "Neither wife nor nun. And she rules her house like a man; and she knows if a priest lift his little finger in Derby. She sent me my whole itinerary for this last circuit of mine; and every point fell out as she said." * * * * * Robin thought that he had seldom had so pleasant a supper as on that night. The windows of the low hall where he had dined so often as a boy, were flung wide to catch the scented evening air. The sun was round to the west and threw long, golden rays, that were all lovely light and no heat, slantways on the paved floor and the polished tables and the bright pewter. Down at the lower end sat the servants, brown men, burned by the sun; lean as panthers, scarcely speaking, ravenous after their long day in the hayfields; and up here three companions with whom he was wholly at his ease. The evening was as still as night, except for the faint peaceful country sounds that came up from the valley below--the song of a lad riding home; the barking of a dog; the bleat of sheep--all minute and delicate, as unperceived, yet as effective, as a rich fabric on which a design is woven. It seemed to him as he listened to the talk--the brisk, shrewd remarks of Mr. Garlick; the courteous and rather melancholy answers of his host; as he watched the second priest's eyes looking gently and pleasantly about him; as he ate the plain, good food and drank the country drink, that, in spite of all, his lot was cast in very sweet places. There was not a hint here of disturbance, or of men's passions, or of ugly strife: there was no clatter, as in the streets of Derby, or pressure of humanity, or wearying politics of the market-place. He found himself in one of those moods that visit all men sometimes, when the world appears, after all, a homely and a genial place; when the simplest things are the best; when no excitement or ambition or furious zeal can compare with the gentle happiness of a tired body that is in the act of refreshment, or of a driven mind that is finding its relaxation. At least, he said to himself, he would enjoy this night and the next day and the night after, with all his heart. * * * * * The four found themselves so much at ease here, that the dessert was brought in to them where they sat; and it was then that the first unhappy word was spoken. "Mr. Simpson!" said Garlick suddenly. "Is there any more news of him?" Mr. John shook his head. "He hath not yet been to church, thank God!" he said. "So much I know for certain. But he hath promised to go." "Why is he not yet gone? He promised a great while ago." "I hear he hath been sick. Derby gaol is a pestiferous place. They are waiting, I suppose, till he is well enough to go publicly, that all the world may be advertised of it!" Mr. Garlick gave a bursting sigh. "I cannot understand it at all," he said. "There has never been so zealous a priest. I have ridden with him again and again before I was a priest. He was always quiet; but I took him to be one of those stout-hearted souls that need never brag. Why, it was here that we heard him tell of Mr. Nelson's death!" Mr. John threw out his hands. "These prisons are devilish," he said; "they wear a man out as the rack can never do. Why, see my son!" he cried. "Oh! I can speak of him if I am but moved enough! It was that same Derby gaol that wore him out too! It is the darkness, and the ill food, and the stenches and the misery. A man's heart fails him there, who could face a thousand deaths in the sunlight. Man after man hath fallen there--both in Derby, and in London and in all the prisons. It is their heart that goes--all the courage runs from them like water, with their health. If it were the rack and the rope only, England would be Catholic, yet, I think." The old man's face blazed with indignation; it was not often that he so spoke out his mind. It was very easy to see that he had thought continually of his son's fall. "Mistress Manners hath told me the very same thing," said Robin. "She visited Mr. Thomas in gaol once at least. She said that her heart failed her altogether there." Mr. Ludlam smiled. "I suppose it is so," he said gently, "since you say so. But I think it would not be so with me. The rack and the rope, rather, are what would shake me to the roots, unless God His Grace prevailed more than it ever yet hath with see." He smiled again. Robin shook his head sharply. "As for me--!" he said grimly, with tight lips. * * * * * It was a lovely night of stars as the four stepped out of the archway before going upstairs to the parlour. Behind them stood the square and solid house, resembling a very fortress. The lights that had been brought in still shone through the windows, and a hundred night insects leapt and poised in the brightness. And before them lay the deep valley--silent now except for the trickle of the stream; dark (since the moon was not yet risen), except for one light that burned far away in some farm-house on the other side; and this light went out, like a closing eye, even as they looked. But overhead, where God dwelt, all heaven was alive. The huge arch resting, as it appeared, on the monstrous bases of the moors and hills standing round this place, like the mountains about Jerusalem, was one shimmering vault of glory, as if it was there that the home of life had its place, and this earth beneath but a bedroom for mortals, or for those that were too weary to aspire or climb. The suggestion was enormously powerful. Here was this mortal earth that needed rest so cruelly--that must have darkness to refresh its tired eyes, coolness to recuperate its passion, and silence, if ever its ears were to hear again. But there was radiance unending. All day a dome of rigid blue; all night a span of glittering lights--the very home of a glory that knows no waste and that therefore needs no reviving: it was to that only, therefore, that a life must be chained which would not falter or fail in the unending tides and changes of the world.... A soft breeze sprang up among the tops of the chestnuts; and the sound was as of the going of a great company that whispered for silence. II It was within an hour of dawn that the first mass was said next morning by Mr. Robert Alban. The chapel was decked out as they seldom dared to deck it in those days; but the failure of the last attempt on this place, and the peace that had followed, made them bold. The carved chest of newly-cut oak was in its place, with a rich carpet of silk spread on its face; and, on the top, the three linen cloths as prescribed by the Ritual. Two silver candlesticks, that stood usually on the high shelf over the hall-fire, and a silver crucifix of Flemish work, taken from the hiding-place, were in a row on the back, with red and white flowers, between. Beneath the linen cloths a tiny flat elevation showed where the altar stone lay. The rest of the chapel, in its usual hangings, had only sweet herbs on the floor; with two or three long seats carried up from the hall below. An extraordinary sweetness and peace seemed in the place both to the senses and the soul of the young priest as he went up to the altar to vest. Confessions had been heard last night; and, as he turned, in the absolute stillness of the morning, and saw, beneath those carved angels that still to-day lean from the beams of the roof, the whole little space already filled with farm-lads, many of whom were to approach the altar presently, and the grey head of their master kneeling on the floor to answer the mass, it appeared to him as if the promise of last night were reversed, and that it was, after all, earth rather than heaven that proclaimed the peace and the glory of God.... * * * * * Robin served the second mass himself, said by Mr. Garlick, and made his thanksgiving as well as he could meanwhile; but he found what appeared to him at the time many distractions, in watching the tanned face and hands of the man who was so utterly a countryman for nine-tenths of his life, and so utterly a priest for the rest. His very sturdiness and breeziness made his reverence the more evident and pathetic: he read the mass rapidly, in a low voice, harshened by shouting in the open air over his sports, made his gestures abruptly, and yet did the whole with an extraordinary attention. After the communion, when he turned for the wine and water, his face, as so often with rude folk in a great emotion, browned as it was with wind and sun, seemed lighted from within; he seemed etherealized, yet with his virility all alive in him. A phrase, wholly inapplicable in its first sense, came irresistibly to the younger priest's mind as he waited on him. "When the strong man, armed, keepeth his house, his goods are in peace." Robin heard the third mass, said by Mr. Ludlam, from a corner near the door; and this one, too, was a fresh experience. The former priest had resembled a strong man subdued by grace; the second, a weak man ennobled by it. Mr. Ludlam was a delicate soul, smiling often, as has been said, and speaking little--"a mild man," said the countryfolk. Yet, at the altar there was no weakness in him; he was as a keen, sharp blade, fitted as a heavy knife cannot be, for fine and peculiar work. His father had been a yeoman, as had the other's; yet there must have been some unusual strain of blood in him, so deft and gentle he was--more at his ease here at God's Table than at the table of any man.... So he, too, finished his mass, and began to unvest.... Then, with a noise as brutal as a blasphemy, there came a thunder of footsteps on the stairs; and a man burst into the room, with glaring eyes and rough gestures. "There is a company of men coming up from the valley," he cried; "and another over the moor.... And it is my lord Shrewsbury's livery." III In an instant all was in confusion; and the peace had fled. Mr. John was gone; and his voice could be heard on the open stairs outside speaking rapidly in sharp, low whispers to the men gathered beneath; and, meanwhile, three or four servants, two men and a couple of maids, previously drilled in their duties, were at the altar, on which Mr. Ludlam had but that moment laid down his amice. The three priests stood together waiting, fearing to hinder or to add to the bustle. A low wailing rose from outside the door; and Robin looked from it to see if there were anything he could do. But it was only a little country servant crouching on the tiny landing that united the two sets of stairs from the court, with her apron over her head: she must have been in the partitioned west end of the chapel to hear the mass. He said a word to her; and the next instant was pushed aside, as a man tore by bearing a great bundle of stuffs--vestments and the altar cloths. When he turned again, the chapel was become a common room once more: the chest stood bare, with a great bowl of flowers on it; the candlesticks were gone; and the maid was sweeping up the herbs. "Come, gentlemen," said a sharp voice at the door, "there is no time to lose." He went out with the two others behind, and followed Mr. John downstairs. Already the party of servants was dispersed to their stations; two or three to keep the doors, no doubt, and the rest back to kitchen work and the like, to give the impression that all was as usual. The four went straight down into the hall, to find it empty, except for one man who stood by the fire-place. But a surprising change had taken place here. Instead of the solemn panelling, with the carved shield that covered the wall over the hearth, there was a great doorway opened, through which showed, not the bricks of the chimney-breast, but a black space large enough to admit a man. "See here," said Mr. John, "there is room for two here, but no more. There is room for a third in another little chamber upstairs that is nearly joined on to this: but it is not so good. Now, gentlemen--" "This is the safer of the two?" asked Robin abruptly. "I think it to be so. Make haste, gentlemen." Robin wheeled on the others. He said that there was no time to argue in. "See!" he said. "I have not yet been taken at all. Mr. Garlick hath been taken; and Mr. Ludlam hath had a warning. There is no question that you must be here." "I utterly refuse--" began Garlick. Robin went to the door in three strides; and was out of it. He closed the door behind him and ran upstairs. As he reached the head his eye caught a glint of sunlight on some metal far up on the moor beyond the belt of trees. He did not turn his head again; he went straight in and waited. Presently he heard steps coming up, and Mr. John appeared smiling and out of breath. "I have them in," he said, "by promising that there was no great difference after all; and that there was no time. Now, sir--" And he went towards the wall at which, long ago, Mr. Owen had worked so hard. "And yourself, sir?" asked Robin, as once more an innocent piece of panelling moved outwards under Mr. John's hand. "I'll see to that; but not until you are in--" "But--" The old man's face blazed suddenly up. "Obey me, if you please. I am the master here. I tell you I have a very good place." There was no more to be said. Robin advanced to the opening, and sat down to slide himself in. It was a little door about two feet square, with a hole beneath it. "Drop gently, Mr. Alban," whispered the voice in his ear. "The altar vessels are at the bottom, with the crucifix, on some soft stuff.... That is it. Slide in and let yourself slip. There is some food and drink there, too." Robin did so. The floor of the little chamber was about five feet down, and he could feel woodwork on all three sides of him. "When the door is closed," said the voice from the daylight, "push a pair of bolts on right and left till they go home. Tap upon the shutter when it is done." The light vanished, and Robin was aware of a faint smell of smoke. Then he remembered that he had noticed a newly lit fire on the hearth of the hall.... He found the bolts, pushed them, and tapped lightly three times. He heard a hand push on the shutter to see that all was secure, and then footsteps go away over the floor on a level with his chin. Then he remembered that he must be in the same chamber with his two fellow-priests, separated from them by the flooring on which he stood. He rapped gently with his foot twice. Two soft taps came back. Silence followed. IV Time, as once before in his experience, seemed wholly banished from this place. There were moments of reflection when he appeared to himself as having but just entered; there were other moments when he might have been here for an eternity that had no divisions to mark it. He was in complete and utter darkness. There was not a crack anywhere in the woodwork (so perfect had been the young carpenter's handiwork) by which even a glimmer of light could enter. A while ago he had been in the early morning sunlight; now he might be in the grave. For a while his emotions and his thoughts raced one another, tumbling in inextricable confusion; and they were all emotions and thoughts of the present: intense little visions of the men closing round the house, cutting off escape from the valley on the one side and from the wild upland country on the other; questions as to where Mr. John would hide himself; minute sensible impressions of the smoky flavour of the air, the unplaned woodwork, the soft stuffs beneath his feet. Then they began to extend themselves wider, all with that rapid unjarring swiftness: he foresaw the bursting in of his stronghold; the footsteps within three inches of his head; the crash as the board was kicked in: then the capture; the ride to Derby, bound on a horse; the gaol; the questioning; the faces of my lord Shrewsbury and the magistrates ... and the end.... There were moments when the sweat ran down his face, when he bit his lips in agony, and nearly moaned aloud. There were others in which he abandoned himself to Christ crucified; placed himself in Everlasting Hands that were mighty enough to pluck him not only out of this snare, but from the very hands that would hold him so soon; Hands that could lift him from the rack and scaffold and set him a free man among his hills again: yet that had not done so with a score of others whom he knew. He thought of these, and of the girl who had done so much to save them all, who was now saved herself by sickness, a mile or two away, from these hideous straits. Then he dragged out Mr. Maine's beads and began to recite the "Mysteries."... * * * * * There broke in suddenly the first exterior sign that the hunters were on them--a muffled hammering far beneath his feet. There were pauses; then voices carried up from the archway nearly beneath through the hollowed walls; then hammering again; but all was heard as through wool. As the first noise broke out his mind rearranged itself and seemed to have two consciousnesses. In the foreground he followed, intently and eagerly, every movement below; in the background, there still moved before him the pageant of deeper thoughts and more remote--of prayer and wonder and fear and expectation; and from that onwards it continued so with him. Even while he followed the sounds, he understood why my lord Shrewsbury had made this assault so suddenly, after months of peace.... He perceived the hand of Thomas FitzHerbert, too, in the precision with which the attack had been made, and the certain information he must have given that priests would be in Padley that morning. There were noises that he could not interpret--vague tramplings from a direction which he could not tell; voices that shouted; the sound of metal on stone. He did interpret rightly, however, the sudden tumult as the gate was unbarred at last, and the shrill screaming of a woman as the company poured through into the house; the clamour of voices from beneath as the hall below was filled with men; the battering that began almost immediately; and, finally, the rush of shod feet up the outside staircases, one of which led straight into the chapel itself. Then, indeed, his heart seemed to spring upwards into his throat, and to beat there, as loud as knocking, so loud that it appeared to him that all the house must hear it. * * * * * Yet it was still some minutes before the climax came to him. He was still standing there, listening to voices talking, it seemed, almost in his ears, yet whose words he could not hear; the vibration of feet that shook the solid joist against which he had leaned his head, with closed eyes; the brush of a cloak once, like a whisper, against the very panel that shut him in. He could attend to nothing else; the rest of the drama was as nothing to him: he had his business in hand--to keep away from himself, by the very intentness of his will and determination, the feet that passed so close. The climax came in a sudden thump of a pike foot within a yard of his head, so imminent, that for an instant he thought it was at his own panel. There followed a splintering sound of a pike-head in the same place. He understood. They were sounding on the woodwork and piercing all that rang hollow.... His turn, then, would come immediately. Talking voices followed the crash; then silence; then the vibration of feet once more. The strain grew unbearable; his fingers twisted tight in his rosary, lifted themselves once or twice from the floor edge on which they were gripped, to tear back the bolts and declare himself. It seemed to him in those instants a thousand times better to come out of his own will, rather than to be poked and dragged from his hole like a badger. In the very midst of such imaginings there came a thumping blow within three inches of his face, and then silence. He leaned back desperately to avoid the pike-thrust that must follow, with his eyes screwed tight and his lips mumbling. He waited;... and then, as he waited, he drew an irrepressible hissing breath of terror, for beneath the soft padding under his feet he could feel movements; blow follow blow, from the same direction, and last a great clamour of voices all shouting together. Feet ran across the floor on which his hands were gripped again, and down the stairs. He perceived two things: the chapel was empty again, and the priests below had been found. V He could follow every step of the drama after that, for he appeared to himself now as a mere witness, without personal part in it. First, there were voices below him, so clear and close that he could distinguish the intonation, and who it was that spoke, though the words were inaudible. It was Mr. Garlick who first spoke--a sentence of a dozen words, it might be, consenting, no doubt, to come out without being dragged; congratulating, perhaps (as the manner was), the searchers on their success. A murmur of answer came back, and then one sharp, peevish voice by itself. Again Mr. Garlick spoke, and there followed the shuffling of movements for a long while; and then, so far as the little chamber was concerned, empty silence. But from the hall rose up a steady murmur of talk once more.... Again Robin's heart leaped in him, for there came the rattle of a pike-end immediately below his feet. They were searching the little chamber beneath, from the level of the hall, to see if it were empty. The pike was presently withdrawn. For a long while the talking went on. So far as the rest of the house was concerned, the hidden man could tell nothing, or whether Mr. John were taken, or whether the search were given up. He could not even fix his mind on the point; he was constructing for himself, furiously and intently, the scene he imagined in the hall below; he thought he saw the two priests barred in behind the high table; my lord Shrewsbury in the one great chair in the midst of the room; Mr. Columbell, perhaps, or Mr. John Manners talking in his ear; the men on guard over the, priests and beside the door; and another, maybe, standing by the hearth. He was so intent on this that he thought of little else; though still, on a strange background of another consciousness, moved scenes and ideas such as he had had at the beginning. And he was torn from this contemplation with the suddenness of a blow, by a voice speaking, it seemed, within a foot of his head. "Well, we have those rats, at any rate." (He perceived instantly what had happened. The men were back again in the chapel, and he had not heard them come. He supposed that he could hear the words now, because of the breaking of the panel next to his own.) "Ralph said he was sure of the other one, too," said a second voice. "Which was that one?" "The fellow that was at Fotheringay." (Robin clenched his teeth like iron.) "Well, he is not here." There was silence. "I have sounded that side," said the first voice sharply. "Well, but--" "I tell you I have sounded it. There is no time to be lost. My lord--" "Hark!" said the second voice. "There is my lord's man--" There followed a movement of feet towards the door, as it seemed to the priest. He could hear the first man grumbling to himself, and beating listlessly on the walls somewhere. Then a voice called something unintelligible from the direction of the stairs; the beating ceased, and footsteps went across the floor again into silence. VI He was dazed and blinded by the light when, after infinite hours, he drew the bolts and slid the panel open. * * * * * He had lost all idea of time utterly: he did not know whether he should find that night had come, or that the next day had dawned. He had waited there, period after period; he marked one of them by eating food that had no taste and drinking liquid that stung his throat but did not affect his palate; he had marked another by saying compline to himself in a whisper. During the earlier part of those periods he had followed--he thought with success--the dreadful drama that was acted in the house. Someone had made a formal inspection of all the chambers--a man who said little and moved heavily with something of a limp (he had thought this to be my lord Shrewsbury himself, who suffered from the gout): this man had walked slowly through the chapel and out again. At a later period he had heard the horses being brought round the house; heard plainly the jingle of the bits and a sneeze or two. This had been followed by long interminable talking, muffled and indistinguishable, that came up to him from some unknown direction. Voices changed curiously in loudness and articulation as the speakers moved about. At a later period a loud trampling had begun again, plainly from the hall: he had interpreted this to mean that the prisoners were being removed out of doors; and he had been confirmed in this by hearing immediately afterwards again the stamping of horses and the creaking of leather. Again there had been a pause, broken suddenly by loud women's wailing. And at last the noise of horses moving off; the noise grew less; a man ran suddenly through the archway and out again, and, little by little, complete silence once more. Yet he had not dared to move. It was the custom, he knew, sometimes to leave three or four men on guard for a day or two after such an assault, in the hope of starving out any hidden fugitives that might still be left. So he waited again--period after period; he dozed a little for weariness, propped against the narrow walls of his hidinghole; woke; felt again for food and found he had eaten it all ... dozed again. Then he had started up suddenly, for without any further warning there had come a tiny indeterminate tapping against his panel. He held his breath and listened. It came again. Then fearlessly he drew back the bolts, slid the panel open and shut his eyes, dazzled by the light. He crawled out at last, spent and dusty. There was looking at him only the little red-eyed maid whom he had tried to comfort at some far-off hour in his life. Her face was all contorted with weeping, and she had a great smear of dust across it. "What time is it?" he said. "It ... it is after two o'clock," she whispered. "They have all gone?" She nodded, speechless. "Whom have they taken?" "Mr. FitzHerbert ... the priests ... the servants." "Mr. FitzHerbert? They found him, then?" She stared at him with the dull incapacity to understand why he did not know all that she had seen. "Where did they find him?" he repeated sharply. "The master ... he opened the door to them himself." Her face writhed itself again into grotesque lines, and she broke out into shrill wailing and weeping. CHAPTER IV I Marjorie was still in bed when the news was brought her by her friend. She did not move or speak when Mistress Alice said shortly that Mr. FitzHerbert had been taken with ten of his servants and two priests. "You understand, my dear.... They have ridden away to Derby, all of them together. But they may come back here suddenly." Marjorie nodded. "Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam were in the chimney-hole of the hall," whispered Mistress Alice, glancing fearfully behind her. Marjorie lay back again on her pillows. "And what of Mr. Alban?" she asked. "Mr. Alban was upstairs. They missed him. He is coming here after dark, the maid says." * * * * * An hour after supper-time the priest came quietly upstairs to the parlour. He showed no signs of his experience, except perhaps by a certain brightness in his eyes and an extreme self-repression of manner. Marjorie was up to meet him; and had in her hands a paper. She hardly spoke a single expression of relief at his safety. She was as quiet and business-like as ever. "You must lie here to-night," she said. "Janet hath your room ready. At one o'clock in the morning you must ride: here is a map of your journey. They may come back suddenly. At the place I have marked here with red there is a shepherd's hut; you cannot miss it if you follow the track I have marked. There will be meat and drink there. At night the shepherd will come from the westwards; he is called David, and you may trust him. You must lie there two weeks at least." "I must have news of the other priests," he said. Marjorie bowed her head. "I will send a letter to you by Dick Sampson at the end of two weeks. Until that I can promise nothing. They may have spies round the house by this time to-morrow, or even earlier. And I will send in that letter any news I can get from Derby." "How shall I find my way?" asked Robin. "Until it is light you will be on ground that you know." (She flushed slightly.) "Do you remember the hawking, that time after Christmas? It is all across that ground. When daylight comes you can follow this map." (She named one or two landmarks, pointing to them on the map.) "You must have no lantern." They talked a few minutes longer as to the way he must go and the provision that would be ready for him. He must take no mass requisites with him. David had made that a condition. Then Robin suddenly changed the subject. "Had my father any hand in this affair at Padley?" "I am certain he had not." "They will execute Mr. Garlick and Mr. Ludlam, will they not?" She bowed her head in assent. "The Summer Assizes open on the eighteenth," she said. "There is no doubt as to how all will go." Robin rose. "It is time I were in bed," he said, "if I must ride at one." The two women knelt for his blessing. At one o'clock Marjorie heard the horse brought round. She stepped softly to the window, knowing herself to be invisible, and peeped out. All was as she had ordered. There was no light of any kind: she could make out but dimly in the summer darkness the two figures of horse and groom. As she looked, a third figure appeared beneath; but there was no word spoken that she could hear. This third figure mounted. She caught her breath as she heard the horse scurry a little with freshness, since every sound seemed full of peril. Then the mounted figure faded one way into the dark, and the groom another. II It was two weeks to the day that Robin received his letter. * * * * * He had never before been so long in utter solitude; for the visits of David did not break it; and, for other men, he saw none except a hog-herd or two in the distance once or twice. The shepherd came but once a day, carrying a great jug and a parcel of food, and set them down without the hut; he seemed to avoid even looking within; but merely took the empty jug of the day before and went away again. He was an old, bent man, with a face like a limestone cliff, grey and weather-beaten; he lived half the year up here in the wild Peak country, caring for a few sheep, and going down to the village not more than once or twice a week. There was a little spring welling up in a hollow not fifty yards away from the hut, which itself stood in a deep, natural rift among the high hills, so that men might search for it a lifetime and not come across it. Robin's daily round was very simple. He had leave to make a fire by day, but he must extinguish it at night lest its glow should be seen, so he began his morning by mixing a little oatmeal, and then preparing his dinner. About noon, so near as he could judge by the sun, he dined; sometimes off a partridge or rabbit; on Fridays off half a dozen tiny trout; and set aside part of the cold food for supper; he had one good loaf of nearly black bread every day, and the single jug of small beer. The greater part of the day he spent within the hut, for safety's sake, sleeping a little, and thinking a good deal. He had no books with him; even his breviary had been forbidden, since David, as a shrewd man, had made conditions, first that he should not have to speak with any refugee, second, that if the man were a priest he should have nothing about him that could prove him to be so. Mr. Maine's beads, only, had been permitted, on condition that they were hidden always beneath a stone outside the hut. After nightfall Robin went out to attend to his horse that was tethered in the next ravine, over a crag; to shift his peg and bring him a good armful of cut grass and a bucket of water. (The saddle and bridle were hidden beneath a couple of great stones that leaned together not far away.) After doing what was necessary for his horse, he went to draw water for himself; and then took his exercise, avoiding carefully, according to instructions, every possible skyline. And it was then, for the most part, that he did his clear thinking.... He tried to fancy himself in a fortnight's retreat, such as he had had at Rheims before his reception of orders. * * * * * The evening of the twenty-fifth of July closed in stormy; and Robin, in an old cloak he had found placed in the hut for his own use, made haste to attend to what was necessary, and hurried back as quickly as he could. He sat a while, listening to the thresh of the rain and the cry of the wind; for, up here in the high land the full storm broke on him. (The hut was wattled of osiers and clay, and kept out the wet tolerably well.) He could see nothing from the door of his hut except the dim outline of the nearer crag thirty or forty yards off; and he went presently to bed. * * * * * He awoke suddenly, wide awake--as is easy for a man who is sleeping in continual expectation of an alarm--at the flash of light in his eyes. But he was at once reassured by Dick's voice. "I have come, sir; and I have brought the mistress' letter." Robin sat up and took the packet. He saw now that the man carried a little lantern with a slide over it that allowed only a thin funnel of light to escape that could be shut off in an instant. "All well, Dick? I did not hear you coming." "The storm's too loud, sir." "All well?" "Mistress Manners thinks you had best stay here a week longer, sir." "And ... and the news?" "It is all in the letter, sir." Robin looked for the inscription, but there was none. Then he broke the two seals, opened the paper and began to read. For the next five minutes there was no sound, except the thresh of the rain and the cry of the wind. The letter ran as follows: III "Three more have glorified God to-day by a good confession--Mr. Garlick, Mr. Ludlam and Mr. Simpson. That is the summary. The tale in detail hath been brought to me to-day by an eye-witness. "The trial went as all thought it would. There was never the least question of it; for not only were the two priests taken with signs of their calling upon them, but both of them had been in the hands of the magistrates before. There was no shrinking nor fear showed of any kind. But the chief marvel was that these two priests met with Mr. Simpson in the gaol; they put them together in one room, I think, hoping that Mr. Simpson would prevail upon them to do as he had promised to do; but, by the grace of God, it was all the other way, and it was they who prevailed upon Mr. Simpson to confess himself again openly as a Catholic. This greatly enraged my lord Shrewsbury and the rest; so that there was less hope than ever of any respite, and sentence was passed upon them all together, Mr. Simpson showing, at the reading of it, as much courage as any. This was all done two days ago at the Assizes; and it was to-day that the sentence was carried out. "They were all three drawn on hurdles together to the open space by St. Mary's Bridge, where all was prepared, with gallows and cauldron and butchering block; and a great company went after them. I have not heard that they spoke much, on the way, except that a friend of Mr. Garlick's cried out to him to remember that they had often shot off together on the moors; to which Mr. Garlick made answer merrily that it was true; but that 'I am now to shoot off such a shot as I never shot in all my life.' He was merry at the trial, too, I hear; and said that 'he was not come to seduce men, but rather to induce them to the Catholic religion, that to this end he had come to the country, and for this that he would work so long as he lived.' And this he did on the scaffold, speaking to the crowd about him of the salvation of their souls, and casting papers, which he had written in prison, in proof of the Catholic faith. "Mr. Garlick went up the ladder first, kissing and embracing it as the instrument of his death, and to encourage Mr. Simpson, as it was thought, since some said he showed signs of timorousness again when he came to the place. But he showed none when his turn came, but rather exhibited the same courage as them both. Mr. Ludlam stood by smiling while all was done; and smiling still when his turn came. His last words were, '_Venite benedicti Dei_'; and this he said, seeming to see a vision of angels come to bear his soul away. "They were cut down, all three of them, before they were dead; and the butchery done on them according to sentence; yet none of them cried out or made the least sound; and their heads and quarters were set up immediately afterwards on poles in divers places of Derby; some of them above the house that stands on the bridge and others on the bridge itself. But these, I hear, will not be there long. "So these three have kept the faith and finished their course with joy. _Laus Deo_. Mr. John is in ward, for harbouring of the priests; but nothing hath been done to him yet. "As for your reverence, I am of opinion that you had best wait another week where you are. There has been a man or two seen hereabouts whom none knew, as well as at Padley. It hath been certified, too, that Mr. Thomas was at the root of it all, that he gave the information that Mr. John and at least a priest or two would be at Padley at that time, though no man knows how he knew it, unless through servants' talk; and since Mr. Thomas knows your reverence, it will be better to be hid for a little longer. So, if you will, in a week from now, I will send Dick once, again to tell you if all be well. I look for no letter back for this since you have nothing to write with in the hut, as I know; but Dick will tell me how you do; as well as anything you may choose to say to him. "I ask your reverence's blessing again. I do not forget your reverence in my poor prayers." * * * * * And so it ended, without signature--for safety's sake. IV Robin looked up when he had finished to where the faint outline of the servant could be seen behind the lantern, against the greater darkness of the wall. "You know of all that has fallen at Derby?" he said, with some difficulty. "Yes, sir." "Well, pray God we may be willing, too, if He bids us to it." "Yes, sir."... "You had best lose no time if you are to be home before dawn. Say to Mistress Manners that I thank her for her letter; that I praise God for the graces she relates in it; and that I will do as she bids.... Dick." "Yes, sir." "Is Mr. Audrey in any of this?" "I do not know, sir.... I heard--" The man's voice hesitated. "What did you hear?" "I heard that my lord Shrewsbury wondered at his absence from the trial; and ... and that a message would be sent to Mr. Audrey to look to it to be more zealous on her Grace's commission." "That was all?" "Yes, sir." "Then you had best be gone. There is no more to be said. Bring me what news you can when you come again. Good-night, Dick." "Good-night, sir.... God bless your reverence." * * * * * An hour later, with the first coming of the dawn, the storm ceased. (It was that same storm, if he had only known it, that had blown upon the Spanish Fleet at sea and driven it towards destruction. But of this he knew nothing.) He had not slept since Dick had gone, but had lain on his back on the turfed and blanketed bed in the corner, his hands clasped behind his head, thinking, thinking and re-thinking all that he had read just now. He had known it must happen; but there seemed to him all the difference in the world between an event and its mere certainty.... The thing was done--out to every bitter detail of the loathsome, agonizing death--and it had been two of the men whom he had seen say mass after himself--the ruddy-faced, breezy countryman, yet anointed with the sealing oil, and the gentle, studious, smiling man who had been no less vigorous than his friend.... But there was one thing he had not known, and that, the recovery of the faint heart which they had inspirited. And then, in an instant he remembered how he had seen the three, years ago, against the sunset, as he rode with Anthony.... * * * * * His mind was full of the strange memory as he came out at last, when the black darkness began to fade to grey, and the noise of the rain on the roof had ceased, and the wind had fallen. It was a view of extraordinary solemnity that he looked on, as he stood leaning against the rough door-post. The night was still stronger than day; overhead was as black as ever, and stars shone in it through the dissolving clouds that were passing at last. But, immediately over the grim, serrated edge of the crag that faced him to the east, a faint and tender light was beginning to burn, so faint that, as yet it seemed an absence of black rather than as of a colour itself; and in the midst of it, like a crumb of diamond, shone a single dying star. This high land was as still now as a sheltered valley, a tuft of springy grass stood out on the crag as stiff as a thin plume; and the silence, as at Padley two weeks ago, was marked rather than broken by the tinkle of water from his spring fifty yards away. The air was cold and fresh and marvellously scented, after the rain, with the clean smell of strong turf and rushes. It was as different from the peace he had had at Padley as water is different from wine; yet it was Peace, too, a confident and expectant peace that precedes the battle, rather than the rest which follows it.... How was it he had seen the three men on the moor; as he turned with Anthony? They were against the crimson west, as against a glory, the two laymen on either side, the young priest in the middle.... They had seemed to bear him up and support him; the colour of the sky was as a stain of blood; and their shadows had stretched to his own feet.... * * * * * And there came on him in that hour one of those vast experiences that can never be told, when a flood rises in earth and air that turns them all to wine, that wells up through tired limbs, and puzzled brain and beating heart, and soothes and enkindles, all in one; when it is not a mere vision of peace that draws the eyes up in an ecstasy of sight, but a bathing in it, and an envelopment in it, of every fibre of life; when the lungs draw deep breaths of it; and the heart beats in it, and the eyes are enlightened by it; when the things of earth become at once eternal and fixed and of infinite value, and at the same instant of less value than the dust that floats in space; when there no longer appears any distinction between the finite and the eternal, between time and infinity; when the soul for that moment at least finds that rest that is the magnet and the end of all human striving; and that comfort which wipes away all tears. CHAPTER V I It was the sixth night after Dick Sampson had come back with news of Mr. Alban; and he had already received instructions as to how he was to go twenty-four hours later. He was to walk, as before, starting after dark, not carrying a letter this time, after all, in spite of the news that he might have taken with him; for the priest would be back before morning and could hear it all then at his ease. Every possible cause of alarm had gone; and Marjorie, for the first time for three weeks, felt very nearly as content as a year ago. Not one more doubtful visitor had appeared anywhere; and now she thought herself mistaken even about those solitary figures she had suspected before. After all, they had only been a couple of men, whose faces her servants did not know, who had gone past on the track beneath the house; one mounted, and the other on foot. There had been something of a reaction, too, in Derby. The deaths of the three priests had made an impression; there was no doubt of that. Mr. Biddell had written her a letter on the point, saying that the blood of those martyrs might well be the peace, if it might not be the seed, of the Church in the district. Men openly said in the taverns, he reported, that it was hard that any should die for religion merely; politics were one matter and religion another. Yet the deaths had dismayed the simple Catholics, too, for the present; and at Hathersage church, scarcely ten miles away, above two hundred came to the Protestant sermon preached before my lord Shrewsbury on the first Sunday after. The news of the Armada, too, had distracted men's minds wonderfully in another direction. News had come in already, she was informed, of an engagement or two in the English Channel, all in favour of its defenders. More than that was not known. But the beacons had blazed; and the market-place of Derby had echoed with the tramp of the train-bands; and it was not likely that at such a time the attention of the magistrates would be given to anything else. So her plans were laid. Mr. Alban was to come here for three or four days; be provided with a complete change of clothes (all of which she had ready); shave off his beard; and then set out again for the border. He had best go to Staffordshire, she thought, for a month or two, before beginning once more in his own county. * * * * * She went to bed that night, happy enough, in spite of the cause, which she loved so much, seeming to fail everywhere. It was true that, under this last catastrophe, great numbers had succumbed; but she hoped that this would be but for a time. Let but a few more priests come from Rheims to join the company that had lost so heavily, and all would be well again. So she said to herself: she did not allow even in her own soul that the security of her friend and the thought that he would be with her in a day or two, had any great part in her satisfaction. * * * * * She awaked suddenly. At the moment she did not know what time it was or how long she had slept; but it was still dark and deathly still. Yet she could have sworn that she had heard her name called. The rushlight was burned out; but in the summer night she could still make out the outline of Mistress Alice's bed. Yet all was still there, except for the gentle breathing: it could not have been she who had called out in her sleep, or she would surely show some signs of restlessness. She sat up listening; but there was not a sound. She lay down again; and the strange fancy seized her that it had been her mother's voice that she had heard.... It was in this room that her mother had died.... Again she sat up and looked round. All was quiet as before: the tall press at the foot of her bed glimmered here and there with lines and points of starlight. Then, as again she began to lie down, there came the signal for which her heart was expectant, though her mind knew nothing of its coming. It was a clear rap, as of a pebble against the glass. She was up and out of bed in a moment, and was peering out under the thick arch of the little window. And a figure stood there, bending, it seemed, for another pebble; in the very place where she had seen it, she thought, nearly three weeks ago, standing ready to mount a horse. Then she was at Alice's bedside. "Alice," she whispered. "Alice! Wake up.... There is someone come. You must come with me. I do not know--" Her voice faltered: she knew that she knew, and fear clutched her by the throat. * * * * * The porter was fast asleep, and did not move, as carrying a rushlight she went past the buttery with her friend behind her saying no word. The bolts were well oiled, and came back with scarcely a sound. Then as the door swung slowly back a figure slipped in. "Yes," he said, "it is I.... I think I am followed.... I have but come--" "Come in quickly," she said, and closed and bolted the door once more. II It was a horrible delight to sit, wrapped in her cloak with the hood over her head, listening to his story in the hall, and to know that it was to her house that he had come for safety. It was horrible to her that he needed it--so horrible that every shred of interior peace had left her; she was composed only in her speech, and it was a strange delight that he had come so simply. He sat there; she could see his outline and the pallor of his face under his hat, and his voice was perfectly resolute and quiet. This was his tale. "Twice this afternoon," he said, "I saw a man against the sky, opposite my hut. It was the same man both times; he was not a shepherd or a farmer's man. The night before, when David came, he did not speak to me; but for the first time he put his head in at the hut-door when he brought the food and made gestures that I could not understand. I looked at him and shook my head, but he would say nothing, and I remembered the bond and said nothing myself. All that he would do was to shut his eyes and wave his hands. Then this last night he brought no food at all. "I was uneasy at the sight of the man, too, in the afternoon. I think he thought that I was asleep; for when I saw him for the first time I was lying down and looking at the crag opposite. And I saw him raise himself on his hands against the sky, as if he had been lying flat on his face in the heather. I looked at him for a while, and then I flung my hand out of bed suddenly, and he was gone in a whisk. I went to the door after a time, stretching myself as if I were just awakened, and there was no sign of him. "About an hour before sunset I was watching again; and I saw, on a sudden, a covey of birds rise suddenly about two hundred yards away to the north of the hut--that is, by the way that I should have to go down to the valleys again. They rose as if they were frightened. I kept my eyes on the place, and presently I saw a man's hat moving very slowly. It was the movement of a man crawling on his hands, drawing his legs after him. "Then I waited for David to come, but he did not come, and I determined then to make my way down here as well as I could after dark. If there were any fellows after me, I should have a better chance of escape than if I stayed in the hut, I thought, until they could fetch up the rest; and, if not, I could lose nothing by coming a day too soon." "But--" began the girl eagerly. "Wait," said Robin quietly. "That is not all. I made very poor way on foot (for I thought it better to come quietly than on a horse), and I went round about again and again in the precipitous ground so that, if there were any after me, they could not tell which way I meant to go. For about two hours I heard and saw nothing of any man, and I began to think I was a fool for all my pains. So I sat down a good while and rested, and even thought that I would go back again. But just as I was about to get up again I heard a stone fall a great way behind me: it was on some rocky ground about two hundred yards away. The night was quite still, and I could hear the stone very plainly.... It was I that crawled then, further down the hill, and it was then that I saw once more a man's head move against the stars. "I went straight on then, as quietly as I could. I made sure that it was but one that was after me, and that he would not try to take me by himself, and I saw no more of him till I came down near Padley--" "Near Padley? Why--" "I meant to go there first," said the priest, "and lie, there till morning. But as I came down the hill I heard the steps of him again a great way off. So I turned sharp into a little broken ground that lies there, and hid myself among the rocks--" * * * * * Mistress Alice lifted her hand suddenly. "Hark!" she whispered. Then as the three sat motionless, there came, distinct and clear, from a little distance down the hill, the noise of two or three horses walking over stony ground. III For one deathly instant the two sat looking each into the other's white face--since even the priest changed colour at the sound. (While they had talked the dawn had begun to glimmer, and the windows showed grey and ghostly on the thin morning mist.) Then they rose together. Marjorie was the first to speak. "You must come upstairs at once," she said. "All is ready there, as you know." The priest's lips moved without speaking. Then he said suddenly: "I had best be off the back way; that is, if it is what I think--" "The house will be surrounded." "But you will have harboured me--" Marjorie's lips opened in a smile. "I have done that in any case," she said. She caught up the candle and blew it out, as she went towards the door. "Come quickly," she said. At the door Janet met them. Her old face was all distraught with fear. She had that moment run downstairs again on hearing the noise. Marjorie silenced her by a gesture.... The young carpenter had done his work excellently, and Marjorie had taken care that there had been no neglect since the work had been done. Yet so short was the time since the hearing of the horses' feet, that as the girl slipped out of the press again after drawing back the secret door, there came the loud knocking beneath, for which they had waited with such agony. "Quick!" she said.... From within, as she waited, came the priest's whisper. "Is this to be pushed--?" "Yes; yes." There was the sound of sliding wood and a little snap. Then she closed the doors of the press again. IV Mr. Audrey outside grew indignant, and the more so since he was unhappy. * * * * * He had had the message from my lord Shrewsbury that a magistrate of her Grace should show more zeal; and, along with this, had come a private intimation that it was suspected that Mr. Audrey had at least once warned the recusants of an approaching attack. It would be as well, then, if he would manifest a little activity.... But it appeared to him the worst luck in the world that the hunt should lead him to Mistress Manners' door. It was late in the afternoon that the informer had made his appearance at Matstead, thirsty and dishevelled, with the news that a man thought to be a Popish priest was in hiding on the moors; that he was being kept under observation by another informer; and that it was to be suspected that he was the man who had been missed at Padley when my lord had taken Garlick and Ludlam. If it were the man, it would be the priest known by the name of Alban--the fellow whom my lord's man had so much distrusted at Fotheringay, and whom he had seen again in Derby a while later. Next, if it were this man, he would almost certainly make for Padley if he were disturbed. Mr. Audrey had bitten his nails a while as he listened to this, and then had suddenly consented. The plan suggested was simple enough. One little troop should ride to Padley, gathering reinforcements on the way, and another on foot should set out for the shepherd's hut. Then, if the priest should be gone, this second party should come on towards Padley immediately and join forces with the riders. All this had been done, and the mounted company, led by the magistrate himself, had come up from the valley in time to see the signalling from the heights (contrived by the showing of lights now and again), which indicated that the priest was moving in the direction that had been expected, and that one man at least was on his track. They had waited there, in the valley, till the intermittent signals had reached the level ground and ceased, and had then ridden up cautiously in time to meet the informer's companion, and to learn that the fugitive had doubled suddenly back towards Booth's Edge. There they had waited then, till the dawn was imminent, and, with it, there came the party on foot, as had been arranged; then, all together, numbering about twenty-five men, they had pushed on in the direction of Mistress Manners' house. As the house came into view, more than ever Mr. Audrey reproached his evil luck. Certainly there still were two or three chances to one that no priest would be taken at all; since, first, the man might not be a priest, and next, he might have passed the manor and plunged back again into the hills. But it was not very pleasant work, this rousing of a house inhabited by a woman for whom the magistrate had very far from unkindly feelings, and on such an errand.... So the informers marvelled at the venom with which Mr. Audrey occasionally whispered at them in the dark. His heart sank as he caught a glimpse of a light first showing, and then suddenly extinguished, in the windows of the hall, but he was relieved to hear no comment on it from the men who walked by his horse; he even hoped that they had not seen it.... But he must do his duty, he said to himself. * * * * * He grew a little warm and impatient when no answer came to the knocking. He said such play-acting was absurd. Why did not the man come out courageously and deny that he was a priest? He would have a far better excuse for letting him go. "Knock again," he cried. And again the thunder rang through the archway, and the summons in the Queen's name to open. Then at last a light shone beneath the door. (It was brightening rapidly towards the dawn here in the open air, but within it would still be dark.) Then a voice grumbled within. "Who is there?" "Man," bellowed the magistrate, "open the door and have done with it. I tell you I am a magistrate!" There was silence. Then the voice came again. "How do I know that you are?" Mr. Audrey slipped off his horse, scrambled to the door, set his hands on his knees and his mouth to the keyhole. "Open the door, you fool, in the Queen's name.... I am Mr. Audrey, of Matstead." Again came the pause. The magistrate was in the act of turning to bid his men beat the door in, when once more the voice came. "I'll tell the mistress, sir.... She's a-bed." * * * * * His discomfort grew on him as he waited, staring out at the fast yellowing sky. (Beneath him the slopes towards the valley and the far-off hills on the other side appeared like a pencil drawing, delicate, minute and colourless, or, at the most, faintly tinted in phantoms of their own colours. The sky, too, was grey with the night mists not yet dissolved.) It was an unneighbourly action, this of his, he thought. He must do his best to make it as little offensive as he could. He turned to his men. "Now, men," he said, glaring like a judge, "no violence here, unless I give the order. No breaking of aught in the house. The lady here is a friend of mine; and--" The great bolts shot back suddenly; he turned as the door opened; and there, pale as milk, with eyes that seemed a-fire, Marjorie's face was looking at him; she was wrapped in her long cloak and her hood was drawn over her head. The space behind was crowded with faces, unrecognizable in the shadow. * * * * * He saluted her. "Mistress Manners," he said, "I am sorry to incommode you in this way. But a couple of fellows tell me that a man hath come this way, whom they think to be a priest. I am a magistrate, mistress, and--" He stopped, confounded by her face. It was not like her face at all--the face, rather, seemed as nothing; her whole soul was in her eyes, crying to him some message that he could not understand. It appeared impossible to him that this was a mere entreaty that he should leave one more priest at liberty; impossible that the mere shock and surprise should have changed her so.... He looked at her.... Then he began again: "It is no will of mine, mistress, beyond my duty. But I hold her Grace's commission--" She swept back again, motioning him to enter. He was astonished at his own discomfort, but he followed, and his men pressed close after; and he noticed, even in that twilight, that a look of despair went over the girl's face, sharp as pain, as she saw them. "You have come to search my house, sir?" she asked. Her voice was as colourless as her features. "My commission, mistress, compels me--" Then he noticed that the doors into the hall had been pushed open, and that she was moving towards them. And he thought he understood. "Stand back, men," he barked, so fiercely that they recoiled. "This lady shall speak with me first." * * * * * He passed up the hall after her. He was as unhappy as possible. He wondered what she could have to say to him; she must surely understand that no pleading could turn him; he must do his duty. Yet he would certainly do this with as little offence as he could. "Mistress Manners--" he began. Then she turned on him again. They were at the further end of the hall, and could speak low without being overheard. "You must begone again," she whispered. "Oh! you must begone again. You do not understand; you--" Her eyes still burned with that terrible eloquence; it was as the face of one on the rack. "Mistress, I cannot begone again. I must do my duty. But I promise you--" She was close to him, staring into his face; he could feel the heat of her breath on his face. "You must begone at once," she whispered, still in that voice of agony. He saw her begin to sway on her feet and her eyes turn glassy. He caught her as she swayed. "Here! you women!" he cried. * * * * * It was all that he could do to force himself out through the crowd of folks that looked on him. It was not that they barred his way. Rather they shrank from him; yet their eyes pulled and impeded him; it was by a separate effort that he put each foot before the other. Behind he could hear the long moan that she had given die into silence, and the chattering whispers of her women who held her. He reassured himself savagely; he would take care that no one was taken ... she would thank him presently; he would but set guards at all the doors and make a cursory search; he would break a panel or two; no more. And that would save both his face and her own.... Yet he loathed even such work as this.... He turned abruptly as he came into the buttery passage. "All the women in the hall," he said sharply. "Jack, keep the door fast till we are done." V He took particular pains to do as little damage as possible. First he went through the out-houses, himself with a pike testing the haystacks, where he was sure that no man could be hidden. The beasts turned slow and ruminating eyes upon him as he went by their stalls. As he passed, a little later, the inner door into the buttery passage, he could hear the beating of hands on the hall-door. He went on quickly to the kitchen, hating himself, yet determined to get all done quickly, and drove the kitchen-maid, who was crouching by the unlighted fire, out behind him, sending a man with her to bestow her in the hall. She wailed as she went by him, but it was unintelligible, and he was in no mood for listening. "Take her in," he said; "but let no one out, nor a message, till all is done." (He thought that the kinder course.) Then at last he went upstairs, still with his little bodyguard of four, of whom one was the man who had followed the fugitive down from the hills. He began with the little rooms over the hall: a bedstead stood in one; in another was a table all piled with linen a third had its floor covered with early autumn fruit, ready for preserving. He struck on a panel or two as he went, for form's sake. As he came out again he turned savagely on the informer. "It is damned nonsense," he said; "the fellow's not here at all. I told you he'd have gone back to the hills." The man looked up at him with a furtive kind of sneer in his face; he, too, was angry enough; the loss of the priest meant the loss of the heavy reward. "We have not searched a room rightly yet, sir," he snarled. "There are a hundred places--" "Not searched! You villain! Why, what would you have?" "It's not the manner I've done it before, sir. A pike-thrust here, and a blow there--" "I tell you I will not have the house injured! Mistress Manners--" "Very good, sir. Your honour is the magistrate.... I am not." The old man's temper boiled over. They were passing at that instant a half-open door, and within he could see a bare little parlour, with linen presses against the walls. It would not hide a cat. "Do you search, then!" he cried. "Here, then, and I will watch you! But you shall pay for any wanton damage, I tell you." The man shrugged his shoulders. "What is the use, then--" he began. "Bah! search, then, as you will. I will pay." * * * * * The noise from the hall had ceased altogether as the four men went into the parlour. It was a plain little room, with an open fireplace and a great settle beside it. There were hangings here and there. That over the hearth presented Icarus in the chariot of the sun. It seemed such a place as that in which two lovers might sit and talk together at sunset.... In one place hung a dark oil painting. The old man went across to the window and stared out. The sun was up by now, far away out of sight; and the whole sunlit valley lay stretched beneath beyond the slopes that led down to Padley. The loathing for his work rose up again and choked him--this desperate bullying of a few women; and all to no purpose. He stared out at the horses beneath, and at the couple of men gossiping together at their heads.... He determined to see Mistress Manners again alone presently, when she should be recovered, and have a word with her in private. She would forgive him, perhaps, when she saw him ride off empty-handed, as he most certainly meant to do. He thought, too, of other things, this old man, as he stood, with his shoulders squared, resolute in his lack of attention to the mean work going on behind him.... He wondered whether God were angry or no. Whether this kind of duty were according to His will. Down there was Padley, where he had heard mass in the old days; Padley, where the two priests had been taken a few weeks ago. He wondered-- "If it please your honour we will break in this panel," came the smooth, sneering voice that he loathed. He turned sullenly. They were opposite the old picture. Beneath it there showed a crack in the wainscoting.... He could scarcely refuse leave. Besides, the woodwork was flawed in any case--he would pay for a new panel himself. "There is nothing there!" he said doubtfully. "Oh, no, sir," said the man with a peculiar look. "It is but to make a show--" The old man's brows came down angrily. Then he nodded; and, leaning against the window, watched them. * * * * * One of his own men came forward with a hammer and chisel. He placed the chisel at the edge of the cracked panel, where the informer directed, and struck a blow or two. There was the unmistakable dull sound of wood against stone--not an echo of resonance. The old man smiled grimly to himself. The man must be a fool if he thought there could be any hole there!... Well; he would let them do what they would here; and then forbid any further damage.... He wondered if the priest really were in the house or no. The two men had their heads together now, eyeing the crack they had made.... Then the informer said something in a low voice that the old man could not hear; and the other, handing him the chisel and hammer, went out of the room, beckoning to one of the two others that stood waiting at the door. "Well?" sneered the old man. "Have you caught your bird? "Not yet, sir." He could hear the steps of the others in the next room; and then silence. "What are they doing there?" he asked suddenly. "Nothing, sir.... I just bade a man wait on that side." The man was once more inserting the chisel in the top of the wainscoting; then he presently began to drive it down with the hammer as if to detach it from the wall. Suddenly he stopped; and at the same instant the old man heard some faint, muffled noise, as of footsteps moving either in the wall or beyond it. "What is that?" The man said nothing; he appeared to be listening. "What is that?" demanded the other again, with a strange uneasiness at his heart. Was it possible, after all! Then the man dropped his chisel and hammer and darted out and vanished. A sudden noise of voices and tramplings broke out somewhere out of sight. "God's blood!" roared the old man in anger and dismay. "I believe they have the poor devil!" * * * * * He ran out, two steps down the passage and in again at the door of the next room. It was a bedroom, with two beds side by side: a great press with open doors stood between the hearth and the window; and, in the midst of the floor, five men struggled and swayed together. The fifth was a bearded young man, well dressed; but he could not see his face. Then they had him tight; his hands were twisted behind his back; an arm was flung round his neck; and another man, crouching, had his legs embraced. He cried out once or twice.... The old man turned sick ... a great rush of blood seemed to be hammering in his ears and dilating his eyes.... He ran forward, tearing at the arm that was choking the prisoner's throat, and screaming he knew not what. And it was then that he knew for certain that this was his son. CHAPTER VI I Robin drew a long breath as the door closed behind him. Then he went forward to the table, and sat on it, swinging his feet, and looking carefully and curiously round the room, so far as the darkness would allow him; his eyes had had scarcely time yet to become accustomed to the change from the brilliant sunshine outside to the gloom of the prison. It was his first experience of prison, and, for the present, he was more interested than subdued by it. * * * * * It seemed to him that a lifetime had passed since the early morning, up in the hills, when he had attempted to escape by the bedroom, and had been seized as he came out of the press. Of course, he had fought; it was his right and his duty; and he had not known the utter uselessness of it, in that guarded house. He had known nothing of what was going forward. He had heard the entrance of the searchers below, and now and again their footsteps.... Then he had seen the wainscoting begin to gape before him, and had understood that his only chance was by the way he had entered. Then, as he had caught sight of his father, he had ceased his struggles. He had not said one word to him. The shock was complete and unexpected. He had seen the old man stagger back and sink on the bed. Then he had been hurried from the room and downstairs. As the party came into the buttery entrance, there had been a great clamour; the man on guard at the hall doors had run forward; the doors had opened suddenly and Marjorie had come out, with a surge of faces behind her. But to her, too, he had said nothing; he had tried to smile; he was still faint and sick from the fight upstairs. But he had been pushed out into the air, where he saw the horses waiting, and round the corner of the house into an out-building, and there he had had time to recover. * * * * * It was strange how little religion had come to his aid during that hour of waiting; and, indeed, during the long and weary ride to Derby. He had tried to pray; but he had had no consolation, such as he supposed must surely come to all who suffered for Christ. It had been, instead, the tiny things that absorbed his attention; the bundle of hay in the corner; an ancient pitch-fork; the heads of his guards outside the little barred window; the sound of their voices talking. Later, when a man had come out from the house, and looked in at his door, telling him that they must start in ten minutes, and giving him a hunch of bread to eat, it had been the way the man's eyebrows grew over his nose, and the creases of his felt hat, to which he gave his mind. Somewhere, far beneath in himself, he knew that there were other considerations and memories and movements, that were even fears and hopes and desires; but he could not come at these; he was as a man struggling to dive, held up on the surface by sheets of cork. He knew that his father was in that house; that it was his father who had been the means of taking him; that Marjorie was there--yet these facts were as tales read in a book. So, too, with his faith; his lips repeated words now and then; but God was as far from him and as inconceivably unreal, as is the thought of sunshine and a garden to a miner freezing painlessly in the dark.... In the same state he was led out again presently, and set on a horse. And while a man attached one foot to the other by a cord beneath the horse's belly, he looked like a child at the arched doorway of the house; at a patch of lichen that was beginning to spread above the lintel; at the open window of the room above. He vaguely desired to speak with Marjorie again; he even asked the man who was tying his feet whether he might do so; but he got no answer. A group of men watched him from the door, and he noticed that they were silent. He wondered if it were the tying of his feet in which they were so much absorbed. * * * * * Little by little, as they rode, this oppression began to lift. Half a dozen times he determined to speak with the man who rode beside him and held his horse by a leading rein; and each time he did not speak. Neither did any man speak to him. Another man rode behind; and a dozen or so went on foot. He could hear them talking together in low voices. He was finally roused by his companion's speaking. He had noticed the man look at him now and again strangely and not unkindly. "Is it true that you are a son of Mr. Audrey, sir?" He was on the point of saying "Yes," when his mind seemed to come back to him as clear as an awakening from sleep. He understood that he must not identify himself if he could help it. He had been told at Rheims that silence was best in such matters. "Mr. Audrey?" he said. "The magistrate?" The man nodded. He did not seem an unkindly personage at all. Then he smiled. "Well, well," he said. "Less said--" He broke off and began to whistle. Then he interrupted himself once more. "He was still in his fit," he said, "when we came away. Mistress Manners was with him." Intelligence was flowing back in Robin's brain like a tide. It seemed to him that he perceived things with an extraordinary clearness and rapidity. He understood he must show no dismay or horror of any kind; he must carry himself easily and detachedly. "In a fit, was he?" The other nodded. "I am arrested on his warrant, then? And on what charge?" The man laughed outright. "That's too good," he said. "Why, we, have a bundle of popery on the horse behind! It was all in the hiding-hole!" "I am supposed to be a priest, then?" said Robin, with admirable disdain. Again the man laughed. "They will have some trouble in proving that," said Robin viciously. * * * * * He learned presently whither they were going. He was right in thinking it to be Derby. There he was to be handed over to the gaoler. The trial would probably come on at the Michaelmas assizes, five or six weeks hence. He would have leave to communicate with a lawyer when he was once safely bestowed there; but whether or no his lawyer or any other visitors would be admitted to him was a matter for the magistrates. They ate as they rode, and reached Derby in the afternoon. At the very outskirts the peculiar nature of this cavalcade was observed; and by the time that they came within sight of the market-square a considerable mob was hustling along on all sides. There were a few cries raised. Robin could not distinguish the words, but it seemed to him as if some were raised for him as well as against him. He kept his head somewhat down; he thought it better to risk no complications that might arise should he be recognised. As they drew nearer the market-place the progress became yet slower, for the crowd seemed suddenly and abnormally swelled. There was a great shouting of voices, too, in front, and the smell of burning came distinctly on the breeze. The man riding beside Robin turned his head and called out; and in answer one of the others riding behind pushed his horse up level with the other two, so that the prisoner had a guard on either side. A few steps further, and another order was issued, followed by the pressing up of the men that went on foot so as to form a complete square about the three riders. Robin put a question, but the men gave him no answer. He could see that they were preoccupied and anxious. Then, as step by step they made their way forward and gained the corner of the market-place, he saw the reason of these precautions; for the whole square was one pack of heads, except where, somewhere in the midst, a great bonfire blazed in the sunlight. The noise, too, was deafening; drums were beating, horns blowing, men shouting aloud. From window after window leaned heads, and, as the party advanced yet further, they came suddenly in view of a scaffold hung with gay carpets and ribbons, on which a civil dignitary, in some official dress, was gesticulating. It was useless to ask a question; not a word could have been heard unless it were shouted aloud; and presently the din redoubled, for out of sight, round some corner, guns were suddenly shot off one after another; and the cheering grew shrill and piercing in contrast. As they came out at last, without attracting any great attention, into the more open space at the entrance of Friar's Gate, Robin turned again and asked what the matter was. It was plainly not himself, as he had at first almost believed. The man turned an exultant face to him. "It's the Spanish fleet!" he said. "There's not a ship of it left, they say." When they halted at the gate of the prison there was another pause, while the cord that tied his feet was cut, and he was helped from his horse, as he was stiff and constrained from the long ride under such circumstances. He heard a roar of interest and abuse, and, perhaps, a little sympathy, from the part of the crowd that had followed, as the gate close behind him. II As his eyes became better accustomed to the dark, he began to see what kind of a place it was in which he found himself. It was a square little room on the ground-floor, with a single, heavily-barred window, against which the dirt had collected in such quantities as to exclude almost all light. The floor was beaten earth, damp and uneven; the walls were built of stones and timber, and were dripping with moisture; there was a table and a stool in the centre of the room, and a dark heap in the corner. He examined this presently, and found it to be rotting hay covered with some kind of rug. The whole place smelled hideously foul. From far away outside came still the noise of cheering, heard as through wool, and the sharp reports of the cannon they were still firing. The Armada seemed very remote from him, here in ward. Its destruction affected him now hardly at all, except for the worse, since an anti-Catholic reaction might very well follow.... He set himself, with scarcely an effort, to contemplate more personal matters. He was astonished that his purse had not been taken from him. He had been searched rapidly just now, in an outer passage, by a couple of men, one of whom he understood to be his gaoler; and a knife and a chain and his rosary had been taken from him. But the purse had been put back again.... He remembered presently that the possession of money made a considerable difference to a prisoner's comfort; but he determined to do as little as he was obliged in this way. He might need the money more urgently by and by. * * * * * By the time that he had gone carefully round his prison-walls, even reaching up to the window and testing the bars, pushing as noiselessly as he could against the door, pacing the distances in every direction--he had, at the same time, once more arranged and rehearsed every piece of evidence that he possessed, and formed a number of resolutions. He was perfectly clear by now that his father had been wholly ignorant of the identity of the man he was after. The horror in the gasping face that he had seen so close to his own, above the strangling arm, set that beyond a doubt; the news of the fit into which his father had fallen confirmed it. Next, he had been right in believing himself watched in the shepherd's hut, and followed down from it. This hiding of his in the hills, the discovery of him in the hiding-hole, together with the vestments--these two things were the heaviest pieces of testimony against him. More remote testimony might be brought forward from his earlier adventures--his presence at Fotheringay, his recognition by my lord's man. But these were, in themselves, indifferent. His resolutions were few and simple. He would behave himself quietly in all ways: he would make no demand to see anyone; since he knew that whatever was possible would be done for him by Marjorie. He would deny nothing and assert very little if he were brought before the magistrates. Finally, he would say, if he could, a dry mass every day; and observe the hours of prayer so far as he could. He had no books with him of any kind. But he could pray God for fortitude. * * * * * Then he knelt down on the earth floor and said his first prayer in prison; the prayer that had rung so often in his mind since Mary herself had prayed it aloud on the scaffold; and Mr. Bourgoign had repeated it to him. "As Thy arms, O Christ, were extended on the Cross; even so receive me into the arms of Thy mercy, and blot out all my sins with Thy most precious Blood." CHAPTER VII I There was a vast crowd in the market-place at Michaelmas to see the judges come--partly because there was always excitement at the visible majesty of the law; partly because the tale of one at least of the prisoners had roused interest. It was a dramatic tale: he was first a seminary priest and a Derbyshire man (many remembered him riding as a little lad beside his father); he was, next, a runaway to Rheims for religion's sake, when his father conformed; third, he had been taken in the house of Mistress Manners, to whom, report said, he had once been betrothed; last, he had been taken by his father himself. All this furnished matter for a quantity of conversation in the taverns; and it was freely discussed by the sentimental whether or no, if the priest yielded and conformed, he would yet find Mistress Manners willing to wed him. * * * * * Signs of the Armada rejoicings still survived in the market-place as the judges rode in. Streamers hung in the sunshine, rather bedraggled after so long, from the roof and pillars of the Guildhall, and a great smoke-blackened patch between the conduit and the cross marked where the ox had been roasted. There was a deal of loyal cheering as the procession went by; for these splendid personages on horseback stood to the mob for the power that had repelled the enemies of England; and her Grace's name was received with enthusiasm. Behind the judges and their escort came a cavalcade of riders--gentlemen, grooms, servants, and agents of all sorts. But not a Derby man noticed or recognised a thin gentleman who rode modestly in the midst, with a couple of personal servants on either side of him. It was not until the visitors had separated to the various houses and inns where they were to be lodged, and the mob was dispersing home again, that it began to be rumoured everywhere that Mr. Topcliffe was come again to Derby on a special mission. II The tidings came to Marjorie as she leaned back in her chair in Mr. Biddell's parlour and listened to the last shoutings. * * * * * She had been in town now three days. Ever since the capture she had been under guard in her own house till three days ago. Four men had been billeted upon her, not, indeed, by the orders of Mr. Audrey, since Mr. Audrey was in no condition to control affairs any longer, but by the direction of Mr. Columbell, who had himself ridden out to take charge at Booth's Edge, when the news of the arrest had come, with the prisoner himself, to the city. It was he, too, who had seen to the removal of Mr. Audrey a week later, when he had recovered from the weakness caused by the fit sufficiently to travel as far as Derby; for it was thought better that the magistrate who had effected the capture should be accessible to the examining magistrates. It was, of course, lamentable, said Mr. Columbell, that father and son should have been brought into such relations, and he would do all that he could to relieve Mr. Audrey from any painful task in which they could do without him. But her Grace's business must be done, and he had had special messages from my lord Shrewsbury himself that the prisoner must be dealt with sternly. It was believed, wrote my lord, that Mr. Alban, as he called himself, had a good deal more against him than the mere fact of being a seminary priest: it was thought that he had been involved in the Babington plot, and had at least once had access to the Queen of the Scots since the fortunate failure of the conspiracy. All this, then, Marjorie knew from Mr. Biddell, who seemed always to know everything; but it was not until the evening on which the judges arrived that she learned the last and extreme measures that would be taken to establish these suspicions. She had ridden openly to Derby so soon as the news came from there that for the present she might be set at liberty. The lawyer came into the darkening room as the square outside began to grow quiet, and Marjorie opened her eyes to see who it was. He said nothing at first, but sat down close beside her. He knew she must be told, but he hated the telling. He carried a little paper in his hand. He would begin with that little bit of good news first, he said to himself. "Well, mistress," he said, "I have the order at last. We are to see him to-night. It is 'for Mr. Biddell and a friend.'" She sat up, and a little vitality came back to her face; for a moment she almost looked as she had looked in the early summer. "To-night?" she said. "And when--" "He will not be brought before my lords for three or four days yet. There is a number of cases to come before his. It will give us those two or three days, at least, to prepare our case." He spoke heavily and dejectedly. Up to the present he had been utterly refused permission to see his client; and though he knew the outlines of the affair well enough, he knew very little of the thousand details on which the priest would ask his advice. It was a hopeless affair, it appeared to the lawyer, in any case. And now, with this last piece of tidings, he knew that there was, indeed, nothing to be said except words of encouragement. He listened with the same heavy air to Mistress Manners as she said a word or two as to what must be spoken of to Robin. She was very quiet and collected, and talked to the point. But he said nothing. "What is the matter, sir?" she said. He lifted his eyes to hers. There was still enough light from the windows for him to see her eyes, and that there was a spark in them that had not been there just now. And it was for him to extinguish it.... He gripped his courage. "I have had worse news than all," he said. Her lips moved, and a vibration went over her face. Her eyes blinked, as at a sudden light. "Yes?" He put his hand tenderly on her arm. "You must be courageous," he said. "It is the worst news that ever came to me. It concerns one who is come from London to-day, and rode in with my lords." She could not speak, but her great eyes entreated him to finish her misery. "Yes," he said, still pressing his hand on to her arm. "Yes; it is Mr. Topcliffe who is come." * * * * * He felt the soft muscles harden like steel.... There was no sound except the voices talking in the square and the noise of footsteps across the pavements. He could not look at her. Then he heard her draw a long breath and breathe it out again, and her taut muscles relaxed. "We ... we are all in Christ's hands," she said.... "We must tell him." III It appeared to the girl as if she were moving on a kind of set stage, with every movement and incident designed beforehand, in a play that was itself a kind of destiny--above all, when she went at last into Robin's cell and saw him standing there, and found it to be that in which so long ago she had talked with Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert.... The great realities were closing round her, as irresistible as wheels and bars. There was scarcely a period in her life, scarcely a voluntary action of hers for good or evil, that did not furnish some part of this vast machine in whose grip both she and her friend were held so fast. No calculation on her part could have contrived so complete a climax; yet hardly a calculation that had not gone astray from that end to which she had designed it. It was as if some monstrous and ironical power had been beneath and about her all her life long, using those thoughts and actions that she had intended in one way to the development of another. First, it was she that had first turned her friend's mind to the life of a priest. Had she submitted to natural causes, she would have been his wife nine years ago; they would have been harassed no doubt and troubled, but no more. It was she again that had encouraged his return to Derbyshire. If it had not been for that, and for the efforts she had made to do what she thought good work for God, he might have been sent elsewhere. It was in her house that he had been taken, and in the very place she had designed for his safety. If she had but sent him on, as he wished, back to the hills again, he might never have been taken at all. These, and a score of other thoughts, had raced continually through her mind; she felt even as if she were responsible for the manner of his taking, and for the horror that it had been his father who had accomplished it; if she had said more, or less, in the hall of that dark morning; if she had not swooned; if she had said bravely: "It is your son, sir, who is here," all might have been saved. And now it was Topcliffe who was come--(and she knew all that this signified)--the very man at whose mere bodily presence she had sickened in the court of the Tower. And, last, it was she who had to tell Robin of this. So tremendous, however, had been the weight of these thoughts upon her, crowned and clinched (so to say) by finding that the priest was even in the same cell as that in which she had visited the traitor, that there was no room any more for bitterness. Even as she waited, with Mr. Biddell behind her, as the gaoler fumbled with the keys, she was aware that the last breath of resentment had been drawn.... It was, indeed, a monstrous Power that had so dealt with her.... It was none other than the Will of God, plain at last. * * * * * She knelt down for the priest's blessing, without speaking, as the door closed, and Mr. Biddell knelt behind her. Then she rose and went forward to the stool and sat upon it. * * * * * He was hardly changed at all. He looked a little white and drawn in the wavering light of the flambeau; but his clothes were orderly and clean, and his eyes as bright and resolute as ever. "It is a great happiness to see you," he said, smiling, and then no more compliments. "And what of my father?" he added instantly. She told him. Mr. Audrey was in Derby, still sick from his fit. He was in Mr. Columbell's house. She had not seen him. "Robin," she said (and she used the old name, utterly unknowing that she did so), "we must speak with Mr. Biddell presently about your case. But there is a word or two I have to say first. We can have two hours here, if you wish it." Robin put his hands behind him on to the table and jumped lightly, so that he sat on it, facing her. "If you will not sit on the table, Mr. Biddell, I fear there is only that block of wood." He pointed to a, block of a tree set on end. It served him, laid flat, as a pillow. The lawyer went across to it. "The judges, I hear, are come to-night," said the priest. She bowed. "Yes; but your case will not be up for three or four days yet." "Why, then, I shall have time--" She lifted her hand sharply a little to check him. "You will not have much time," she said, and paused again. A sharp contraction came and went in the muscles of her throat. It was as if a band gripped her there, relaxed, and gripped again. She put up her own hand desperately to tear at her collar. "Why, but--" began the priest. She could bear it no more. His resolute cheerfulness, his frank astonishment, were like knives to her. She gave one cry. "Topcliffe is come ... Topcliffe!..." she cried. Then she flung her arm across the table and dropped her face on it. No tears came from her eyes, but tearing sobs shook and tormented her. It was quite quiet after she had spoken. Even in her anguish she knew that. The priest did not stir from where he sat a couple of feet away; only the swinging of his feet ceased. She drove down her convulsions; they rose again; she drove them down once more. Then the tears surged up, her whole being relaxed, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Marjorie," said the grave voice, as steady as it had ever been, "Marjorie. This is what we looked for, is it not?... Topcliffe is come, is he? Well, let him come. He or another. It is for this that we have all looked since the beginning. Christ His Grace is strong enough, is it not? It hath been strong enough for many, at least; and He will not surely take it from me who need it so much...." (He spoke in pauses, but his voice never faltered.) "I have prayed for that grace ever since I have been here.... He hath given me great peace in this place.... I think He will give it me to the end.... You must pray, my ... my child; you must not cry like that." (She lifted her agonized face for a moment, then she let it fall again. It seemed as if he knew the very thoughts of her.) "This all seems very perfect to me," he went on. "It was yourself who first turned me to this life, and you knew surely what you did. I knew, at least, all the while, I think; and I have never ceased to thank God. And it was through your hands that the letter came to me to go to Fotheringay. And it was in your house that I was taken.... And it was Mr. Maine's beads that they found on me when they searched me here--the pair of beads you gave me." Again she stared at him, blind and bewildered. He went on steadily: "And now it is you again who bring me the first news of my passion. It is yourself, first and last, under God, that have brought me all these graces and crosses. And I thank you with all my heart.... But you must pray for me to the end, and after it, too." CHAPTER VIII I "Water," said a sharp voice, pricking through the enormous thickness of the bloodshot dark that had come down on him. There followed a sound of floods; then a sense of sudden coolness, and he opened his eyes once more, and became aware of unbearable pain in arms and feet. Again the whirling dark, striped with blood colour, fell on him like a blanket; again the sound of waters falling and the sense of coolness, and again he opened his eyes. * * * * * For a minute or two it was all that he could do to hold himself in consciousness. It appeared to him a necessity to do so. He could see a smoke-stained roof of beams and rafters, and on these he fixed his eyes, thinking that he could hold himself so, as by thin, wiry threads of sight, from falling again into the pit where all was black or blood-colour. The pain was appalling, but he thought he had gripped it at last, and could hold it so, like a wrestler. As the pain began to resolve itself into throbs and stabs, from the continuous strain in which at first it had shown itself--a strain that was like a shrill horn blowing, or a blaze of bluish light--he began to see more, and to understand a little. There were four or five faces looking down on him: one was the face of a man he had seen somewhere in an inn ... it was at Fotheringay; it was my lord Shrewsbury's man. Another was a lean face; a black hat came and went behind it; the lips were drawn in a sort of smile, so that he could see the teeth.... Then he perceived next that he himself was lying in a kind of shallow trough of wood upon the floor. He could see his bare feet raised a little and tied with cords. Then, one by one, these sights fitted themselves into one another and made sense. He remembered that he was in Derby gaol--not in his own cell; that the lean face was of a man called Topcliffe; that a physician was there as well as the others; that they had been questioning him on various points, and that some of these points he had answered, while others he had not, and must not. Some of them concerned her Grace of the Scots.... These he had answered. Then, again, association came back.... "As Thy arms, O Christ ..." he whispered. "Now then," came the sharp voice in his ear, so close and harsh as to distress him. "These questions again.... Were there any other places besides at Padley and Booth's Edge, in the parish of Hathersage, where you said mass?" "... O Christ, were extended on the Cross--" began the tortured man dreamily. "Ah-h-h!".... It was a scream, whispered rather than shrieked, that was torn from him by the sharpness of the agony. His body had lifted from the floor without will of his own, twisting a little; and what seemed as strings of fiery pain had shot upwards from his feet and downwards from his wrists as the roller was suddenly jerked again. He hung there perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, conscious only of the blinding pain--questions, questioners, roof and faces all gone and drowned again in a whirling tumult of darkness and red streaks. The sweat poured again suddenly from his whole body.... Then again he sank relaxed upon the floor, and the pulses beat in his head, and he thought that Marjorie and her mother and his own father were all looking at him.... He heard presently the same voice talking: "--and answer the questions that are put to you.... Now then, we will begin the others, if it please you better.... In what month was it that you first became privy to the plot against her Grace?" "Wait!" whispered the priest. "Wait, and I will answer that." (He understood that there was a trap here. The question had been framed differently last time. But his mind was all a-whirl; and he feared he might answer wrongly if he could not collect himself. He still wondered why so many friends of his were in the room--even Father Campion....) He drew a breath again presently, and tried to speak; but his voice broke like a shattered trumpet, and he could not command it.... He must whisper. "It was in August, I think.... I think it was August, two years ago."... "August ... you mean May or April." "No; it was August.... At least, all that I know of the plot was when ... when--" (His thoughts became confused again; it was like strings of wool, he thought, twisted violently together; a strand snapped now and again. He made a violent effort and caught an end as it was slipping away.) "It was in August, I think; the day that Mr. Babington fled, that he wrote to me; and sent me--" (He paused: he became aware that here, too, lurked a trap if he were to say he had seen Mary; he would surely be asked what he had seen her for, and his priesthood might be so proved against him.... He could not remember whether that had been proved; and so ... would Father Campion advise him perhaps whether....) The voice jarred again; and startled him into a flash of coherence. He thought he saw a way out. "Well?" snapped the voice. "Sent you?... Sent you whither?" "Sent me to Chartley; where I saw her Grace ... her Grace of the Scots; and ... 'As Thy arms, O Christ....'" "Now then; now then--! So your saw her Grace? And what was that for?" "I saw her Grace ... and ... and told her what Mr. Babington had told me." "What was that, then?" "That ... that he was her servant till death; and ... and a thousand if he had them. And so, 'As Thy arms, O--'" "Water," barked the voice. Again came the rush as of cataracts; and a sensation of drowning. There followed an instant's glow of life; and then the intolerable pain came back; and the heavy, red-streaked darkness.... II He found himself, after some period, lying more easily. He could not move hand or foot. His body only appeared to live. From his shoulders to his thighs he was alive; the rest was nothing. But he opened his eyes and saw that his arms were laid by his side; and that he was no longer in the wooden trough. He wondered at his hands; he wondered even if they were his ... they were of an unusual colour and bigness; and there was something like a tight-fitting bracelet round each wrist. Then he perceived that he was shirtless and hoseless; and that the bracelets were not bracelets, but rings of swollen flesh. But there was no longer any pain or even sensation in them; and he was aware that his mouth glowed as if he had drunk ardent spirits. He was considering all this, slowly, like a child contemplating a new toy. Then there came something between him and the light; he saw a couple of faces eyeing him. Then the voice began again, at first confused and buzzing, then articulate; and he remembered. "Now, then," said the voice, "you have had but a taste of it...." ("A taste of it; a taste of it." The phrase repeated itself like the catch of a song.... When he regained his attention, the sentence had moved on.) "... these questions. I will put them to you again from the beginning. You will give your answer to each. And if my lord is not satisfied, we must try again." "My lord!" thought the priest. He rolled his eyes round a little further. (He dared not move his head; the sinews of his throat burned like red-hot steel cords at the thought of it.) And he saw a little table floating somewhere in the dark; a candle burned on it; and a melancholy face with dreamy eyes was brightly illuminated.... That was my lord Shrewsbury, he considered.... "... in what month that you first became privy to the plot against her Grace?" (Sense was coming back to him again now. He remembered what he had said just now.) "It was in August," he whispered, "in August, I think; two years ago. Mr. Babington wrote to me of it." "And you went to the Queen of the Scots, you say?" "Yes." "And what did you there?" "I gave the message." "What was that?" "... That Mr. Babington was her servant always; that he regretted nothing, save that he had failed. He begged her to pray for his soul, and for all that had been with him in the enterprise." (It appeared to him that he was astonishingly voluble, all at once. He reflected that he must be careful.) "And what did she say to that?" "She declared herself guiltless of the plot ... that she knew nothing of it; and that--" "Now then; now then. You expect my lord to believe that?" "I do not know.... But it was what was said." "And you profess that you knew nothing of the plot till then?" "I knew nothing of it till then," whispered the priest steadily. "But--" (A face suddenly blotted out more of the light.) "Yes?" "Anthony--I mean Mr. Babington--had spoken to me a great while before--in ... in some village inn.... I forget where. It was when I was a lad. He asked whether I would join in some enterprise. He did not say what it was.... But I thought it to be against the Queen of England.... And I would not."... He closed his eyes again. There had begun a slow heat of pain in ankles and wrists, not wholly unbearable, and a warmth began to spread in his body. A great shudder or two shook him. The voice said something he could not hear. Then a metal rim was pressed to his mouth; and a stream of something at once icy and fiery ran into his mouth and out at the corners. He swallowed once or twice; and his senses came back. "You do not expect us to believe all that!" came the voice. "It is the truth, for all that," murmured the priest. The next question came sudden as a shot fired: "You were at Fotheringay?" "Yes." "In what house?" "I was in the inn--the 'New Inn,' I think it is. "And you spoke with her Grace again?" "No; I could not get at her. But--" "Well?" "I was in the court of the castle when her Grace was executed." There was a murmur of voices. He thought that someone had moved over to the table where my lord sat; but he could not move his eyes again, the labour was too great. "Who was with you in the inn--as your friend, I mean?" "A ... a young man was with me. His name was Merton. He is in France, I think." "And he knew you to be a priest?" came the voice without an instant's hesitation. "Why--" Then he stopped short, just in time. "Well?" "How should he think that?" asked Robin. There was a laugh somewhere. Then the voice went on, almost good-humouredly. "Mr. Alban; what is the use of this fencing? You were taken in a hiding-hole with the very vestments at your feet. We _know_ you to be a priest. We are not seeking to entrap you in that, for there is no need. But there are other matters altogether which we must have from you. You have been made priest beyond the seas, in Rheims--" "I swear to you that I was not," whispered Robin instantly and eagerly, thinking he saw a loophole. "Well, then, at Châlons, or Douay: it matters not where. That is not our affair to-day. All that will be dealt with before my lords at the Assizes. But what we must have from you now is your answer to some other questions." "Assuming me to be a priest?" "Mr. Alban, I will talk no more on that point. I tell you we know it. But we must have answers on other points. I will come back to Merton presently. These are the questions. I will read them through to you. Then we will deal with them one by one." There was the rustle of a paper. An extraordinary desire for sleep came down on the priest; it was only by twitching his head a little, and causing himself acute shoots of pain in his neck that he could keep himself awake. He knew that he must not let his attention wander again. He remembered clearly how that Father Campion was dead, and that Marjorie could not have been here just now.... He must take great care not to become so much confused again. * * * * * "The first question," read the voice slowly, "is, Whether you have said mass in other places beside Padley and the manor at Booth's Edge. We know that you must have done so; but we must have the names of the places, and of the parties present, so far as you can remember them. "The second question is, the names of all those other priests with whom you have spoken in England, since you came from Rheims; and the names of all other students, not yet priests, or scarcely, whom you knew at Rheims, and who are for England. "The third question is, the names of all those whom you know to be friends of Mr. John FitzHerbert, Mr. Bassett and Mr. Fenton--not being priests; but Papists. "These three questions will do as a beginning. When you have answered these, there is a number more. Now, sir." The last two words were rapped out sharply. Robin opened his eyes. "As to the first two questions," he whispered. "These assume that I am a priest myself. Yet that is what you, have to prove against me. The third question concerns ... concerns my loyalty to my friends. But I will tell you--" "Yes?" (The voice was sharp and eager.) "I will tell you the names of two friends of each of those gentlemen you have named." A pen suddenly scratched on paper. He could not see who held it. "Yes?" said the voice again. "Well, sir. The names of two of the friends of Mr. FitzHerbert are, Mr. Bassett and Mr. Fenton. The names--" "Bah!" (The word sounded like the explosion of a gun.) "You are playing with us--" "The names," murmured the priest slowly, "of two of Mr. Fenton's friends are Mr. FitzHerbert and--" A face, upside-down, thrust itself suddenly almost into his. He could feel the hot breath on his forehead. "See here, Mr. Alban. You are fooling us. Do you think this is a Christmas game? I tell you it is not yet three o'clock. There are three hours more yet--" A smooth, sad voice interrupted. (The reversed face vanished.) "You have threatened the prisoner," it said, "but you have not yet told him the alternative." "No, my lord.... Yes, my lord. Listen, Mr. Alban. My lord here says that if you will answer these questions he will use his influence on your behalf. Your life is forfeited, as you know very well. There is not a dog's chance for you. Yet, if you will but answer these three questions--and no more--(No more, my lord?)--Yes; these three questions and no more, my lord will use his influence for you. He can promise nothing, he says, but that; but my lord's influence--well, we need say no more on that point. If you refuse to answer, on the other hand, there are yet three hours more to-day; there is all to-morrow, and the next day. And, after that, your case will be before my lords at the Assizes. You have had but a taste of what we can do.... And then, sir, my lord does not wish to be harsh...." There was a pause. Robin was counting up the hours. It was three o'clock now. Then he had been on the rack, with intervals, since nine o'clock. That was six hours. There was but half that again for to-day. Then would come the night. He need not consider further than that.... But he must guard his tongue. It might speak, in spite--- "Well, Mr. Alban?" He opened his eyes. "Well, sir?" "Which is it to be?" The priest smiled and closed his eyes again. If he could but fix his attention on the mere pain, he thought, and refuse utterly to consider the way of escape, he might be able to keep his unruly tongue in check. "You will not, then?" "No." * * * * * The appalling pain ran through him again like fiery snakes of iron--from wrist to shoulders, from ankles to thighs, as the hands seized him and lifted him.... There was a moment or two of relief as he sank down once more into the trough of torture. He could feel that his feet were being handled, but it appeared as if nothing touched his flesh. He gave a great sighing moan as his arms were drawn back over his head; and the sweat poured again from all over his body. Then, as the cords tightened: "As Thy arms, O Christ, were extended ..." he whispered. CHAPTER IX I A great murmuring crowd filled every flat spot of ground and pavement and parapet. They stood even on the balustrade of St. Mary's Bridge; there were fringes of them against the sky on the edges of roofs a quarter of a mile away. No flat surface was to be seen anywhere except on the broad reach of the river, and near the head of the bridge, in the circular space, ringed by steel caps and pike-points, where the gallows and ladder rose. Close beside them a column of black smoke rose heavily into the morning air, bellying away into the clear air. A continual steady low murmur of talking went up continually. * * * * * There had been no hanging within the memory of any that had roused such interest. Derbyshire men had been hung often enough; a criminal usually had a dozen friends at least in the crowd to whom he shouted from the ladder. Seminary priests had been executed often enough now to have destroyed the novelty of it for the mob; why, three had been done to death here little more than two months ago in this very place. They gave no sport, certainly; they died too quietly; and what peculiar interest there was in it lay in the contemplation of the fact that it was for religion that they died. Gentlemen, too, had been hanged here now and then--polished persons, dressed in their best, who took off their outer clothes carefully, and in one or two cases had handed them to a servant; gentlemen with whom the sheriff shook hands before the end, who eyed the mob imperturbably or affected even not to be aware of the presence of the vulgar. But this hanging was sublime. First, he was a Derbyshire man, a seminary priest and a gentleman--three points. Yet this was no more than the groundwork of his surpassing interest. For, next, he had been racked beyond belief. It was for three days before his sentence that Mr. Topcliffe himself had dealt with him. (Yes, Mr. Topcliffe was the tall man that had his rooms in the market-place, and always went abroad with two servants.... He was to have Padley, too, it was said, as a reward for all his zeal.) Of course, young Mr. Audrey (for that was his real name--not Alban; that was a Popish _alias_ such as they all used)--Mr. Audrey had not been on the rack for the whole of every day. But he had been in the rack-house eight or nine hours on the first day, four the second, and six or seven the third. And he had not answered one single question differently from the manner in which he had answered it before ever he had been on the rack at all. (There was a dim sense of pride with regard to this, in many Derbyshire minds. A Derbyshire man, it appeared, was more than a match for even a Londoner and a sworn servant of her Grace.) It was said that Mr. Audrey would have to be helped up the ladder, even though he had not been racked for a whole week since his sentence. Next, the trial itself had been full of interest. A Papist priest was, of course, fair game. (Why, the Spanish Armada itself had been full of them, it was said, all come to subdue England.... Well, they had had their bellyful of salt water and English iron by now.) But this Papisher had hit back and given sport. He had flatly refused to be caught, though the questions were swift and subtle enough to catch any clerk. Certainly he had not denied that he was a priest; but he had said that that was what the Crown must prove: he was not there as a witness, he had said, but as a prisoner; he had even entreated them to respect their own legal dignities! But there had been a number of things against him, and even if none of these had been proved, still, the mere sum of them was enough; there could be no smoke without fire, said the proverb-quoters. It was alleged that he had been privy to the plot against the Queen (the plot of young Mr. Babington, who had sold his house down there a week or two only before his arrest); he had denied this, but he had allowed that he had spoken with her Grace immediately after the plot; and this was a highly suspicious circumstance: if he allowed so much as this, the rest might be safely presumed. Again, it was said that he had had part in attempts to free the Queen of the Scots, even from Fotheringay itself; and had been in the castle court, with a number of armed servants, at the very time of her execution. Again, if he allowed that he had been present, even though he denied the armed servants, the rest might be presumed. Finally, since he were a priest, and had seen her Grace at a time when there was no chaplain allowed to her, it was certain that he must have ministered their Popish superstitions to her, and this was neither denied nor affirmed: he had said to this that they had yet to prove him a priest at all. The very spectacle of the trial, too, had been remarkable; for, first, there was the extraordinary appearance of the prisoner, bent double like an old man, with the face of a dead one, though he could not be above thirty years old at the very most; and then there was the unusual number of magistrates present in court besides the judges, and my lord Shrewsbury himself, who had presided at the racking. It was one of my lord's men, too, that had helped to identify the prisoner. But the supreme interest lay in even more startling circumstances--in the history of Mistress Manners, who was present through the trial with Mr. Biddell the lawyer, and who had obtained at least two interviews with the prisoner, one before the torture and the other after sentence. It was in Mistress Manners' house at Booth's Edge that the priest had been taken; and it was freely rumoured that although Mr. Audrey had once been betrothed to her, yet that she had released and sent him herself to Rheims, and all to end like this. And yet she could bear to come and see him again; and, it was said, would be present somewhere in the crowd even at his death. Finally, the tale of how the priest had been taken by his own father--old Mr. Audrey of Matstead--him that was now lying sick in Mr. Columbell's house--this put the crown on all the rest. A hundred rumours flew this way and that: one said that the old man had known nothing of his son's presence in the country, but had thought him to be still in foreign parts. Another, that he knew him to be in England, but not that he was in the county; a third, that he knew very well who it was in the house he went to search, and had searched it and taken him on purpose to set his own loyalty beyond question. Opinions differed as to the propriety of such an action.... * * * * * So then the great crowd of heads--men from all the countryside, from farms and far-off cottages and the wild hills, mingling with the townsfolk--this crowd, broken up into levels and patches by river and houses and lanes, moved to and fro in the October sunshine, and sent up, with the column of smoke that eddied out from beneath the bubbling tar-cauldron by the gallows, a continual murmur of talking, like the sound of slow-moving wheels of great carts. He felt dazed and blind, yet with a kind of lightness too as he came out of the gaol-gate into that packed mass of faces, held back by guards from the open space where the horse and the hurdle waited. A dozen persons or so were within the guards; he knew several of them by sight; two or three were magistrates; another was an officer; two were ministers with their Bibles. It is hard to say whether he were afraid. Fear was there, indeed--he knew well enough that in his case, at any rate, the execution would be done as the law ordered; that he would be cut down before he had time to die, and that the butchery would be done on him while he would still be conscious of it. Death, too, was fearful, in any case.... Yet there were so many other things to occupy him--there was the exhilarating knowledge that he was to die for his faith and nothing else; for they had offered him his life if he would go to church; and they had proved nothing as to any complicity of his in any plot, and how could they, since there was none? There was the pain of his tormented body to occupy him; a pain that had passed from the acute localized agonies of snapped sinews and wrenched joints into one vast physical misery that soaked his whole body as in a flood; a pain that never ceased; of which he dreamed darkly, as a hungry man dreams of food which he cannot eat, to which he awoke again twenty times a night as to a companion nearer to him than the thoughts with which he attempted to distract himself. This pain, at least, would have an end presently. Again, there was an intermittent curiosity as to how and what would befall his flying soul when the butchery was done. "To sup in Heaven" was a phrase used by one of his predecessors on the threshold of death.... For what did that stand?... And at other times there had been no curiosity, but an acquiescence in old childish images. Heaven at such times appeared to him as a summer garden, with pavilions, and running water and the song of birds ... a garden where he would lie at ease at last from his torn body and that feverish mind, which was all that his pain had left to him; where Mary went, gracious and motherly, with her virgins about her; where the Crucified Lamb of God would talk with him as a man talks with his friend, and allow him to lie at the Pierced Feet ... where the glory of God rested like eternal sunlight on all that was there; on the River of Life, and the wood of the trees that are for the healing of all hurts. And, last of all, there was a confused medley of more human thoughts that concerned persons other than himself. He could not remember all the persons clearly; their names and their faces came and went. Marjorie, his father, Mr. John FitzHerbert and Mr. Anthony, who had been allowed to come and see him; Dick Sampson, who had come in with Marjorie the second time and had kissed his hands. One thing at least he remembered clearly as he stood here, and that was how he had bidden Mistress Manners, even now, not to go overseas and become a nun, as she had wished; but rather to continue her work in Derbyshire, if she could. So then he stood, bent double on two sticks, blinking and peering out at the faces, wondering whether it was a roar of anger or welcome or compassion that had broken out at his apparition, and smiling--smiling piteously, not of deliberation, but because the muscles of his mouth so moved, and he could not contract them again. * * * * * He understood presently that he was to lie down on the hurdle, with his head to the horses' heels. This was a great business, to be undertaken with care. He gave his two sticks to a man, and took his arm. Then he kneeled, clinging to the arm as a child to a swimmer's in a rough sea, and sank gently down. But he could not straighten his legs, so they allowed him to lie half side-ways, and tied him so. It was amazingly uncomfortable, and, before he was settled, twice the sweat suddenly poured from his face as he found some new channel of pain in his body.... An order or two was issued in a loud, shouting voice; there was a great confusion and scuffling, and the crack of a whip. Then, with a jerk that tore his whole being, he was flicked from his place; the pain swelled and swelled till there seemed no more room for it in all God's world; and he closed his eyes so as not to see the house-roofs and the faces and the sky whirl about in that mad jigging dance.... After that he knew very little of the journey. For the most part his eyes were tight closed; he sobbed aloud half a dozen times as the hurdle lifted and dropped over rough places in the road. Two or three times he opened his eyes to see what the sounds signified, especially a loud, bellowing voice almost in his ear that cried texts of Scripture at him. "_We have but one Mediator between God and man, the Man Christ Jesus_...." "_We then, being justified by faith.... For if by the works of the Law we are justified_...." He opened his eyes wide at that, and there was the face of one of the ministers bobbing against the sky, flushed and breathless, yet indomitable, bawling aloud as he trotted along to keep pace with the horse. Then he closed his eyes again. He knew that he, too, could bandy texts if that were what was required. Perhaps, if he were a better man and more mortified, he might be able to do so as the martyrs sometimes had done. But he could not ... he would have a word to say presently perhaps, if it were permitted; but not now. His pain occupied him; he had to deal with that and keep back, if he could, those sobs that were wrenched from him now and again. He had made but a poor beginning in his journey, he thought; he must die more decently than that. * * * * * The end came unexpectedly. Just when he thought he had gained his self-control again, so as to make no sound at any rate, the hurdle stopped. He clenched his teeth to meet the dreadful wrench with which it would move again; but it did not. Instead there was a man down by him, untying his bonds. He lay quite still when they were undone; he did not know which limb to move first, and he dreaded to move any. "Now then," said the voice, with a touch of compassion, he thought. He set his teeth, gripped the arm and raised himself--first to his knees, then to his feet, where he stood swaying. An indescribable roar ascended steadily on all sides; but he could see little of the crowd as yet. He was standing in a cleared space, held by guards. A couple of dozen persons stood here; three or four on horseback; and one of these he thought to be my lord Shrewsbury, but he was not sure, since his head was against the glare of the sun. He turned a little, still holding to the man's arm, and not knowing what to do, and saw a ladder behind him; he raised his eyes and saw that its head rested against the cross-beam of a single gallows, that a rope hung from this beam, and that a figure sitting astride of this cross-beam was busy with this rope. The shock of the sight cooled and nerved him; rather, it drew his attention all from himself.... He looked lower again, and behind the gallows was a column of heavy smoke going up, and in the midst of the smoke a cauldron hung on a tripod. Beside the cauldron was a great stump of wood, with a chopper and a knife lying upon it.... He drew one long steady breath, expelled it again, and turned back to my lord Shrewsbury. As he turned, he saw him make a sign, and felt himself grasped from behind. III He reached at last with his hands the rung of the ladder on which the executioner's foot rested, hearing, as he went painfully up, the roar of voices wax to an incredible volume. It was impossible for any to speak so that he could hear, but he saw the hands above him in eloquent gesture, and understood that he was to turn round. He did so cautiously, grasping the man's foot, and so rested, half sitting on a rung, and holding it as well as he could with his two hands. Then he felt a rope pass round his wrists, drawing them closer together.... As he turned, the roar of voices died to a murmur; the murmur died to silence, and he understood and remembered. It was now the time to speak.... He gathered for the last time all his forces together. With the sudden silence, clearness came back to his mind, and he remembered word for word the little speech he had rehearsed so often during the last week. He had learned it by heart, fearful lest God should give him no words if he trusted to the moment, lest God should not see fit to give him even that interior consolation which was denied to so many of the saints--yet without which he could not speak from the heart. He had been right, he knew now: there was no religious consolation; he felt none of that strange heart-shaking ecstasy that had transfigured other deaths like his; he had none of the ready wit that Campion had showed. He saw nothing but the clear October sky above him, cut by the roofs fringed with heads (a skein of birds passed slowly over it as he raised his eyes); and, beneath, that irreckonable pavement of heads, motionless now as a cornfield in a still evening, one glimpse of the river--the river, he remembered even at this instant, that came down from Hathersage and Padley and his old home. But there was no open vision, such as he had half hoped to see, no unimaginable glories looming slowly through the veils in which God hides Himself on earth, no radiant face smiling into his own--only this arena of watching human faces turned up to his, waiting for his last sermon.... He thought he saw faces that he knew, though he lost them again as his eyes swept on--Mr. Barton, the old minister of Matstead; Dick; Mr. Bassett.... Their faces looked terrified.... However, this was not his affair now. As he was about to speak he felt hands about his neck, and then the touch of a rope passed across his face. For an indescribable instant a terror seized on him; he closed his eyes and set his teeth. The spasm passed, and so soon as the hands were withdrawn again, he began: * * * * * "Good people"--(at the sound of his voice, high and broken, the silence became absolute. A thin crowing of a cock from far off in the country came like a thread and ceased)--"Good people: I die here as a Catholic man, for my priesthood, which I now confess before all the world." (A stir of heads and movements below distracted him. But he went on at once.) "There have been alleged against me crimes in which I had neither act nor part, against the life of her Grace and the peace of her dominions." "Pray for her Grace," rang out a sharp voice below him. "I will do so presently.... It is for that that I am said to die, in that I took part in plots of which I knew nothing till all was done. Yet I was offered my life, if I would but conform and go to church; so you see very well--" A storm of confused voices interrupted him. He could distinguish no sentence, so he waited till they ceased again. "So you see very well," he cried, "for what it is that I die. It is for the Catholic faith--" "Beat the drums! beat the drums!" cried a voice. There began a drumming; but a howl like a beast's surged up from the whole crowd. When it died again the drum was silent. He glanced down at my lord Shrewsbury and saw him whispering with an officer. Then he continued: "It is for the Catholic faith, then, that I die--that which was once the faith of all England--and which, I pray, may be one day its faith again. In that have I lived, and in that will I die. And I pray God, further, that all who hear me to-day may have grace to take it as I do--as the true Christian Religion (and none other)--revealed by our Saviour Christ." The crowd was wholly quiet again now. My lord had finished his whispering, and was looking up. But the priest had made his little sermon, and thought that he had best pray aloud before his strength failed him. His knees were already shaking violently under him, and the sweat was pouring again from his face, not so much from the effort of his speech as from the pain which that effort caused him. It seemed that there was not one nerve in his body that was not in pain. "I ask all Catholics, then, that hear me to join with me in prayer.... First, for Christ's Catholic Church throughout the world, for her peace and furtherance.... Next, for our England, for the conversion of all her children; and, above all, for her Grace, my Queen and yours, that God will bless and save her in this world, and her soul eternally in the next. For these and all other such matters I will beg all Catholics to join with me and to say the _Our Father_; and when I am in my agony to say yet another for my soul." "_Our Father_...." From the whole packed space the prayer rose up, in great and heavy waves of sound. There were cries of mockery three or four times, but each was suddenly cut off.... The waves of sound rolled round and ceased, and the silence was profound. The priest opened his eyes; closed them again. Then with a loud voice he began to cry: "O Christ, as Thine arms were extended--" * * * * * He stopped again, shaken even from that intense point of concentration to which he was forcing himself, by the amazing sound that met his ears. He had heard, at the close of the _Our Father_, a noise which he could not interpret: but no more had happened. But now the whole world seemed screaming and swaying: he heard the trample of horses beneath him--voices in loud expostulation. He opened his eyes; the clamour died again at the same instant.... For a moment his eyes wandered over the heads and up to the sky, to see if some vision.... Then he looked down.... Against the ladder on which he stood, a man's figure was writhing and embracing the rungs kneeling on the ground. He was strangely dressed, in some sort of a loose gown, in a tight silk night-cap, and his feet were bare. The man's head was dropped, and the priest could not see his face. He looked beyond for some explanation, and there stood, all alone, a girl in a hooded cloak, who raised her great eyes to his. As he looked down again the man's head had fallen back, and the face was staring up at him, so distorted with speechless entreaty, that even he, at first, did not recognize it.... Then he saw it to be his father, and understood enough, at least, to act as a priest for the last time. He smiled a little, leaned his own head forward as from a cross, and spoke.... "_Absolvo te a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti_...." VI He only awoke once again, after the strangling and the darkness had passed. He could see nothing, nor hear, except a heavy murmuring noise, not unpleasant. But there was one last Pain not into which all others had passed, keen and cold like water, and it was about his heart. "O Christ--" he whispered, and so died. THE END 
22400	----	FOX'S BOOK OF MARTYRS OR A HISTORY OF THE LIVES, SUFFERINGS, AND TRIUMPHANT DEATHS OF THE PRIMITIVE PROTESTANT MARTYRS FROM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY TO THE LATEST PERIODS OF PAGAN, POPISH, AND INFIDEL PERSECUTIONS EMBRACING, TOGETHER WITH THE USUAL SUBJECTS CONTAINED IN SIMILAR WORKS The recent persecutions in the cantons of Switzerland; and the persecutions of the Methodist and Baptist Missionaries in the West India Islands; and the narrative of the conversion, capture, long imprisonment, and cruel sufferings of Asaad Shidiak, a native of Palestine. LIKEWISE A SKETCH OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AS CONNECTED WITH PERSECUTION COMPILED FROM FOX'S BOOK OF MARTYRS, AND OTHER AUTHENTIC SOURCES THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. CHICAGO PHILADELPHIA TORONTO PREFACE. This work is strictly what its title page imports, a COMPILATION. Fox's "Book of Martyrs" has been made the basis of this volume. Liberty, however, has been taken to abridge wherever it was thought necessary;--to alter the antiquated form of the phraseology; to introduce additional information; and to correct any inaccuracy respecting matters of fact, which had escaped the author of the original work, or which has been found erroneous by the investigation of modern research. The object of this work, is to give a brief history of persecution since the first introduction of christianity, till the present time. In doing this, we have commenced with the martyrdom of Stephen, and following the course of events, have brought the History of persecution down to the year 1830. In all ages, we find that a disposition to persecute for opinion's sake, has been manifested by wicked men, whatever may have been their opinions or sentiments on religious subjects. The intolerant jew, and the bigoted pagan, have exhibited no more of a persecuting spirit, than the nominal professor of christianity, and the _infidel_ and the avowed _atheist_. Indeed, it seems to be an "inherent vice," in unsanctified nature to endeavour by the pressure of physical force, to restrain obnoxious sentiments, and to propagate favourite opinions. It is only when the heart has been renewed and sanctified by divine grace, that men have rightly understood and practised the true principles of toleration. We do not say that none but real christians have adopted correct views respecting civil and religious liberty;--but we affirm that these views owe their origin entirely to christianity and its genuine disciples. Though nearly all sects have persecuted their opponents, during a brief season, when men's passions were highly excited, and true religion had mournfully declined, yet no denomination except the papal hierarchy, has adopted as an article of religious belief, and a principle of practical observance, the right to destroy heretics for opinion's sake. The decrees of councils, and the bulls of popes, issued in conformity with those decrees, place this matter beyond a doubt. Persecution, therefore, and popery, are inseparably connected; because claiming infallibility, what she has once done is right for her to do again; yea, must be done under similar circumstances, or the claims of infallibility given up. There is no escaping this conclusion. It is right, therefore, to charge upon popery, all the persecutions and horrid cruelties which have stained the annals of the papal church during her long and bloody career of darkness and crime. Every sigh which has been heaved in the dungeons of the Inquisition--every groan which has been extorted by the racks and instruments of torture, which the malice of her bigoted votaries, stimulated by infernal wisdom, ever invented, has witnessed in the ear of God, against the "Mother of Harlots;" and those kings of the earth, who giving their power to the "Beast" have aided her in the cruel work of desolation and death. The valleys of Piedmont, the mountains of Switzerland, the vine crowned hills of Italy and France--and all parts of Germany and the low countries, have by turns, been lighted by the fires of burning victims, or crimsoned with the blood of those who have suffered death at the hands of the cruel emissaries of popery. England too, has drunken deep of the "wine of the fierceness of her wrath," as the blood of Cobham, and the ashes of the Smithfield martyrs can testify. Ireland and Scotland, likewise, have each been made the theatre of her atrocities. But no where has the system been exhibited in its native unalleviated deformity, as in Spain, Portugal and their South American dependencies. For centuries, such a system of police was established by the _Holy Inquisitors_, that these countries resembled a vast whispering gallery, where the slightest murmur of discontent could be heard and punished. Such has been the effect of superstition and the terror of the Holy Office, upon the mind, as completely to break the pride of the Castillian noble, and make him the unresisting victim of every mendicant friar and "hemp-sandaled monk." Moreover, the papal system has opposed the march of civilization and liberty throughout the world, by denouncing the circulation of the Bible, and the general diffusion of knowledge. Turn to every land where popery predominates, and you will find an ignorant and debased peasantry, a profligate nobility, and a priesthood, licentious, avaricious, domineering and cruel. But it may be asked, is popery the same system now as in the days of Cardinal Bonner and the "Bloody Mary." We answer yes. It is the boast of all catholics that their church never varies, either in spirit or in practice. For evidence of this, look at the demonstrations of her spirit in the persecutions in the south of France, for several years after the restoration of the Bourbons, in 1814. All have witnessed with feelings of detestation, the recent efforts of the apostolicals in Spain and Portugal, to crush the friends of civil and religious liberty in those ill-fated countries. The narrative of Asaad Shidiak, clearly indicates that the spirit of popery, has lost none of its ferocity and bloodthirstiness since the Piedmontese war, and the Bartholomew massacre. Where it has power, its victims are still crushed by the same means which filled the dungeons of the inquisition, and fed the fires of the _auto de fe_. This is the religion, to diffuse which, strenuous efforts are now making in this country. Already the papal church numbers more than half a million of communicants. This number is rapidly augmenting by emigration from catholic countries, and by the conversion of protestant children who are placed in their schools for instruction. The recent events in Europe, will, no doubt, send to our shores hundreds of jesuit priests, with a portion of that immense revenue which the papal church has hitherto enjoyed. Another thing, which will, no doubt, favour their views, is the disposition manifested among some who style themselves _liberalists_, to aid catholics in the erection of mass houses, colleges, convents and theological seminaries. This has been done in numerous instances; and when a note of warning is raised by the true friends of civil and religious liberty, they are treated as bigots by those very men who are contributing of their substance to diffuse and foster the most intolerant system of bigotry, and cruel, unrelenting despotism, the world has ever seen. Other sects have persecuted during some periods of their history; but all now deny the right, and reprobate the practice except catholics. The right to destroy heretics, is a fundamental article in the creed of the papal church. And wherever her power is not cramped, she still exercises that power to the destruction of all who oppose her unrighteous usurpation. All the blood shed by all other christian sects, is no more in comparison to that shed by the papacy, than the short lived flow of a feeble rill, raised by the passing tempest, to the deep overwhelming tide of a mighty river, which receives as tributaries, the waters of a thousand streams. We trust the present work, therefore, will prove a salutary check to the progress of that system whose practical effects have ever been, and ever must be, licentiousness, cruelty, and blood. The narratives of Asaad Shidiak, Mrs. Judson, the persecutions in the West Indies, and in Switzerland, have never before been incorporated in any book of Martyrs. They serve to show the hideous nature of persecution, and the benefit of christian missions. At the close of this volume will be found a sketch of the French revolution of 1789, as connected with persecution. It has long been the practice of infidels to sneer at christianity, because some of its nominal followers have exhibited a persecuting spirit. And although they knew that christianity condemns persecution in the most pointed manner, yet they have never had the generosity to discriminate between the system, and the abuse of the system by wicked men. Infidelity on the other hand, has nothing to redeem it. It imposes no restraint on the violent and lifelong passions of men. Coming to men with the Circean torch of licentiousness in her hand, with fair promises of freedom, she first stupefies the conscience, and brutifies the affections; and then renders her votaries the most abject slaves of guilt and crime. This was exemplified in the French revolution. For centuries, the bible had been taken away, and the key of knowledge wrested from the people. For a little moment, France broke the chains which superstition had flung around her. Not content, however, with this, she attempted to break the yoke of God: she stamped the bible in the dust, and proclaimed the jubilee of licentiousness, unvisited, either by present or future retribution. Mark the consequence. Anarchy broke in like a flood, from whose boiling surge blood spouted up in living streams, and on whose troubled waves floated the headless bodies of the learned, the good, the beautiful and the brave. The most merciless proscription for opinion's sake, followed. A word, a sigh, or a look supposed inimical to the ruling powers, was followed with instant death. The calm which succeeded, was only the less dreaded, because it presented fewer objects of terrific interest, as the shock of the earthquake creates more instant alarm, than the midnight pestilence, when it walks unseen, unknown amidst the habitations of a populous city. The infidel persecutions in France and Switzerland, afford a solemn lesson to the people of this country. We have men among us now, most of them it is true, vagabond foreigners, who are attempting to propagate the same sentiments which produced such terrible consequences in France. Under various names they are scattering their pestilent doctrines through the country. As in France, they have commenced their attacks upon the bible, the Sabbath, marriage, and all the social and domestic relations of life. With flatteries and lies, they are attempting to sow the seeds of discontent and future rebellion among the people. The ferocity of their attacks upon those who differ from them, even while restrained by public opinion, shews what they would do, provided they could pull down our institutions and introduce disorder and wild misrule. We trust, therefore, that the article on the revolution in France, will be found highly instructive and useful. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. HISTORY OF CHRISTIAN MARTYRS TO THE FIRST GENERAL PERSECUTIONS UNDER NERO. PAGE Martyrdom of St. Stephen, James the Great, and Philip 16 Matthew, James the Less, Matthias, Andrew, St. Mark and Peter 17 Paul, Jude, Bartholomew, Thomas, Luke, Simon, John, and Barnabas 18 CHAPTER II. THE TEN PRIMITIVE PERSECUTIONS. The first persecution under Nero, A. D. 67 19 The second persecution under Domitian, A. D. 81 19 The third persecution under Trajan, A. D. 108 20 The fourth persecution under Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, A. D. 162 22 The fifth persecution commencing with Severus, A. D. 192 25 The sixth persecution under Maximinus, A. D. 235 27 The seventh persecution under Decius, A. D. 249 27 The eighth persecution under Valerian, A. D. 257 31 The ninth persecution under Aurelian, A. D. 274 34 The tenth persecution under Diocletian, A. D. 303 36 CHAPTER III. PERSECUTIONS OF THE CHRISTIANS IN PERSIA. Persecutions under the Arian heretics 45 Persecution under Julian the Apostate 46 Persecution of the Christians by the Goths and Vandals 47 Persecutions from about the middle of the Fifth, to the conclusion of the Seventh century 48 Persecutions from the early part of the Eighth, to near the conclusion of the Tenth century 49 Persecutions in the Eleventh century 51 CHAPTER IV. PAPAL PERSECUTIONS. Persecution of the Waldenses in France 53 Persecutions of the Albigenses 55 The Bartholomew massacre at Paris, &c. 57 From the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, to the French Revolution, in 1789 62 Martyrdom of John Calas 65 CHAPTER V. AN ACCOUNT OF THE INQUISITION. An account of the cruel handling and burning of Nicholas Burton, an English merchant, in Spain 73 Some private enormities of the Inquisition laid open by a very singular occurrence 76 The persecution of Dr. Ægidio 88 The persecution of Dr. Constantine 89 The life of William Gardiner. 90 An account of the life and sufferings of Mr. Wm. Lithgow, a native of Scotland 92 Croly on the Inquisition 101 CHAPTER VI. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN ITALY, UNDER THE PAPACY. An account of the persecutions of Calabria 107 Account of the persecutions in the Valleys of Piedmont 110 Account of the persecutions in Venice 117 An account of several remarkable individuals who were martyred in different parts of Italy, on account of their religion 119 An account of the persecutions in the marquisate of Saluces 122 Persecutions in Piedmont in the Seventeenth century 122 Further persecutions in Piedmont 126 Narrative of the Piedmontese War 134 Persecution of Michael de Molinos, a native of Spain 144 CHAPTER VII. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN BOHEMIA UNDER THE PAPACY. Persecution of John Huss 150 Persecution of Jerom of Prague 154 Persecution of Zisca 157 CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL PERSECUTIONS IN GERMANY. An account of the persecutions in the Netherlands 174 CHAPTER IX. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN LITHUANIA AND POLAND 178 CHAPTER X. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN CHINA AND SEVERAL OTHER COUNTRIES. An account of the persecutions in Japan 181 Persecutions against the Christians in Abyssinia or Ethiopia 182 Persecutions against the Christians in Turkey 182 Persecutions and oppressions in Georgia and Mingrelia 183 An account of the persecutions in the States of Barbary 184 Persecutions in Spanish America 184 CHAPTER XI. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND PRIOR TO THE REIGN OF QUEEN MARY I. 186 CHAPTER XII. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN SCOTLAND, DURING THE REIGN OF KING HENRY VIII. 194 An account of the Life, Suffering and Death of George Wishart, &c. 197 CHAPTER XIII. PERSECUTIONS IN ENGLAND DURING THE REIGN OF QUEEN MARY. The words and behaviour of Lady Jane upon the scaffold 204 John Rogers, Vicar of St. Sepulchre's, &c. 205 The Rev. Mr. Lawrence Saunders 207 History, imprisonment, and examination of John Hooper 209 Life and conduct of Dr. Rowland Taylor, of Hadley 212 Martyrdom of Tomkins, Pygot, Knight, and others 214 Dr. Robert Farrar 216 Martyrdom of Rawlins White 217 The Rev. Mr. George Marsh 218 William Flower 220 The Rev. John Cardmaker, and John Warne 221 Martyrdom of Simpson, Ardeley, Haukes, and others 222 Rev. John Bradford, and John Leaf, an apprentice 223 Martyrdom of Bland, Middleton, Hall, Carver and many others 225 John Denley, Packingham, and Newman 226 Coker, Hooper, Lawrence and others 227 The Rev. Robert Samuel 227 G. Catmer, R. Streater and others 228 Bishops Ridley and Latimer 228 Mr. John Webb and others 233 Martyrdom of Rev. F. Whittle, B. Green, Anna Wright, and others 235 An account of Archbishop Cranmer 236 Martyrdom of Agnes Potten, Joan Trunchfield and others 245 Hugh Laverick and John Aprice 246 Preservation of George Crow and his Testament 247 Executions at Stratford le Bow 247 R. Bernard, A. Foster and others 248 An account of Rev. Julius Palmer 248 Persecution of Joan Waste 249 Persecutions in the Diocese of Canterbury 251 T. Loseby, H. Ramsey, T. Thirtell and others 252 Executions in Kent 252 Execution of ten martyrs at Lewes 254 Simon Miller and Elizabeth Cooper 255 Executions at Colchester 255 Mrs. Joyce Lewes 257 Executions at Islington 259 Mrs. Cicely Ormes 261 Rev. John Rough 262 Cuthbert Symson 263 Thomas Hudson, Thomas Carman, William Seamen 264 Apprehensions at Islington 265 Flagellations by Bonner 271 Rev. Richard Yeoman 272 Thomas Benbridge 274 Alexander Gouch and Alice Driver 275 Mrs. Prest 276 Richard Sharpe, Thomas Banion and Thomas Hale 280 T. Corneford, C. Browne, and others 280 William Fetty scourged to death 282 Deliverance of Dr. Sands 285 Queen Mary's treatment of her sister, the Princess Elizabeth 288 God's punishments upon some of the persecutors of his people in Mary's reign 295 CHAPTER XIV. THE SPANISH ARMADA. The destruction of the Armada 298 A conspiracy by the Papists for the destruction of James I, commonly known by the name of the Gunpowder Plot 310 CHAPTER XV. RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE PROTESTANT RELIGION IN IRELAND WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE BARBAROUS MASSACRE OF 1641 315 CHAPTER XVI. THE RISE, PROGRESS, PERSECUTIONS AND SUFFERINGS OF THE QUAKERS. An account of the persecutions of Friends in the United States 337 Proceedings at a General Court in Boston, 1656 339 Proceedings at a General Court in Boston, 1657 340 An act made at a General Court at Boston, 1658 341 CHAPTER XVII. PERSECUTIONS OF THE FRENCH PROTESTANTS IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE, DURING THE YEARS 1814 AND 1820. The arrival of king Louis XVIII at Paris 346 The history of the Silver Child 346 Napoleon's return from the Isle of Elba 347 The Catholic arms at Beaucaire 348 Massacre and pillage at Nismes 349 Interference of government against the Protestants 350 Letters from Louvois to Marillac 351 Royal decree in favour of the persecuted 352 Petition of the Protestant refugees 354 Monstrous outrage upon females 355 Arrival of the Austrians at Nismes 356 Outrages committed in the Villages, &c. 357 Further account of the Proceedings of the Catholics at Nismes 360 Attack upon the Protestant churches 361 Murder of General La Garde 363 Interference of the British government 363 Perjury in the case of General Gilly, &c. 365 Ultimate resolution of the Protestants at Nismes 367 CHAPTER XVIII. ASAAD SHIDIAK. Narrative of the conversion, imprisonment, and sufferings of Asaad Shidiak, a native of Palestine, who had been confined for several years in the Convent on Mount Lebanon 368 Public statement of Asaad Shidiak, in 1826 377 Brief history of Asaad Esh Shidiak, from the time of his being betrayed into the hands of the Maronite Patriarch, in the Spring of 1826 410 CHAPTER XIX. PERSECUTIONS OF THE BAPTIST MISSIONARIES IN INDIA, DURING THE YEAR 1824. Removal of the prisoners to Oung-pen-la--Mrs. Judson follows them 430 CHAPTER XX. PERSECUTIONS OF THE WESLEYAN MISSIONARIES IN THE WEST INDIES. Case of Rev. John Smith 449 Persecutions of the Wesleyan Methodists in St. Domingo 450 Persecutions at Port au Prince 450 CHAPTER XXI. PERSECUTIONS IN SWITZERLAND FROM 1813 TO 1830. Persecutions in the Pays de Vaud 461 CHAPTER XXII. SKETCHES OF THE LIVES OF SOME OF THE MOST EMINENT REFORMERS. John Wickliffe 464 Martin Luther 468 John Calvin 473 Agency of Calvin in the death of Michael Servetus 475 Calvin as a friend of Civil Liberty 478 The life of the Rev. John Fox 482 Errors, rites, ceremonies, and superstitious practices of the Romish church 487 CHAPTER XXIII. SKETCH OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION OF 1789, AS CONNECTED WITH THE HISTORY OF PERSECUTIONS 489 Massacre of prisoners 496 Death of Louis XVI and other members of the Royal Family 499 Dreadful scenes in La Vendée 501 Scenes at Marseilles and Lyons 501 The installation of the Goddess of Reason 506 Fall of Danton, Robespierre, Marat and other Jacobins 508 BOOK OF MARTYRS CHAPTER I. HISTORY OF CHRISTIAN MARTYRS TO THE FIRST GENERAL PERSECUTION UNDER NERO. The history of the church may almost be said to be a history of the trials and sufferings of its members, as experienced at the hands of wicked men. At one time, persecution, as waged against the friends of Christ, was confined to those without; at another, schisms and divisions have arrayed brethren of the same name against each other, and scenes of cruelty and woe have been exhibited within the sanctuary, rivalling in horror the direst cruelties ever inflicted by pagan or barbarian fanaticism. This, however, instead of implying any defect in the gospel system, which breathes peace and love; only pourtrays in darker colours the deep and universal depravity of the human heart. Pure and unsophisticated morality, especially when attempted to be inculcated on mankind, as essential to their preserving an interest with their Creator, have constantly met with opposition. It was this which produced the premature death of John the Baptist. It was the cutting charge of adultery and incest, which excited the resentment of Herodias, who never ceased to persecute him, until she had accomplished his destruction. The same observation is equally applicable to the Jewish doctors, in their treatment of our blessed Lord and Saviour JESUS CHRIST. In the sudden martyrdom of John the Baptist, and the crucifixion of our Lord, the history of christian martyrdom must be admitted to commence; and from these, as a basis for the subsequent occurrences, we may fairly trace the origin of that hostility, which produced so lavish an effusion of christian blood, and led to so much slaughter in the progressive state of christianity. As it is not our business to enlarge upon our Saviour's history, either before or after his crucifixion, we shall only find it necessary to remind our readers of the discomfiture of the Jews by his subsequent resurrection. Though one apostle had betrayed him; though another had denied him, under the solemn sanction of an oath; and though the rest had forsaken him, unless we may except "the disciple who was known unto the high-priest;" the history of his resurrection gave a new direction to all their hearts, and, after the mission of the Holy Spirit, imparted new confidence to their minds. The powers with which they were endued emboldened them to proclaim his name, to the confusion of the Jewish rulers, and the astonishment of Gentile proselytes. _I. St. Stephen_ ST. STEPHEN suffered the next in order. His death was occasioned by the faithful manner in which he preached the gospel to the betrayers and murderers of Christ. To such a degree of madness were they excited, that they cast him out of the city and stoned him to death. The time when he suffered is generally supposed to have been at the passover which succeeded to that of our Lord's crucifixion, and to the æra of his ascension, in the following spring. Upon this a great persecution was raised against all who professed their belief in Christ as the Messiah, or as a prophet. We are immediately told by St. Luke, that "there was a great persecution against the church, which was at Jerusalem;" and that "they were all scattered abroad throughout the regions of Judea and Samaria, except the apostles." About two thousand christians, with Nicanor, one of the seven deacons, suffered martyrdom during the "persecution which arose about Stephen." _II. James the Great._ The next martyr we meet with, according to St. Luke, in the History of the Apostles' Acts, was James the son of Zebedee, the elder brother of John, and a relative of our Lord; for his mother Salome was cousin-german to the Virgin Mary. It was not until ten years after the death of Stephen, that the second martyrdom took place; for no sooner had Herod Agrippa been appointed governor of Judea, than, with a view to ingratiate himself with them, he raised a sharp persecution against the christians, and determined to make an effectual blow, by striking at their leaders. The account given us by an eminent primitive writer, Clemens Alexandrinus, ought not to be overlooked; that, as James was led to the place of martyrdom, his accuser was brought to repent of his conduct by the apostle's extraordinary courage and undauntedness, and fell down at his feet to request his pardon, professing himself a christian, and resolving that James should not receive the crown of martyrdom alone. Hence they were both beheaded at the same time. Thus did the first apostolic martyr cheerfully and resolutely receive that cup, which he had told our Saviour he was ready to drink. Timon and Parmenas suffered martyrdom about the same time; the one at Phillippi, and the other in Macedonia. These events took place A. D. 44. _III. Philip._ Was born at Bethsaida, in Galilee, and was the first called by the name of "Disciple." He laboured diligently in Upper Asia, and suffered martyrdom at Heliopolis, in Phrygia. He was scourged, thrown into prison, and afterwards crucified, A. D. 54. _IV. Matthew_, Whose occupation was that of a toll-gatherer, was born at Nazareth. He wrote his gospel in Hebrew, which was afterwards translated into Greek by James the Less. The scene of his labors was Parthia, and Ethiopia, in which latter country he suffered martyrdom, being slain with a halberd in the city of Nadabah, A. D. 60. _V. James the Less_, Is supposed by some to have been the brother of our Lord, by a former wife of Joseph. This is very doubtful, and accords too much with the catholic superstition, that Mary never had any other children except our Saviour. He was elected to the oversight of the churches of Jerusalem; and was the author of the epistle ascribed to James in the sacred canon. At the age of ninety-four, he was beat and stoned by the Jews; and finally had his brains dashed out with a fuller's club. _VI. Matthias_, Of whom less is known than of most of the other disciples, was elected to fill the vacant place of Judas. He was stoned at Jerusalem and then beheaded. _VII. Andrew_, Was the brother of Peter. He preached the gospel to many Asiatic nations; but on his arrival at Edessa, he was taken and crucified on a cross, the two ends of which were fixed transversely in the ground. Hence the derivation of the term, St. Andrew's Cross. _VIII. St. Mark_, Was born of Jewish parents of the tribe of Levi. He is supposed to have been converted to christianity by Peter, whom he served as an amanuensis, and under whose inspection he wrote his gospel in the Greek language. Mark was dragged to pieces by the people of Alexandria, at the great solemnity of Serapis their idol, ending his life under their merciless hands. _IX. Peter_, Was born at Bethsaida, in Galilee. He was by occupation a fisherman. Christ gave him a name which in Syriac implies a rock. Peter is supposed to have suffered martyrdom at Rome, during the reign of the emperor Nero, being crucified with his head downward, at his own request. [It is, however, very uncertain, whether Peter ever visited Rome at all. The evidence rather favouring the supposition that he ended his days in some other country.--_Ed._] _X. Paul_, The great apostle of the Gentiles, was a Jew of the tribe of Benjamin, a native of Tarsus in Cilicia, and before his conversion was called Saul. After suffering various persecutions at Jerusalem, Iconium, Lystra, Phillippi and Thessalonica, he was carried prisoner to Rome, where he continued for two years, and was then released. He afterwards visited the churches of Greece and Rome, and preached the gospel in Spain and France, but returning to Rome, he was apprehended by order of Nero, and beheaded. _XI. Jude_, The brother of James, was commonly called Thaddeus. He was crucified at Edessa, A. D. 72. _XII. Bartholomew_, Preached in several countries, and having translated the gospel of Matthew into the language of India, he propagated it in that country. He was at length cruelly beaten and then crucified by the impatient idolaters. _XIII. Thomas_, Called Didymus, preached the gospel in Parthia and India, where exciting the rage of the pagan priests, he was martyred by being thrust through with a spear. _XIV. Luke_, The evangelist, was the author of the gospel which goes under his name. He travelled with Paul through various countries, and is supposed to have been hanged on an olive tree, by the idolatrous priests of Greece. _XV. Simon_, Surnamed Zelotes, preached the gospel in Mauritania, Africa, and even in Britain, which latter country he was crucified, A. D. 74. _XVI. John_, The "beloved disciple," was brother to James the Great. The churches of Smyrna, Pergamos, Sardis, Philadelphia, Laodicea, and Thyatira, were founded by him. From Ephesus he was ordered to be sent to Rome, where it is affirmed he was cast into a cauldron of boiling oil. He escaped by miracle, without injury. Domitian afterwards banished him to the Isle of Patmos, where he wrote the Book of Revelation. Nerva, the successor of Domitian, recalled him. He was the only apostle who escaped a violent death. _XVII. Barnabas_, Was of Cyprus, but of Jewish descent, his death is supposed to have taken place about A. D. 73. CHAPTER II. THE TEN PRIMITIVE PERSECUTIONS. _The First Persecution under Nero, A. D. 67._ The first persecution of the church took place in the year 67, under Nero, the sixth emperor of Rome. This monarch reigned for the space of five years, with tolerable credit to himself, but then gave way to the greatest extravagancy of temper, and to the most atrocious barbarities. Among other diabolical whims, he ordered that the city of Rome should be set on fire, which order was executed by his officers, guards, and servants. While the imperial city was in flames, he went up to the tower of Macænas, played upon his harp, sung the song of the burning of Troy, and openly declared, "That he wished the ruin of all things before his death." Besides the noble pile, called the circus, many other palaces and houses were consumed; several thousands perished in the flames, were smothered in the smoke, or buried beneath the ruins. This dreadful conflagration continued nine days; when Nero, finding that his conduct was greatly blamed, and a severe odium cast upon him, determined to lay the whole upon the christians, at once to excuse himself, and have an opportunity of glutting his sight with new cruelties. This was the occasion of the first persecution; and the barbarities exercised on the christians were such as even excited the commisseration of the Romans themselves. Nero even refined upon cruelty, and contrived all manner of punishments for the christians that the most infernal imagination could design. In particular, he had some sewed up in the skins of wild beasts, and then worried by dogs till they expired; and others dressed in shirts made stiff with wax, fixed to axletrees, and set on fire in his gardens, in order to illuminate them. This persecution was general throughout the whole Roman empire; but it rather increased than diminished the spirit of christianity. In the course of it, St. Paul and St. Peter were martyred. To their names may be added, Erastus, chamberlain of Corinth; Aristarchus, the Macedonian; and Trophimus, an Ephesian, converted by St. Paul, and fellow-labourer with him; Joseph, commonly called Barsabas; and Ananias, bishop of Damascus; each of the seventy. _The Second Persecution, under Domitian, A. D. 81._ The emperor Domitian, who was naturally inclined to cruelty, first slew his brother, and then raised the second persecution against the christians. In his rage he put to death some of the Roman senators, some through malice; and others to confiscate their estates. He then commanded all the lineage of David to be put to death. Among the numerous martyrs that suffered during this persecution was Simeon, bishop of Jerusalem, who was crucified; and St. John, who was boiled in oil, and afterward banished to Patmos. Flavia, the daughter of a Roman senator, was likewise banished to Pontus; and a law was made, "That no christian, once brought before the tribunal, should be exempted from punishment without renouncing his religion." A variety of fabricated tales were, during this reign, composed in order to injure the christians. Such was the infatuation of the pagans, that, if famine, pestilence, or earthquakes afflicted any of the Roman provinces, it was laid upon the christians. These persecutions among the christians increased the number of informers and many, for the sake of gain, swore away the lives of the innocent. Another hardship was, that, when any christians were brought before the magistrates, a test oath was proposed, when, if they refused to take it, death was pronounced against them; and if they confessed themselves christians, the sentence was the same. The following were the most remarkable among the numerous martyrs who suffered during this persecution. Dionysius, the Areopagite, was an Athenian by birth, and educated in all the useful and ornamental literature of Greece. He then travelled to Egypt to study astronomy, and made very particular observations on the great and supernatural eclipse, which happened at the time of our Saviour's crucifixion. The sanctity of his conversation, and the purity of his manners, recommended him so strongly to the christians in general, that he was appointed bishop of Athens. Nicodemus, a benevolent christian of some distinction, suffered at Rome during the rage of Domitian's persecution. Protasius and Gervasius were martyred at Milan. Timothy was the celebrated disciple of St. Paul, and bishop of Ephesus, where he zealously governed the church till A. D. 97. At this period, as the pagans were about to celebrate a feast called Catagogion, Timothy, meeting the procession, severely reproved them for their ridiculous idolatry, which so exasperated the people, that they fell upon him with their clubs, and beat him in so dreadful a manner, that he expired of the bruises two days after. _The Third Persecution, under Trajan, A. D. 108._ Nerva, succeeding Domitian, gave a respite to the sufferings of the christians; but reigning only thirteen months, his successor Trajan, in the tenth year of his reign A. D. 108, began the third persecution against the christians. While the persecution raged, Pliny 2d, a heathen philosopher wrote to the emperor in favor of the Christians; to whose epistle Trajan returned this indecisive answer: "The christians ought not to be sought after, but when brought before the magistracy, they should be punished." Trajan, however, soon after wrote to Jerusalem, and gave orders to his officers to exterminate the stock of David; in consequence of which, all that could be found of that race were put to death. Symphorosa, a widow, and her seven sons, were commanded by the emperor to sacrifice to the heathen deities. She was carried to the temple of Hercules, scourged, and hung up, for some time, by the hair of her head: then being taken down, a large stone was fastened to her neck, and she was thrown into the river, where she expired. With respect to the sons, they were fastened to seven posts, and being drawn up by pullies, their limbs were dislocated: these tortures, not affecting their resolution, they were martyred by stabbing, except Eugenius, the youngest, who was sawed asunder. Phocas, bishop of Pontus, refusing to sacrifice to Neptune, was, by the immediate order of Trajan, cast first into a hot lime-kiln, and then thrown into a scalding bath till he expired. Trajan likewise commanded the martyrdom of Ignatius, bishop of Antioch. This holy man was the person whom, when an infant, Christ took into his arms, and showed to his disciples, as one that would be a pattern of humility and innocence. He received the gospel afterward from St. John the Evangelist, and was exceedingly zealous in his mission. He boldly vindicated the faith of Christ before the emperor, for which he was cast into prison, and tormented in a most cruel manner. After being dreadfully scourged, he was compelled to hold fire in his hands, and, at the same time, papers clipped in oil were put to his sides, and set on fire. His flesh was then torn with red hot pincers, and at last he was despatched by being torn to pieces by wild beasts. Trajan being succeeded by Adrian, the latter continued this third persecution with as much severity as his predecessor. About this time Alexander, bishop of Rome, with his two deacons, were martyred; as were Quirinus and Hernes, with their families; Zenon, a Roman nobleman, and about ten thousand other christians. In Mount Ararat many were crucified, crowned with thorns, and spears run into their sides, in imitation of Christ's passion. Eustachius, a brave and successful Roman commander, was by the emperor ordered to join in an idolatrous sacrifice to celebrate some of his own victories; but his faith (being a christian in his heart) was so much greater than his vanity, that he nobly refused it. Enraged at the denial, the ungrateful emperor forgot the service of this skilful commander, and ordered him and his whole family to be martyred. At the martyrdom of Faustines and Jovita, brothers and citizens of Brescia, their torments were so many, and their patience so great, that Calocerius, a pagan, beholding them, was struck with admiration, and exclaimed in a kind of ecstacy, "Great is the God of the christians!" for which he was apprehended, and suffered a similar fate. Many other similar cruelties and rigours were exercised against the christians, until Quadratus, bishop of Athens, made a learned apology in their favour before the emperor, who happened to be there and Aristides, a philosopher of the same city, wrote an elegant epistle, which caused Adrian to relax in his severities, and relent in their favour. Adrian dying A. D. 138, was succeeded by Antoninus Pius, one of the most amiable monarchs that ever reigned, and who stayed the persecution against the Christians. _The fourth persecution, under Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, A. D. 162._ This commenced A. D. 162, under Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Philosophus, a strong pagan. The cruelties used in this persecution were such, that many of the spectators shuddered with horror at the sight, and were astonished at the intrepidity of the sufferers. Some of the martyrs were obliged to pass, with their already wounded feet, over thorns, nails, sharp shells, &c. upon their points, others were scourged till their sinews and veins lay bare, and after suffering the most excruciating tortures that could be devised, they were destroyed by the most terrible deaths. Germanicus, a young man, but a true christian, being delivered to the wild beasts on account of his faith, behaved with such astonishing courage, that several pagans became converts to a faith which inspired such fortitude. Polycarp, the venerable bishop of Smyrna, hearing that persons were seeking for him, escaped, but was discovered by a child. After feasting the guards who apprehended him, he desired an hour in prayer, which being allowed, he prayed with such fervency, that his guards repented that they had been instrumental in taking him. He was, however, carried before the proconsul, condemned, and burnt in the market-place. Twelve other christians, who had been intimate with Polycarp, were soon after martyred. The circumstances attending the execution of this venerable old man, as they were of no common nature, so it would be injurious to the credit of our professed history of martyrdom to pass them over in silence. It was observed by the spectators, that, after finishing his prayer at the stake, to which he was only tied, but not nailed as usual, as he assured them he should stand immoveable, the flames, on their kindling the fagots, encircled his body, like an arch, without touching him; and the executioner, on seeing this, was ordered to pierce him with a sword, when so great a quantity of blood flowed out as extinguished the fire. But his body, at the instigation of the enemies of the gospel, especially Jews, was ordered to be consumed in the pile, and the request of his friends, who wished to give it christian burial, rejected. They nevertheless collected his bones and as much of his remains as possible, and caused them to be decently interred. Metrodorus, a minister, who preached boldly; and Pionius, who made some excellent apologies for the christian faith; were likewise burnt. Carpus and Papilus, two worthy christians, and Agathonica, a pious woman, suffered martyrdom at Pergamopolis, in Asia. Felicitatis, an illustrious Roman lady, of a considerable family and the most shining virtues, was a devout christian. She had seven sons, whom she had educated with the most exemplary piety. Januarius, the eldest, was scourged, and pressed to death with weights; Felix and Philip, the two next had their brains dashed out with clubs; Silvanus, the fourth, was murdered by being thrown from a precipice; and the three younger sons, Alexander, Vitalis, and Martial, were beheaded. The mother was beheaded with the same sword as the three latter. Justin, the celebrated philosopher, fell a martyr in this persecution. He was a native of Neapolis, in Samaria, and was born A. D. 103. Justin was a great lover of truth, and a universal scholar; he investigated the Stoic and Peripatetic philosophy, and attempted the Pythagorean; but the behaviour of one of its professors disgusting him, he applied himself to the Platonic, in which he took great delight. About the year 133, when he was thirty years of age, he became a convert to christianity, and then, for the first time, perceived the real nature of truth. He wrote an elegant epistle to the Gentiles, and employed his talents in convincing the Jews of the truth of the christian rites; spending a great deal of time in travelling, till he took up his abode in Rome, and fixed his habitation upon the Viminal mount. He kept a public school, taught many who afterward became great men, and wrote a treatise to confute heresies of all kinds. As the pagans began to treat the christians with great severity, Justin wrote his first apology in their favour. This piece displays great learning and genius, and occasioned the emperor to publish an edict in favor of the christians. Soon after, he entered into frequent contests with Crescens, a person of a vicious life and conversation, but a celebrated cynic philosopher; and his arguments appeared so powerful, yet disgusting to the cynic, that he resolved on, and in the sequel accomplished, his destruction. The second apology of Justin, upon certain severities, gave Crescens the cynic an opportunity of prejudicing the emperor against the writer of it; upon which Justin, and six of his companions, were apprehended. Being commanded to sacrifice to the pagan idols, they refused, and were condemned to be scourged, and then beheaded; which sentence was executed with all imaginable severity. Several were beheaded for refusing to sacrifice to the image of Jupiter; in particular Concordus, a deacon of the city of Spolito. Some of the restless northern nations having risen in arms against Rome, the emperor marched to encounter them. He was, however, drawn into an ambuscade, and dreaded the loss of his whole army. Enveloped with mountains, surrounded by enemies, and perishing with thirst, the pagan deities were invoked in vain; when the men belonging to the militine, or thundering legion, who were all christians, were commanded to call upon their God for succour. A miraculous deliverance immediately ensued; a prodigious quantity of rain fell, which, being caught by the men, and filling their dykes, afforded a sudden and astonishing relief. It appears, that the storm which miraculously flashed in the faces of the enemy, so intimidated them, that part deserted to the Roman army; the rest were defeated, and the revolted provinces entirely recovered. This affair occasioned the persecution to subside for some time, at least in those parts immediately under the inspection of the emperor; but we find that it soon after raged in France, particularly at Lyons, where the tortures to which many of the christians were put, almost exceed the powers of description. The principal of these martyrs were Vetius Agathus, a young man; Blandina, a christian lady, of a weak constitution; Sanctus, a deacon of Vienna; red hot plates of brass were placed upon the tenderest parts of his body; Biblias, a weak woman, once an apostate. Attalus, of Pergamus; and Pothinus, the venerable bishop of Lyons, who was ninety years of age. Blandina, on the day when she and the three other champions were first brought into the amphitheatre, she was suspended on a piece of wood fixed in the ground, and exposed as food for the wild beasts; at which time, by her earnest prayers, she encouraged others. But none of the wild beasts would touch her, so that she was remanded to prison. When she was again produced for the third and last time, she was accompanied by Ponticus, a youth of fifteen and the constancy of their faith so enraged the multitude, that neither the sex of the one nor the youth of the other were respected, being exposed to all manner of punishments and tortures. Being strengthened by Blandina, he persevered unto death; and she, after enduring all the torments heretofore mentioned, was at length slain with the sword. When the christians, upon these occasions, received martyrdom, they were ornamented, and crowned with garlands of flowers; for which they, in heaven, received eternal crowns of glory. The torments were various; and, exclusive of those already mentioned, the martyrs of Lyons were compelled to sit in red-hot iron chairs till their flesh broiled. This was inflicted with peculiar severity on Sanctus, already mentioned, and some others. Some were sewed up in nets, and thrown on the horns of wild bulls; and the carcases of those who died in prison, previous to the appointed time of execution, were thrown to dogs. Indeed, so far did the malice of the pagans proceed that they set guards over the bodies while the beasts were devouring them, lest the friends of the deceased should get them away by stealth; and the offals left by the dogs were ordered to be burnt. The martyrs of Lyons, according to the best accounts we could obtain, who suffered for the gospel, were forty-eight in number, and their executions happened in the year of Christ 177. Epipodius and Alexander were celebrated for their great friendship, and their christian union with each other. The first was born at Lyons, the latter at Greece. Epipodius, being compassionated by the governor of Lyons, and exhorted to join in their festive pagan worship, replied, "Your pretended tenderness is actually cruelty; and the agreeable life you describe is replete with everlasting death Christ suffered for us, that our pleasures should be immortal, and hath prepared for his followers an eternity of bliss. The frame of man being composed of two parts, body and soul, the first, as mean and perishable, should be rendered subservient to the interests of the last. Your idolatrous feasts may gratify the mortal, but they injure the immortal part; that cannot therefore be enjoying life which destroys the most valuable moiety of your frame. Your pleasures lead to eternal death, and our pains to perpetual happiness." Epipodius was severely beaten, and then put to the rack, upon which being stretched, his flesh was torn with iron hooks. Having borne his torments with incredible patience and unshaken fortitude, he was taken from the rack and beheaded. Valerian and Marcellus, who were nearly related to each other, were imprisoned at Lyons, in the year 177, for being christians. The father was fixed up to the waist in the ground; in which position, after remaining three days, he expired, A. D. 179. Valerian was beheaded. Apollonius, a Roman senator, an accomplished gentleman, and a sincere christian, suffered under Commodus, because he would not worship him as Hercules. Eusebius, Vincentius, Potentianus, Peregrinus, and Julius, a Roman senator, were martyred on the same account. _The Fifth Persecution, commencing with Severus, A. D. 192._ Severus, having been recovered from a severe fit of sickness by a christian, became a great favourer of the christians in general; but the prejudice and fury of the ignorant multitude prevailing, obsolete laws were put in execution against the christians. The progress of christianity alarmed the pagans, and they revived the stale calumny of placing accidental misfortunes to the account of its professors, A. D. 192. But, though persecuting malice raged, yet the gospel shone with resplendent brightness; and, firm as an impregnable rock, withstood the attacks of its boisterous enemies with success. Turtullian, who lived in this age, informs us, that if the christians had collectively withdrawn themselves from the Roman territories, the empire would have been greatly depopulated. Victor, bishop of Rome, suffered martyrdom in the first year of the third century, A. D. 201. Leonidus, the father of the celebrated Origen, was beheaded for being a christian. Many of Origen's hearers likewise suffered martyrdom; particularly two brothers, named Plutarchus and Serenus; another Serenus, Heron, and Heraclides, were beheaded. Rhais had boiled pitch poured upon her head, and was then burnt, as was Marcella her mother. Potamiena, the sister of Rhais, was executed in the same manner as Rhais had been; but Basilides, an officer belonging to the army, and ordered to attend her execution, became her convert. Basilides being, as an officer, required to take a certain oath, refused, saying, that he could not swear by the Roman idols, as he was a christian. Struck with surprise, the people could not, at first, believe what they heard; but he had no sooner confirmed the same, than he was dragged before the judge, committed to prison, and speedily afterward beheaded. Irenæus, bishop of Lyons, was born in Greece, and received both a polite and a christian education. It is generally supposed, that the account of the persecutions at Lyons was written by himself. He succeeded the martyr Pothinus as bishop of Lyons, and ruled his diocese with great propriety; he was a zealous opposer of heresies in general, and, about A. D. 187, he wrote a celebrated tract against heresy. Victor, the bishop of Rome, wanting to impose the keeping of Easter there, in preference to other places, it occasioned some disorders among the christians. In particular, Irenæus wrote him a synodical epistle, in the name of the Gallic churches. This zeal, in favour of christianity, pointed him out as an object of resentment to the emperor; and in A. D. 202, he was beheaded. The persecutions now extending to Africa, many were martyred in that quarter of the globe; the most particular of whom we shall mention. Perpetua, a married lady, of about twenty-two years. Those who suffered with her were, Felicitas, a married lady, big with child at the time of her being apprehended; and Revocatus, catechumen of Carthage, and a slave. The names of the other prisoners, destined to suffer upon this occasion, were Saturninus, Secundulus and Satur. On the day appointed for their execution, they were led to the amphitheatre. Satur, Saturninus, and Revocatus, were ordered to run the gauntlet between the hunters, or such as had the care of the wild beasts. The hunters being drawn up in two ranks, they ran between, and were severely lashed as they passed. Felicitas and Perpetua were stripped, in order to be thrown to a mad bull, which made his first attack upon Perpetua, and stunned her; he then darted at Felicitas, and gored her dreadfully; but not killing them, the executioner did that office with a sword. Revocatus and Satur were destroyed by wild beasts; Saturninus was beheaded; and Secundulus died in prison. These executions were in the year 205, on the 8th day of March. Speratus, and twelve others, were likewise beheaded; as was Andocles in France. Asclepiades, bishop of Antioch, suffered many tortures, but his life was spared. Cecilia, a young lady of good family in Rome, was married to a gentleman named Valerian. She converted her husband and brother, who were beheaded; and the maximus, or officer, who led them to execution, becoming their convert, suffered the same fate. The lady was placed naked in a scalding bath, and having continued there a considerable time, her head was struck off with a sword, A. D. 222. Calistus, bishop of Rome, was martyred, A. D. 224; but the manner of his death is not recorded; and Urban, bishop of Rome, met the same fate A. D. 232. _The Sixth Persecution, under Maximinus, A. D. 235._ A. D. 235, was in the time of Maximinus. In Cappadocia, the president, Seremianus, did all he could to exterminate the christians from that province. The principal persons who perished under this reign were Pontianus, bishop of Rome; Anteros, a Grecian, his successor, who gave offence to the government, by collecting the acts of the martyrs, Pammachius and Quiritus, Roman senators, with all their families, and many other christians; Simplicius, senator; Calepodius, a christian minister, thrown into the Tyber; Martina, a noble and beautiful virgin; and Hippolitus, a christian prelate, tied to a wild horse, and dragged till he expired. During this persecution, raised by Maximinus, numberless christians were slain without trial, and buried indiscriminately in heaps, sometimes fifty or sixty being cast into a pit together, without the least decency. The tyrant Maximinus dying, A. D. 238, was succeeded by Gordian, during whose reign, and that of his successor Philip, the church was free from persecution for the space of more than ten years; but A. D. 249, a violent persecution broke out in Alexandria, at the instigation of a pagan priest, without the knowledge of the emperor. _The Seventh Persecution, under Decius A. D. 249._ This was occasioned partly by the hatred he bore to his predecessor Philip, who was deemed a christian, and partly to his jealousy concerning the amazing increase of christianity; for the heathen temples began to be forsaken, and the christian churches thronged. These reasons stimulated Decius to attempt the very extirpation of the name of christian; and it was unfortunate for the gospel, that many errors had, about this time, crept into the church: the christians were at variance with each other; self-interest divided those whom social love ought to have united; and the virulence of pride occasioned a variety of factions. The heathens in general were ambitious to enforce the imperial decrees upon this occasion, and looked upon the murder of a christian as a merit to themselves. The martyrs, upon this occasion, were innumerable; but the principal we shall give some account of. Fabian, the bishop of Rome, was the first person of eminence who felt the severity of this persecution. The deceased emperor, Philip, had, on account of his integrity, committed his treasure to the care of this good man. But Decius, not finding as much as his avarice made him expect, determined to wreak his vengeance on the good prelate. He was accordingly seized; and on the 20th of January, A. D. 250, he suffered decapitation. Julian, a native of Cilicia, as we are informed by St. Chrysostom, was seized upon for being a christian. He was put into a leather bag, together with a number of serpents and scorpions, and in that condition thrown into the sea. Peter, a young man, amiable for the superior qualities of his body and mind, was beheaded for refusing to sacrifice to Venus. He said, "I am astonished you should sacrifice to an infamous woman, whose debaucheries even your own historians record, and whose life consisted of such actions as your laws would punish.--No, I shall offer the true God the acceptable sacrifice of praises and prayers." Optimus, the proconsul of Asia, on hearing this, ordered the prisoner to be stretched upon a wheel, by which all his bones were broken, and then he was sent to be beheaded. Nichomachus, being brought before the proconsul as a christian, was ordered to sacrifice to the pagan idols. Nichomachus replied, "I cannot pay that respect to devils, which is only due to the Almighty." This speech so much enraged the proconsul, that Nichomachus was put to the rack. After enduring the torments for a time, he recanted; but scarcely had he given this proof of his frailty, than he fell into the greatest agonies, dropped down on the ground, and expired immediately. Denisa, a young woman of only sixteen years of age, who beheld this terrible judgment, suddenly exclaimed, "O unhappy wretch, why would you buy a moment's ease at the expense of a miserable eternity!" Optimus, hearing this, called to her, and Denisa avowing herself to be a christian, she was beheaded, by his order, soon after. Andrew and Paul, two companions of Nichomachus the martyr, A. D. 251, suffered martyrdom by stoning, and expired, calling on their blessed Redeemer. Alexander and Epimachus, of Alexandria, were apprehended for being christians: and, confessing the accusation, were beat with staves, torn with hooks, and at length burnt in the fire; and we are informed, in a fragment preserved by Eusebius, that four female martyrs suffered on the same day, and at the same place, but not in the same manner; for these were beheaded. Lucian and Marcian, two wicked pagans, though skilful magicians, becoming converts to christianity, to make amends for their former errors, lived the lives of hermits, and subsisted upon bread and water only. After some time spent in this manner, they became zealous preachers, and made many converts. The persecution, however, raging at this time, they were seized upon, and carried before Sabinus, the governor of Bithynia. On being asked by what authority they took upon themselves to preach, Lucian answered, "That the laws of charity and humanity obliged all men to endeavour the conversion of their neighbours, and to do every thing in their power to rescue them from the snares of the devil." Lucian having answered in this manner, Marcian said, that "Then conversion was by the same grace which was given to St. Paul, who, from a zealous persecutor of the church, became a preacher of the gospel." The proconsul, finding that he could not prevail with them to renounce their faith, condemned them to be burnt alive, which sentence was soon after executed. Trypho and Respicius, two eminent men, were seized as Christians, and imprisoned at Nice. Their feet were pierced with nails; they were dragged through the streets, scourged, torn with iron hooks, scorched with lighted torches, and at length beheaded, February 1, A. D. 251. Agatha, a Sicilian lady, was not more remarkable for her personal and acquired endowments, than her piety: her beauty was such, that Quintian, governor of Sicily, became enamoured of her, and made many attempts upon her chastity without success. In order to gratify his passions with the greater conveniency, he put the virtuous lady into the hands of Aphrodica, a very infamous and licentious woman. This wretch tried every artifice to win her to the desired prostitution; but found all her efforts were vain; for her chastity was impregnable, and she well knew that virtue alone could procure true happiness. Aphrodica acquainted Quintian with the inefficacy of her endeavours, who, enraged to be foiled in his designs, changed his lust into resentment. On her confessing that she was a christian, he determined to gratify his revenge, as he could not his passion. Pursuant to his orders, she was scourged, burnt with red-hot irons, and torn with sharp hooks. Having borne these torments with admirable fortitude, she was next laid naked upon live coals, intermingled with glass, and then being carried back to prison, she there expired on the 5th of Feb. 251. Cyril, bishop of Gortyna, was seized by order of Lucius, the governor of that place, who, nevertheless, exhorted him to obey the imperial mandate, perform the sacrifices, and save his venerable person from destruction; for he was now eighty-four years of age. The good prelate replied, that as he had long taught others to save their souls, he should only think now of his own salvation. The worthy prelate heard his fiery sentence without emotion, walked cheerfully to the place of execution, and underwent his martyrdom with great fortitude. The persecution raged in no place more than the Island of Crete; for the governor, being exceedingly active in executing the imperial decrees, that place streamed with pious blood. Babylas, a christian of a liberal education, became bishop of Antioch, A. D. 237, on the demise of Zebinus. He acted with inimitable zeal, and governed the church with admirable prudence during the most tempestuous times. The first misfortune that happened to Antioch during his mission, was the siege of it by Sapor, king of Persia; who, having overrun all Syria, took and plundered this city among others, and used the christian inhabitants with greater severity than the rest, but was soon totally defeated by Gordian. After Gordian's death, in the reign of Decius, that emperor came to Antioch, where, having a desire to visit an assembly of christians, Babylas opposed him, and absolutely refused to let him come in. The emperor dissembled his anger at that time; but soon sending for the bishop, he sharply reproved him for his insolence, and then ordered him to sacrifice to the pagan deities as an expiation for his offence. This being refused, he was committed to prison, loaded with chains, treated with great severities, and then beheaded, together with three young men who had been his pupils. A. D. 251. Alexander, bishop of Jerusalem, about this time was cast into prison on account of his religion, where he died through the severity of his confinement. Julianus, an old man, lame with the gout, and Cronion, another christian, were bound on the backs of camels, severely scourged, and then thrown into a fire and consumed. Also forty virgins, at Antioch, after being imprisoned and scourged, were burnt. In the year of our Lord 251, the emperor Decius having erected a pagan temple at Ephesus, he commanded all who were in that city to sacrifice to the idols. This order was nobly refused by seven of his own soldiers, viz. Maximianus, Martianus, Joannes, Malchus, Dionysius, Seraion, and Constantinus. The emperor wishing to win these soldiers to renounce their faith by his entreaties and lenity, gave them a considerable respite till he returned from an expedition. During the emperor's absence, they escaped, and hid themselves in a cavern; which the emperor being informed of at his return, the mouth of the cave was closed up, and they all perished with hunger. Theodora, a beautiful young lady of Antioch, on refusing to sacrifice to the Roman idols, was condemned to the stews, that her virtue might be sacrificed to the brutality of lust. Didymus, a christian, disguised himself in the habit of a Roman soldier, went to the house, informed Theodora who he was, and advised her to make her escape in his clothes. This being effected, and a man found in the brothel instead of a beautiful lady, Didymus was taken before the president, to whom confessing the truth, and owning that he was a christian the sentence of death was immediately pronounced against him. Theodora, hearing that her deliverer was likely to suffer, came to the judge, threw herself at his feet, and begged that the sentence might fall on her as the guilty person; but, deaf to the cries of the innocent, and insensible to the calls of justice, the inflexible judge condemned both, when they were executed accordingly, being first beheaded, and their bodies afterward burnt. Secundianus, having been accused as a christian, was conveyed to prison by some soldiers. On the way, Verianus and Marcellinus said, "Where are you carrying the innocent?" This interrogatory occasioned them to be seized, and all three, after having been tortured, were hanged and decapitated. Origen, the celebrated presbyter and catechist of Alexandria, at the age of sixty-four, was seized, thrown into a loathsome prison, laden with fetters, his feet placed in the stocks, and his legs extended to the utmost for several successive days. He was threatened with fire, and tormented by every lingering means the most infernal imaginations could suggest. During thus cruel temporizing, the emperor Decius died, and Gallus, who succeeded him, engaging in a war with the Goths, the christians met with a respite. In this interim, Origen obtained his enlargement, and, retiring to Tyre, he there remained till his death, which happened when he was in the sixty-ninth year of his age. Gallus, the emperor, having concluded his wars, a plague broke out in the empire: sacrifices to the pagan deities were ordered by the emperor, and persecutions spread from the interior to the extreme parts of the empire, and many fell martyrs to the impetuosity of the rabble, as well as the prejudice of the magistrates. Among these were Cornelius, the christian bishop of Rome, and Lucius, his successor, in 253. Most of the errors which crept into the church at this time, arose from placing human reason in competition with revelation; but the fallacy of such arguments being proved by the most able divines, the opinions they had created vanished away like the stars before the sun. _The Eighth Persecution, under Valerian, A. D. 257_, Began under Valerian, in the month of April, 257, and continued for three years and six months. The martyrs that fell in this persecution were innumerable, and their tortures and deaths as various and painful. The most eminent martyrs were the following, though neither rank, sex, or age were regarded. Rufina and Secunda, two beautiful and accomplished ladies, daughters of Asterius, a gentleman of eminence in Rome. Rufina, the elder, was designed in marriage for Armentarius, a young nobleman; Secunda, the younger, for Verinus a person of rank and opulence. The suitors, at the time of the persecution's commencing, were both christians; but when danger appeared, to save their fortunes, they renounced their faith. They took great pains to persuade the ladies to do the same, but, disappointed in their purpose, the lovers were base enough to inform against the ladies, who, being apprehended as christians, were brought before Junius Donatus, governor of Rome, where, A. D. 257, they sealed their martyrdom with their blood. Stephen, bishop of Rome, was beheaded in the same year, and about that time Saturnius, the pious orthodox bishop of Thoulouse, refusing to sacrifice to idols, was treated with all the barbarous indignities imaginable, and fastened by the feet to the tail of a bull. Upon a signal given, the enraged animal was driven down the steps of the temple, by which the worthy martyr's brains were dashed out. Sextus succeeded Stephen as bishop of Rome. He is supposed to have been a Greek by birth or by extraction, and had for some time served in the capacity of a deacon under Stephen. His great fidelity, singular wisdom, and uncommon courage, distinguished him upon many occasions; and the happy conclusion of a controversy with some heretics is generally ascribed to his piety and prudence. In the year 258, Marcianus, who had the management of the Roman government, procured an order from the emperor Valerian, to put to death all the christian clergy in Rome, and hence the bishop with six of his deacons, suffered martyrdom in 258. Laurentius, generally called St. Laurence, the principal of the deacons, who taught and preached under Sextus, followed him to the place of execution; when Sextus predicted, that he should, three days after, meet him in heaven. Laurentius, looking upon this as a certain indication of his own approaching martyrdom, at his return gathered together all the christian poor, and distributed the treasures of the church, which had been committed to his care, among them. This liberality alarmed the persecutors, who commanded him to give an immediate account to the emperor of the church treasures. This he promised to do in three days, during which interval, he collected together a great number of aged, helpless, and impotent poor; he repaired to the magistrate, and presenting them to him, said, "These are the true treasures of the church." Incensed at the disappointment, and fancying the matter meant in ridicule, the governor ordered him to be immediately scourged. He was then beaten with iron rods, set upon a wooden horse, and had his limbs dislocated. These tortures he endured with fortitude and perseverance; when he was ordered to be fastened to a large gridiron, with a slow fire under it, that his death might be the more lingering. His astonishing constancy during these trials, and serenity of countenance while under such excruciating torments, gave the spectators so exalted an idea of the dignity and truth of the christian religion, that many became converts upon the occasion, of whom was Romanus, a soldier. In Africa the persecution raged with peculiar violence; many thousands received the crown of martyrdom, among whom the following were the most distinguished characters: Cyprian, bishop of Carthage, an eminent prelate, and a pious ornament of the church. The brightness of his genius was tempered by the solidity of his judgment; and with all the accomplishments of the gentleman, he blended the virtues of a christian. His doctrines were orthodox and pure; his language easy and elegant; and his manners graceful and winning: in fine, he was both the pious and polite preacher. In his youth he was educated in the principles of Gentilism, and having a considerable fortune, he lived in the very extravagance of splendour, and all the dignity of pomp. About the year 246, Coecilius, a christian minister of Carthage became the happy instrument of Cyprian's conversion: on which account, and for the great love that he always afterward bore for the author of his conversion, he was termed Coecilius Cyprian. Previous to his baptism, he studied the scriptures with care, and being struck with the beauties of the truths they contained, he determined to practise the virtues therein recommended. Subsequent to his baptism, he sold his estate, distributed the money among the poor, dressed himself in plain attire, and commenced a life of austerity. He was soon after made a presbyter; and, being greatly admired for his virtues and works, on the death of Donatus, in A. D. 248, he was almost unanimously elected bishop of Carthage. Cyprian's care not only extended over Carthage, but to Numidia and Mauritania. In all his transactions he took great care to ask the advice of his clergy, knowing, that unanimity alone could be of service to the church, this being one of his maxims, "That the bishop was in the church, and the church in the bishop; so that unity can only be preserved by a close connexion between the pastor and his flock." A. D. 250, Cyprian was publicly proscribed by the emperor Decius, under the appellation of Coecilius Cyprian, bishop of the christians; and the universal cry of the pagans was, "Cyprian to the lions, Cyprian to the beasts." The bishop, however, withdrew from the rage of the populace, and his effects were immediately confiscated. During his retirement, he wrote thirty pious and elegant letters to his flock; but several schisms that then crept into the church, gave him great uneasiness. The rigour of the persecution abating, he returned to Carthage, and did every thing in his power to expunge erroneous opinions. A terrible plague breaking out in Carthage, it was as usual, laid to the charge of the christians; and the magistrates began to persecute accordingly, which occasioned an epistle from them to Cyprian, in answer to which he vindicates the cause of christianity. A. D. 257, Cyprian was brought before the proconsul Aspasius Paturnus, who exiled him to a little city on the Lybian sea. On the death of this proconsul, he returned to Carthage, but was soon after seized, and carried before the now governor, who condemned him to be beheaded; which sentence was executed on the 14th of September, A. D. 258. The disciples of Cyprian, martyred in this persecution, were Lucius, Flavian, Victoricus, Remus, Montanus, Julian, Primelus, and Donatian. At Utica, a most terrible tragedy was exhibited: 300 christians were, by the orders of the proconsul, placed round a burning limekiln. A pan of coals and incense being prepared, they were commanded either to sacrifice to Jupiter, or to be thrown into the kiln. Unanimously refusing, they bravely jumped into the pit, and were immediately suffocated. Fructuosus, bishop of Tarragon, in Spain, and his two deacons, Augurius and Eulogius, were burnt for being christians. Alexander, Malchus, and Priscus, three christians of Palestine, with a woman of the same place, voluntarily accused themselves of being christians; on which account they were sentenced to be devoured by tigers, which sentence was executed accordingly. Maxima, Donatilla, and Secunda, three virgins of Tuburga, had gall and vinegar given them to drink, were then severely scourged, tormented on a gibbet, rubbed with lime, scorched on a gridiron, worried by wild beasts, and at length beheaded. It is here proper to take notice of the singular but miserable fate of the emperor Valerian, who had so long and so terribly persecuted the christians. This tyrant, by a stratagem, was taken prisoner by Sapor, emperor of Persia, who carried him into his own country, and there treated him with the most unexampled indignity, making him kneel down as the meanest slave, and treading upon him as a footstool when he mounted his horse. After having kept him for the space of seven years in this abject state of slavery, he caused his eyes to be put out, though he was then 83 years of age. This not satiating his desire of revenge, he soon after ordered his body to be flayed alive, and rubbed with salt, under which torments he expired; and thus fell one of the most tyrannical emperors of Rome, and one of the greatest persecutors of the christians. A. D. 260, Gallienus, the son of Valerian, succeeded him, and during his reign (a few martyrs excepted) the church enjoyed peace for some years. _The Ninth Persecution under Aurelian, A. D. 274._ The principal sufferers were, Felix, bishop of Rome. This prelate was advanced to the Roman see in 274. He was the first martyr to Aurelian's petulancy, being beheaded on the 22d of December, in the same year. Agapetus, a young gentleman, who sold his estate, and gave the money to the poor, was seized as a christian, tortured, and then beheaded at Præneste, a city within a day's journey of Rome. These are the only martyrs left upon record during this reign, as it was soon put a stop to by the emperor's being murdered by his own domestics, at Byzantium. Aurelian was succeeded by Tacitus, who was followed by Probus, as the latter was by Carus: this emperor being killed by a thunder storm, his sons, Carnious and Numerian, succeeded him, and during all these reigns the church had peace. Diocletian mounted the imperial throne, A. D. 284; at first he showed great favour to the christians. In the year 286, he associated Maximian with him in the empire; and some christians were put to death before any general persecution broke out. Among these were Felician and Primus, two brothers. Marcus and Marcellianus were twins, natives of Rome, and of noble descent. Their parents were heathens, but the tutors, to whom the education of the children was intrusted, brought them up as christians. Their constancy at length subdued those who wished them to become pagans, and their parents and whole family became converts to a faith they had before reprobated. They were martyred by being tied to posts, and having their feet pierced with nails. After remaining in this situation for a day and a night, their sufferings were put an end to by thrusting lances through their bodies. Zoe, the wife of the jailer, who had the care of the before-mentioned martyrs, was also converted by them, and hung upon a tree, with a fire of straw lighted under her. When her body was taken down, it was thrown into a river, with a large stone tied to it, in order to sink it. In the year of Christ 286, a most remarkable affair occurred; a legion of soldiers, consisting of 6666 men, contained none but christians. This legion was called the Theban Legion, because the men had been raised in Thebias: they were quartered in the east till the emperor Maximian ordered them to march to Gaul, to assist him against the rebels of Burgundy. They passed the Alps into Gaul, under the command of Mauritius, Candidus, and Exupernis, their worthy commanders, and at length joined the emperor. Maximian, about this time, ordered a general sacrifice, at which the whole army was to assist; and likewise he commanded, that they should take the oath of allegiance and swear, at the same time, to assist in the extirpation of christianity in Gaul. Alarmed at these orders, each individual of the Theban Legion absolutely refused either to sacrifice or take the oaths prescribed. This so greatly enraged Maximian, that he ordered the legion to be decimated, that is, every tenth man to be selected from the rest, and put to the sword. This bloody order having been put in execution, those who remained alive were still inflexible, when a second decimation took place, and every tenth man of those living were put to death. This second severity made no more impression than the first had done; the soldiers preserved their fortitude and their principles, but by the advice of their officers they drew up a loyal remonstrance to the emperor. This, it might have been presumed, would have softened the emperor, but it had a contrary effect: for, enraged at their perseverance and unanimity, he commanded, that the whole legion should be put to death, which was accordingly executed by the other troops, who cut them to pieces with their swords, 22d Sept. 286. Alban, from whom St. Alban's, in Hertfordshire, received its name, was the first British martyr. Great Britain had received the gospel of Christ from Lucius, the first christian king, but did not suffer from the rage of persecution for many years after. He was originally a pagan, but converted by a christian ecclesiastic, named Amphibalus, whom he sheltered on account of his religion. The enemies of Amphibalus, having intelligence of the place where he was secreted, came to the house of Alban; in order to facilitate his escape, when the soldiers came, he offered himself up as the person they were seeking for. The deceit being detected, the governor ordered him to be scourged, and then he was sentenced to be beheaded, June 22, A. D. 287. The venerable Bede assures us, that, upon this occasion, the executioner suddenly became a convert to christianity, and entreated permission to die for Alban, or with him. Obtaining the latter request, they were beheaded by a soldier, who voluntarily undertook the task of executioner. This happened on the 22d of June, A. D. 287, at Verulam, now St. Albans, in Hertfordshire, where a magnificent church was erected to his memory about the time of Constantine the Great. This edifice, being destroyed in the Saxon wars, was rebuilt by Offa, king of Mercia, and a monastery erected adjoining to it, some remains of which are still visible, and the church is a noble Gothic structure. Faith, a christian female, of Acquitain, in France, was ordered to be broiled upon a gridiron, and then beheaded; A. D. 287. Quintin was a christian, and a native of Rome, but determined to attempt the propagation of the gospel in Gaul, with one Lucian, they preached together in Amiens; after which Lucian went to Beaumaris, where he was martyred. Quintin remained in Picardy, and was very zealous in his ministry. Being seized upon as a christian, he was stretched with pullies till his joints were dislocated: his body was then torn with wire scourges, and boiling oil and pitch poured on his naked flesh; lighted torches were applied to his sides and armpits; and after he had been thus tortured, he was remanded back to prison, and died of the barbarities he had suffered, October 31, A. D. 287. His body was sunk in the Somme. _The Tenth Persecution under Diocletian, A. D. 303_, Under the Roman Emperors, commonly called the Era of the Martyrs, was occasioned partly by the increasing numbers and luxury of the christians, and the hatred of Galerius, the adopted son of Diocletian, who, being stimulated by his mother, a bigoted pagan, never ceased persuading the emperor to enter upon the persecution, till he had accomplished his purpose. The fatal day fixed upon to commence the bloody work, was the 23d of February, A. D. 303, that being the day in which the Terminalia were celebrated, and on which, as the cruel pagans boasted, they hoped to put a termination to christianity. On the appointed day, the persecution began in Nicomedia, on the morning of which the prefect of that city repaired, with a great number of officers and assistants, to the church of the christians, where, having forced open the doors, they seized upon all the sacred books, and committed them to the flames. The whole of this transaction was in the presence of Diocletian and Galerius, who, not contented with burning the books, had the church levelled with the ground. This was followed by a severe edict, commanding the destruction of all other christian churches and books; and an order soon succeeded, to render christians of all denominations outlaws. The publication of this edict occasioned an immediate martyrdom for a bold christian not only tore it down from the place to which it was affixed, but execrated the name of the emperor for his injustice. A provocation like this was sufficient to call down pagan vengeance upon his head; he was accordingly seized, severely tortured, and then burned alive. All the christians were apprehended and imprisoned; and Galerius privately ordered the imperial palace to be set on fire, that the christians might be charged as the incendiaries, and a plausible pretence given for carrying on the persecution with the greatest severities. A general sacrifice was commenced, which occasioned various martyrdoms. No distinction was made of age or sex; the name of Christian was so obnoxious to the pagans, that all indiscriminately fell sacrifices to their opinions. Many houses were set on fire, and whole christian families perished in the flames; and others had stones fastened about their necks, and being tied together were driven into the sea. The persecution became general in all the Roman provinces, but more particularly in the east; and as it lasted ten years, it is impossible to ascertain the numbers martyred, or to enumerate the various modes of martyrdom. Racks, scourges, swords, daggers, crosses, poison, and famine, were made use of in various parts to despatch the christians; and invention was exhausted to devise tortures against such as had no crime, but thinking differently from the votaries of superstition. A city of Phrygia, consisting entirely of christians, was burnt, and all the inhabitants perished in the flames. Tired with slaughter, at length, several governors of provinces represented to the imperial court, the impropriety of such conduct. Hence many were respited from execution, but, though they were not put to death, as much as possible was done to render their lives miserable, many of them having their ears cut off, their noses slit, their right eyes put out, their limbs rendered useless by dreadful dislocations, and their flesh seared in conspicuous places with red-hot irons. It is necessary now to particularize the most conspicuous persons who laid down their lives in martyrdom in this bloody persecution. Sebastian, a celebrated martyr, was born at Narbonne, in Gaul, instructed in the principles of christianity at Milan, and afterward became an officer of the emperor's guard at Rome. He remained a true christian in the midst of idolatry; unallured by the splendours of a court, untainted by evil examples, and uncontaminated by the hopes of preferment. Refusing to be a pagan, the emperor ordered him to be taken to a field near the city, termed the Campus Martius, and there to be shot to death with arrows; which sentence was executed accordingly. Some pious christians coming to the place of execution, in order to give his body burial, perceived signs of life in him, and immediately moving him to a place of security, they, in a short time effected his recovery, and prepared him for a second martyrdom; for, as soon as he was able to go out, he placed himself intentionally in the emperor's way as he was going to the temple, and reprehended him for his various cruelties and unreasonable prejudices against christianity. As soon as Diocletian had overcome his surprise, he ordered Sebastian to be seized, and carried to a place near the palace, and beaten to death; and, that the christians should not either use means again to recover or bury his body, he ordered that it should be thrown into the common sewer. Nevertheless, a christian lady, named Lucina, found means to remove it from the sewer, and bury it in the catacombs, or repositories of the dead. The christians, about this time, upon mature consideration, thought it unlawful to bear arms under a heathen emperor. Maximilian, the son of Fabius Victor, was the first beheaded under this regulation. Vitus, a Sicilian of considerable family, was brought up a christian; when his virtues increased with his years, his constancy supported him under all afflictions, and his faith was superior to the most dangerous perils. His father, Hylas, who was a pagan, finding that he had been instructed in the principles of christianity by the nurse who brought him up, used all his endeavours to bring him back to paganism and at length sacrificed his son to the idols, June 14, A. D. 303. Victor was a Christian of a good family at Marseilles, in France; he spent a great part of the night in visiting the afflicted, and confirming the weak; which pious work he could not, consistently with his own safety, perform in the daytime; and his fortune he spent in relieving the distresses of poor christians. He was at length, however, seized by the emperor's Maximian's decree, who ordered him to be bound, and dragged through the streets. During the execution of this order, he was treated with all manner of cruelties and indignities by the enraged populace. Remaining still inflexible, his courage was deemed obstinacy. Being by order stretched upon the rack, he turned his eyes towards heaven, and prayed to God to endue him with patience, after which he underwent the tortures with most admirable fortitude. After the executioners were tired with inflicting torments on him, he was conveyed to a dungeon. In his confinement, he converted his jailers, named Alexander, Felician, and Longinus. This affair coming to the ears of the emperor, he ordered them immediately to be put to death, and the jailers were accordingly beheaded. Victor was then again put to the rack, unmercifully beaten with batons, and again sent to prison. Being a third time examined concerning his religion, he persevered in his principles; a small altar was then brought, and he was commanded to offer incense upon it immediately. Fired with indignation at the request, he boldly stepped forward, and with his foot overthrew both altar and idol. This so enraged the emperor Maximian, who was present, that he ordered the foot with which he had kicked the altar to be immediately cut off; and Victor was thrown into a mill, and crushed to pieces with the stones, A. D. 303. Maximus, governor of Cilicia, being at Tarsus, three christians were brought before him; their names were Tarachus, an aged man; Probus, and Andronicus. After repeated tortures and exhortations to recant, they, at length, were ordered for execution. Being brought to the amphitheatre, several beasts were let loose upon them; but none of the animals, though hungry, would touch them. The keeper then brought out a large bear, that had that very day destroyed three men; but this voracious creature and a fierce lioness both refused to touch the prisoners. Finding the design of destroying them by the means of wild beasts ineffectual, Maximus ordered them to be slain by the sword, on the 11th of October, A. D. 303. Romanus, a native of Palestine, was deacon of the church of Cæsarea, at the time of the commencement of Diocletian's persecution. Being condemned for his faith at Antioch, he was scourged, put to the rack, his body torn with hooks, his flesh cut with knives, his face scarified, his teeth beaten from their sockets, and his hair plucked up by the roots. Soon after he was ordered to be strangled, Nov. 17, A. D. 303. Susanna, the niece of Caius, bishop of Rome, was pressed by the emperor Diocletian to marry a noble pagan, who was nearly related to him. Refusing the honour intended her, she was beheaded by the emperor's order. Dorotheus, the high chamberlain of the household to Diocletian, was a christian, and took great pains to make converts. In his religious labours, he was joined by Gorgonius, another christian, and one belonging to the palace. They were first tortured and then strangled. Peter, a eunuch belonging to the emperor, was a christian of singular modesty and humility. He was laid on a gridiron, and broiled over a slow fire till he expired. Cyprian, known by the title of the magician, to distinguish him from Cyprian, bishop of Carthage, was a native of Antioch. He received a liberal education in his youth, and particularly applied himself to astrology; after which he travelled for improvement through Greece, Egypt, India, &c. In the course of time he became acquainted with Justina, a young lady of Antioch, whose birth, beauty, and accomplishments, rendered her the admiration of all who knew her. A pagan gentleman applied to Cyprian, to promote his suit with the beautiful Justina; this he undertook, but soon himself became converted, burnt his books of astrology and magic, received baptism, and felt animated with a powerful spirit of grace. The conversion of Cyprian had a great effect on the pagan gentleman who paid his addresses to Justina, and he in a short time embraced christianity. During the persecution of Diocletian, Cyprian and Justina were seized upon as christians, when the former was torn with pincers, and the later chastised and, after suffering other torments, were beheaded. Eulalia, a Spanish lady of a christian family, was remarkable in her youth for sweetness of temper, and solidity of understanding seldom found in the capriciousness of juvenile years. Being apprehended as a christian, the magistrate attempted by the mildest means, to bring her over to paganism, but she ridiculed the pagan deities with such asperity, that the judge, incensed at her behaviour, ordered her to be tortured. Her sides were accordingly torn by hooks, and her breasts burnt in the most shocking manner, till she expired by the violence of the flames, Dec. A. D. 303. In the year 304, when the persecution reached Spain, Dacian, the governor of Terragona ordered Valerius the bishop, and Vincent the deacon, to be seized, loaded with irons, and imprisoned. The prisoners being firm in their resolution, Valerius was banished, and Vincent was racked, and his limbs dislocated, his flesh torn with hooks, and was laid on a gridiron, which had not only a fire placed under it, but spikes at the top, which ran into his flesh. These torments neither destroying him, nor changing his resolutions, he was remanded to prison, and confined in a small, loathsome, dark dungeon, strewed with sharp flints, and pieces of broken glass, where he died, Jan. 22, 304.--His body was thrown into the river. The persecution of Diocletian began particularly to rage in A. D. 304, when many christians were put to cruel tortures, and the most painful and ignominious deaths; the most eminent and particular of whom we shall enumerate. Saturninus, a priest of Albitina, a town of Africa, after being tortured, was remanded to prison, and there starved to death. His four children, after being variously tormented, shared the same fate with their father. Dativas, a noble Roman senator; Thelico, a pious Christian, Victoria, a young lady of considerable family and fortune, with some others of less consideration, all auditors of Saturninus, were tortured in a similar manner, and perished by the same means. Agrape, Chioma, and Irene, three sisters, were seized upon at Thessalonica, when Diocletian's persecution reached Greece. They were burnt, and received the crown of martyrdom in the flames, March 25, A. D. 304. The governor, finding that he could make no impression on Irene, ordered her to be exposed naked in the streets, which shameful order having been executed, she was burnt, April 1, A. D. 304, at the same place where her sisters suffered. Agatho, a man of a pious turn of mind, with Cassice, Phillippa, and Eutychia, were martyred about the same time; but the particulars have not been transmitted to us. Marcellinus, bishop of Rome, who succeeded Caius in that see, having strongly opposed paying divine honours to Diocletian, suffered martyrdom, by a variety of tortures, in the year 321, comforting his soul till he expired with the prospect of those glorious rewards it would receive by the tortures suffered in the body. Victorius, Carpophorus, Severus, and Severianus, were brothers, and all four employed in places of great trust and honour in the city of Rome. Having exclaimed against the worship of idols, they were apprehended, and scourged, with the plumbetæ, or scourges, to the ends of which were fastened leaden balls. This punishment was exercised with such excess of cruelty, that the pious brothers fell martyrs to its severity. Timothy, a deacon of Mauritania, and Maura his wife, had not been united together by the bands of wedlock above three weeks, when they were separated from each other by the persecution.--Timothy, being apprehended as a christian, was carried before Arrianus, the governor of Thebais, who, knowing that he had the keeping of the Holy Scriptures, commanded him to deliver them up to be burnt; to which he answered, "Had I children, I would sooner deliver them up to be sacrificed, than part with the word of God." The governor being much incensed at this reply, ordered his eyes to be put out with red-hot irons, saying "The books shall at least be useless to you, for you shall not see to read them." His patience under the operation was so great, that the governor grew more exasperated; he, therefore, in order, if possible, to overcome his fortitude, ordered him to be hung up by the feet, with a weight tied about his neck, and a gag in his mouth. In this state, Maura, his wife, tenderly urged him for her sake to recant; but, when the gag was taken out of his mouth, instead of consenting to his wife's entreaties, he greatly blamed her mistaken love, and declared his resolution of dying for the faith. The consequence was, that Maura resolved to imitate his courage and fidelity and either to accompany or follow him to glory. The governor, after trying in vain to alter her resolution, ordered her to be tortured which was executed with great severity. After this, Timothy and Maura were crucified near each other, A. D. 304. Sabinus, bishop of Assisium, refusing to sacrifice to Jupiter, and pushing the idol from him, had his hand cut off by the order of the governor of Tuscany. While in prison, he converted the governor and his family, all of whom suffered martyrdom for the faith. Soon after their execution, Sabinus himself was scourged to death. Dec.. A. D. 304. Tired with the farce of state and public business, the emperor Diocletian resigned the imperial diadem, and was succeeded by Constantius and Galerius; the former a prince of the most mild and humane disposition and the latter equally remarkable for his cruelty and tyranny. These divided the empire into two equal governments, Galerius ruling in the east, and Constantius in the west; and the people in the two governments felt the effects of the dispositions of the two emperors; for those in the west were governed in the mildest manner, but such as resided in the east, felt all then miseries of oppression and lengthened tortures. Among the many martyred by the order of Galerius, we shall enumerate the most eminent. Amphianus was a gentleman of eminence in Lucia, and a scholar of Eusebius; Julitta, a Lycaonian of royal descent, but more celebrated for her virtues than noble blood. While on the rack, her child was killed before her face. Julitta, of Cappadocia, was a lady of distinguished capacity, great virtue, and uncommon courage.--To complete the execution, Julitta had boiling pitch poured on her feet, her sides torn with hooks, and received the conclusion of her martyrdom, by being beheaded, April 16, A. D. 305. Hermolaus, a venerable and pious christian, of a great age, and an intimate acquaintance of Panteleon's, suffered martyrdom for the faith on the same day, and in the same manner as Panteleon. Eustratius, secretary to the governor of Armina, was thrown into a fiery furnace, for exhorting some christians who had been apprehended, to persevere in their faith. Nicander and Marcian, two eminent Roman military officers, were apprehended on account of their faith. As they were both men of great abilities in their profession, the utmost means were used to induce them to renounce christianity: but these endeavours being found ineffectual, they were beheaded. In the kingdom of Naples, several martyrdoms took place, in particular, Januaries, bishop of Beneventum; Sosius, deacon of Misene Proculus, another deacon; Eutyches and Acutius, two laymen: Festus, a deacon; and Desiderius, a reader; were all, on account of being christians, condemned by the governor of Campania, to be devoured by the wild beasts. The savage animals, however, not touching them, they were beheaded. Quirinus, bishop of Siscia, being carried before Matenius, the governor, was ordered to sacrifice to the pagan deities, agreeably to the edicts of various Roman emperors. The governor, perceiving his constancy, sent him to jail, and ordered him to be heavily ironed; flattering himself, that the hardships of a jail, some occasional tortures and the weight of chains, might overcome his resolution. Being decided in his principles, he was sent to Amantius, the principal governor of Pannonia, now Hungary, who loaded him with chains, and carried him through the principal towns of the Danube, exposing him to ridicule wherever he went. Arriving at length at Sabaria, and finding that Quirinus would not renounce his faith, he ordered him to be cast into a river, with a stone fastened about his neck. This sentence being put into execution, Quirinus floated about for some time, and, exhorting the people in the most pious terms, concluded his admonitions with this prayer: "It is no new thing, O all-powerful Jesus, for thee to stop the course of rivers, or to cause a man to walk upon the water as thou didst thy servant Peter; the people have already seen the proof of thy power in me; grant me now to lay down my life for thy sake, O my God." On pronouncing the last words he immediately sank, and died, June 4, A. D. 308; his body was afterwards taken up, and buried by some pious christians. Pamphilus, a native of Phoenicia, of a considerable family, was a man of such extensive learning, that he was called a second Origen. He was received into the body of the clergy at Cæsarea, where he established a public library and spent his time in the practice of every christian virtue. He copied the greatest part of the works of Origen with his own hand, and, assisted by Eusebius, gave a correct copy of the Old Testament, which had suffered greatly by the ignorance or negligence of firmer transcribers. In the year 307, he was apprehended, and suffered torture and martyrdom. Marcellus, bishop of Rome, being banished on account of his faith, fell a martyr to the miseries he suffered in exile, 16th Jan. A. D. 310. Peter, the sixteenth bishop of Alexandria, was martyred Nov. 25, A. D. 311, by order of Maximus Cæsar, who reigned in the east. Agnes, a virgin of only thirteen years of age, was beheaded for being a christian; as was Serene, the empress of Diocletian. Valentine, a priest, suffered the same fate at Rome; and Erasmus, a bishop, was martyred in Campania. Soon after this the persecution abated in the middle parts of the empire, as well as in the west; and Providence at length began to manifest vengeance on the persecutors. Maximian endeavoured to corrupt his daughter Fausta to murder Constantine her husband; which she discovered, and Constantine forced him to choose his own death, when he preferred the ignominious death of hanging, after being an emperor near twenty years. Galerius was visited by an incurable and intolerable disease, which began with an ulcer in his secret parts and a fistula in ano, that spread progressively to his inmost bowels, and baffled all the skill of physicians and surgeons. Untried medicines of some daring professors drove the evil through his bones to the very marrow, and worms began to breed in his entrails; and the stench was so preponderant as to be perceived in the city; all the passages separating the passages of the urine, and excrements being corroded and destroyed. The whole mass of his body was turned unto universal rottenness; and, though living creatures, and boiled animals, were applied with the design of drawing out the vermin by the heat, by which a vast hive was opened, a second imposthume discovered a more prodigious swarm, as if his whole body was resolved into worms. By a dropsy also his body was grossly disfigured; for although his upper parts were exhausted, and dried to a skeleton, covered only with dead skin; the lower parts were swelled up like bladders, and the shape of his feet could scarcely be perceived. Torments and pains insupportable, greater than those he had inflicted upon the christians, accompanied these visitations, and he bellowed out like a wounded bull, often endeavouring to kill himself and destroying several physicians for the inefficacy of their medicines. These torments kept him in a languishing state a full year, and his conscience was awakened, at length, so that he was compelled to acknowledge the God of the christians, and to promise, in the intervals of his paroxysms, that he would rebuild the churches, and repair the mischief done to them. An edict in his last agonies, was published in his name, and the joint names of Constantine and Licinius, to permit the christians to have the free use of religion, and to supplicate their God for his health and the good of the empire; on which many prisoners in Nicomedia were liberated, and amongst others Donatus. At length, Constantine the Great, determined to redress the grievances of the christians, for which purpose he raised an army of 30,000 foot, and 8000 horse, which he marched towards Rome against Maxentius, the emperor; defeated him, and entered the city of Rome in triumph. A law was now published in favour of the christians, in which Licinius was joined by Constantine, and a copy of it was sent to Maximus in the east. Maximus, who was a bigoted pagan, greatly disliked the edict, but being afraid of Constantine, did not openly avow his disapprobation. Maximus at length invaded the territories of Licinius, but, being defeated, put an end to his life by poison. Licinius afterwards persecuting the christians, Constantine the Great marched against him, and defeated him: he was afterwards slain by his own soldiers. We shall conclude our account of the tenth and last general persecution with the death of St. George, the titular saint and patron of England. St. George was born in Cappadocia, of christian parents; and giving proofs of his courage, was promoted in the army of the emperor Diocletian. During the persecution, St. George threw up his command, went boldly to the senate house, and avowed his being a christian, taking occasion at the same time to remonstrate against paganism, and point out the absurdity of worshipping idols. This freedom so greatly provoked the senate, that St. George was ordered to be tortured, and by the emperor's orders was dragged through the streets, and beheaded the next day. CHAPTER III. PERSECUTIONS OF THE CHRISTIANS IN PERSIA. The gospel having spread itself into Persia, the pagan priests, who worshipped the sun, were greatly alarmed, and dreaded the loss of that influence they had hitherto maintained over the people's minds and properties. Hence they thought it expedient to complain to the emperor, that the christians were enemies to the state, and held a treasonable correspondence with the Romans, the great enemies of Persia. The emperor Sapores, being naturally averse to christianity, easily believed what was said against the christians, and gave orders to persecute them in all parts of his empire. On account of this mandate, many eminent persons in the church and state fell martyrs to the ignorance and ferocity of the pagans. Constantine the Great being informed of the persecutions in Persia, wrote a long letter to the Persian monarch, in which he recounts the vengeance that had fallen on persecutors, and the great success that had attended those who had refrained from persecuting the christians. The persecution by this means ended during the life of Sapores; but it was again renewed under the lives of his successors. _Persecutions under the Arian Heretics._ The author of the Arian heresy was Arius, a native of Lybia, and a priest of Alexandria, who, in A. D. 318, began to publish his errors. He was condemned by a council of Lybian and Egyptian bishops, and that sentence was confirmed by the council of Nice, A. D. 325. After the death of Constantine the Great, the Arians found means to ingratiate themselves into the favour of the emperor Constantinus, his son and successor in the east; and hence a persecution was raised against the orthodox bishops and clergy. The celebrated Athanasius, and other bishops, were banished, and their sees filled with Arians. In Egypt and Lybia, thirty bishops were martyred, and many other christians cruelly tormented; and, A. D. 386, George, the Arian bishop of Alexandria, under the authority of the emperor, began a persecution in that city and its environs, and carried it on with the most infernal severity. He was assisted in his diabolical malice by Catophonius, governor of Egypt; Sebastian, general of the Egyptian forces; Faustinus the treasurer; and Herachus, a Roman officer. The persecution now raged in such a manner, that the clergy were driven from Alexandria, their churches were shut, and the severities practised by the Arian heretics were as great as those that had been practised by the pagan idolaters. If a man, accused of being a christian, made his escape, then his whole family were massacred, and his effects confiscated. _Persecution under Julian the Apostate._ This emperor was the son of Julius Constantius, and the nephew of Constantine the Great. He studied the rudiments of grammar under the inspection of Mardomus, a eunuch, and a heathen of Constantinople. His father sent him some time after to Nicomedia, to be instructed in the christian religion, by the bishop of Eusebius, his kinsman, but his principles were corrupted by the pernicious doctrines of Ecebolius the rhetorician, and Maximus the magician. Constantius dying in the year 361, Julian succeeded him, and had no sooner attained the imperial dignity, than he renounced Christianity and embraced paganism, which had for some years fallen into great disrepute. Though he restored the idolatrous worship, he made no public edicts against christianity. He recalled all banished pagans, allowed the free exercise of religion to every sect, but deprived all christians of offices at court, in the magistracy, or in the army. He was chaste, temperate, vigilant, laborious, and pious; yet he prohibited any christian from keeping a school or public seminary of learning, and deprived all the christian clergy of the privileges granted them by Constantine the Great. Bishop Basil made himself first famous by his opposition to Arianism, which brought upon him the vengeance of the Arian bishop of Constantinople; he equally opposed paganism. The emperor's agents in vain tampered with Basil by means of promises, threats, and racks, he was firm in the faith, and remained in prison to undergo some other sufferings, when the emperor came accidentally to Ancyra. Julian determined to examine Basil himself, when that holy man being brought before him, the emperor did every thing in his power to dissuade him from persevering in the faith. Basil not only continued as firm as ever, but, with a prophetic spirit foretold the death of the emperor, and that he should be tormented in the other life. Enraged at what he heard, Julian commanded that the body of Basil should be torn every day in seven different parts, till his skin and flesh were entirely mangled. This inhuman sentence was executed with rigour, and the martyr expired under its severities, on the 28th day of June, A. D. 362. Donatus, bishop of Arezzo, and Hilarinus, a hermit, suffered about the same time; also Gordian, a Roman magistrate. Artemius, commander in chief of the Roman forces in Egypt, being a christian, was deprived of his commission, then of his estate, and lastly of his head. The persecution raged dreadfully about the latter end of the year 363; but, as many of the particulars have not been handed down to us, it is necessary to remark in general, that in Palestine many were burnt alive, others were dragged by their feet through the streets naked till they expired; some were scalded to death, many stoned, and great numbers had their brains beaten out with clubs. In Alexandria, innumerable were the martyrs who suffered by the sword, burning, crucifixion, and being stoned. In Arethusa, several were ripped open, and corn being put into their bellies, swine were brought to feed therein, which, in devouring the grain, likewise devoured the entrails of the martyrs, and, in Thrace, Emilianus was burnt at a stake; and Domitius murdered in a cave, whither he had fled for refuge. The emperor, Julian the apostate, died of a wound which he received in his Persian expedition, A. D. 363, and even while expiring, uttered the most horrid blasphemies. He was succeeded by Jovian, who restored peace to the church. After the decease of Jovian, Valentinian succeeded to the empire, and associated to himself Valens, who had the command in the east, and was an Arian, of an unrelenting and persecuting disposition. _Persecution of the Christians by the Goths and Vandals._ Many Scythian Goths having embraced Christianity about the time of Constantine the Great, the light of the gospel spread itself considerably in Scythia, though the two kings who ruled that country, and the majority of the people continued pagans. Fritegern, king of the West Goths, was an ally to the Romans, but Athanarick, king of the East Goths, was at war with them. The christians, in the dominions of the former, lived unmolested, but the latter, having been defeated by the Romans, wreaked his vengeance on his christian subjects, commencing his pagan injunctions in the year 370. Eusebius, bishop of Samosata, makes a most distinguished figure in the ecclesiastical history, and was one of the most eminent champions of Christ against the Arian heresy. Eusebius, after being driven from his church, and wandering about through Syria and Palestine, encouraging the orthodox, was restored with other orthodox prelates to his see, which however he did not long enjoy, for an Arian woman threw a tile at him from the top of a house, which fractured his skull, and terminated his life in the year 380. The Vandals passing from Spain to Africa in the fifth century, under their leader Genseric, committed the most unheard-of cruelties. They persecuted the christians wherever they came, and even laid waste the country as they passed, that the christians left behind, who had escaped them, might not be able to subsist. Sometimes they freighted a vessel with martyrs, let it drift out to sea, or set fire to it, with the sufferers shackled on the decks. Having seized and plundered the city of Carthage, they put the bishop, and the clergy, into a leaky ship, and committed it to the mercy of the waves, thinking that they must all perish of course; but providentially the vessel arrived safe at Naples. Innumerable orthodox christians were beaten, scourged, and banished to Capsur, where it pleased God to make them the means of converting many of the Moors to christianity; but this coming to the ears of Genseric, he sent orders that they and their new converts should be tied by the feet to chariots, and dragged about until they were dashed to pieces Pampinian, the bishop of Mansuetes, was tortured to death with plates of hot iron; the bishop of Urice was burnt, and the bishop of Habensa was banished, for refusing to deliver up the sacred books which were in his possession. The Vandalian tyrant Genseric, having made an expedition into Italy, and plundered the city of Rome, returned to Africa, flushed with the success of his arms. The Arians took this occasion to persuade him to persecute the orthodox christians, as they assured him that they were friends to the people of Rome. After the decease of Huneric, his successor recalled him, and the rest of the orthodox clergy; the Arians, taking the alarm, persuaded him to banish them again, which he complied with, when Eugenius, exiled to Languedoc in France, died there of the hardships he underwent on the 6th of September, A. D. 305. _Persecutions from about the Middle of the Fifth, to the Conclusion of the Seventh Century._ Proterius was made a priest by Cyril, bishop of Alexandria, who was well acquainted with his virtues, before he appointed him to preach. On the death of Cyril, the see of Alexandria was filled by Discorus, an inveterate enemy to the memory and family of his predecessor. Being condemned by the council of Chalcedon for having embraced the errors of Eutyches, he was deposed, and Proterius chosen to fill the vacant see, who was approved of by the emperor. This occasioned a dangerous insurrection, for the city of Alexandria was divided into two factions; the one to espouse the cause of the old, and the other of the new prelate. In one of the commotions, the Eutychians determined to wreak their vengeance on Proterius, who fled to the church for sanctuary: but on Good Friday, A. D. 457, a large body of them rushed into the church, and barbarously murdered the prelate; after which they dragged the body through the streets, insulted it, cut it to pieces, burnt it, and scattered the ashes in the air. Hermenigildus, a Gothic prince, was the eldest son of Leovigildus, a king of the Goths, in Spain. This prince, who was originally an Arian, became a convert to the orthodox faith, by means of his wife Ingonda. When the king heard that his son had changed his religious sentiments, he stripped him of the command at Seville, where he was governor, and threatened to put him to death unless he renounced the faith he had newly embraced. The prince, in order to prevent the execution of his father's menaces, began to put himself into a posture of defence; and many of the orthodox persuasion in Spain declared for him. The king, exasperated at this act of rebellion, began to punish all the orthodox christians who could be seized by his troops; and thus a very severe persecution commenced: he likewise marched against his son at the head of a very powerful army. The prince took refuge in Seville, from which he fled, and was at length besieged and taken at Asieta. Loaded with chains, he was sent to Seville, and at the feast of Easter refusing to receive the Eucharist from an Arian bishop, the enraged king ordered his guards to cut the prince to pieces, which they punctually performed, April 13, A. D. 586. Martin, bishop of Rome, was born at Todi, in Italy. He was naturally inclined to virtue, and his parents bestowed on him an admirable education. He opposed the heretics called Monothothelites, who were patronized by the emperor Heraclius. Martin was condemned at Constantinople, where he was exposed in the most public places to the ridicule of the people, divested of all episcopal marks of distinction, and treated with the greatest scorn and severity. After lying some months in prison, Martin was sent to an island at some distance, and there cut to pieces, A. D. 655. John, bishop of Bergamo, in Lombardy, was a learned man, and a good christian. He did his utmost endeavours to clear the church from the errors of Arianism, and joining in this holy work with John, bishop of Milan, he was very successful against the heretics, on which account he was assassinated on July 11, A. D. 683. Killien was born in Ireland, and received from his parents a pious and christian education. He obtained the Roman pontiff's license to preach to the pagans in Franconia, in Germany. At Wurtzburg he converted Gozbert, the governor, whose example was followed by the greater part of the people in two years after. Persuading Gozbert that his marriage with his brother's widow was sinful, the latter had him beheaded, A. D. 689. _Persecutions from the early part of the Eighth, to near the Conclusion of the Tenth Century._ Boniface, archbishop of Mentz, and father of the German church, was an Englishmen, and is, in ecclesiastical history, looked upon as one of the brightest ornaments of this nation. Originally, his name was Winfred, or Winfrith, and he was born at Kirton, in Devonshire, then part of the West-Saxon kingdom. When he was only about six years of age, he began to discover a propensity to reflection, and seemed solicitous to gain information on religious subjects. Wolfrad, the abbot, finding that he possessed a bright genius, as well as a strong inclination to study, had him removed to Nutscelle, a seminary of learning in the diocese of Winchester, where he would have a much greater opportunity of attaining improvement than at Exeter. After due study, the abbot seeing him qualified for the priesthood, obliged him to receive that holy order when he was about thirty years old. From which time he began to preach and labour for the salvation of his fellow-creatures; he was released to attend a synod of bishops in the kingdom of West-Saxons. He afterwards, in 719, went to Rome, where Gregory II. who then sat in Peter's chair, received him with great friendship, and finding him full of all the virtues that compose the character of an apostolic missionary, dismissed him with commission at large to preach the gospel to the pagans wherever he found them. Passing through Lombardy and Bavaria, he came to Thuringia, which country had before received the light of the gospel, he next visited Utrecht, and then proceeded to Saxony, where he converted some thousands to christianity. During the ministry of this meek prelate, Pepin was declared king of France. It was that prince's ambition to be crowned by the most holy prelate he could find, and Boniface was pitched on to perform that ceremony, which he did at Soissons, in 752. The next year, his great age and many infirmities lay so heavy on him, that, with the consent of the new king, the bishops, &c. of his diocese, he consecrated Lullus, his countryman, and faithful disciple, and placed him in the see of Mentz. When he had thus eased himself of his charge, he recommended the church of Mentz to the care of the new bishop in very strong terms, desired he would finish the church at Fuld, and see him buried in it, for his end was near. Having left these orders, he took boat to the Rhine, and went to Friesland, where he converted and baptized several thousands of barbarous natives, demolished the temples, and raised churches on the ruins of those superstitious structures. A day being appointed for confirming a great number of new converts, he ordered them to assemble in a new open plain, near the river Bourde. Thither he repaired the day before; and, pitching a tent, determined to remain on the spot all night, in order to be ready early in the morning. Some pagans, who were his inveterate enemies, having intelligence of this, poured down upon him and the companions of his mission in the night, and killed him and fifty-two of his companions and attendants on June 5, A. D. 755. Thus fell the great father of the Germanic church, the honour of England, and the glory of the age in which he lived. Forty-two persons of Armorian in Upper Phrygia, were martyred in the year 845, by the Saracens, the circumstances of which transaction are as follows: In the reign of Theophilus, the Saracens ravaged many parts of the eastern empire, gained several considerable advantages over the christians, took the city of Armorian, and numbers suffered martyrdom. Flora and Mary, two ladies of distinction, suffered martyrdom at the same time. Perfectus was born at Corduba, in Spain, and brought up in the christian faith. Having a quick genius, he made himself master of all the useful and polite literature of that age; and at the same time was not more celebrated for his abilities than admired for his piety. At length he took priest's orders, and performed the duties of his office with great assiduity and punctuality. Publicly declaring Mahomet an impostor, he was sentenced to be beheaded, and was accordingly executed, A. D. 850; after which his body was honourably interred by the christians. Adalbert, bishop of Prague, a Bohemian by birth, after being involved in many troubles, began to direct his thoughts to the conversion of the infidels, to which end he repaired to Dantzic, where he converted and baptised many, which so enraged the pagan priests, that they fell upon him, and despatched him with darts, on the 23d of April, A. D. 997. _Persecutions in the Eleventh Century._ Alphage, archbishop of Canterbury, was descended from a considerable family in Gloucestershire, and received an education suitable to his illustrious birth. His parents were worthy christians, and Alphage seemed to inherit their virtues. The see of Winchester being vacant by the death of Ethelwold, Dunstan, archbishop of Canterbury, as primate of all England, consecrated Alphage to the vacant bishopric, to the general satisfaction of all concerned in the diocese. Dunstan had an extraordinary veneration for Alphage, and, when at the point of death, made it his ardent request to God, that he might succeed him in the see of Canterbury; which accordingly happened, though not till about eighteen years after Dunstan's death in 1006. After Alphage had governed the see of Canterbury about four years, with great reputation to himself, and benefit to his people, the Danes made an incursion into England, and laid siege to Canterbury. When the design of attacking this city was known, many of the principal people made a flight from it, and would have persuaded Alphage to follow their example. But he, like a good pastor, would not listen to such a proposal. While he was employed in assisting and encouraging the people, Canterbury was taken by storm; the enemy poured into the town, and destroyed all that came in their way by fire and sword. He had the courage to address the enemy, and offer himself to their swords, as more worthy of their rage than the people: he begged they might be saved, and that they would discharge their whole fury upon him. They accordingly seized him, tied his hands, insulted and abused him in a rude and barbarous manner, and obliged him to remain on the spot until his church was burnt, and the monks massacred. They then decimated all the inhabitants, both ecclesiastics and laymen, leaving only every tenth person alive; so that they put 7236 persons to death, and left only four monks and 800 laymen alive, after which they confined the archbishop in a dungeon, where they kept him close prisoner for several months. During his confinement they proposed to him to redeem his liberty with the sum of £3000, and to persuade the king to purchase their departure out of the kingdom, with a further sum of £10,000. As Alphage's circumstances would not allow him to satisfy the exorbitant demand, they bound him, and put him to severe torments, to oblige him to discover the treasure of the church; upon which they assured him of his life and liberty, but the prelate piously persisted in refusing to give the pagans any account of it. They remanded him to prison again, confined him six days longer, and then, taking him prisoner with them to Greenwich, brought him to trial there. He still remained inflexible with respect to the church treasure; but exhorted them to forsake their idolatry, and embrace christianity. This so greatly incensed the Danes, that the soldiers dragged him out of the camp, and beat him unmercifully. One of the soldiers, who had been converted by him, knowing that his pains would be lingering, as his death was determined on, actuated by a kind of barbarous compassion, cut off his head, and thus put the finishing stroke to his martyrdom, April 19, A. D. 1012. This transaction happened on the very spot where the church at Greenwich, which is dedicated to him, now stands. After his death his body was thrown into the Thames, but being found the next day, it was buried in the cathedral of St. Paul's by the bishops of London and Lincoln; from whence it was, in 1023, removed to Canterbury by Ethelmoth, the archbishop of that province. Gerard, a Venitian, devoted himself to the service of God from his tender years: entered into a religious house for some time, and then determined to visit the Holy Land. Going into Hungary, he became acquainted with Stephen, the king of that country, who made him bishop of Chonad. Ouvo and Peter, successors of Stephen, being deposed, Andrew, son of Ladislaus, cousin-german to Stephen, had then a tender of the crown made him upon condition that he would employ his authority in extirpating the christian religion out of Hungary. The ambitious prince came into the proposal, but Gerard being informed of his impious bargain, thought it his duty to remonstrate against the enormity of Andrew's crime, and persuade him to withdraw his promise. In this view he undertook to go to that prince, attended by three prelates, full of like zeal for religion. The new king was at Alba Regalis, but, as the four bishops were going to cross the Danube, they were stopped by a party of soldiers posted there. They bore an attack of a shower of stones patiently, when the soldiers beat them unmercifully, and at length despatched them with lances. Their martyrdoms happened in the year 1045. Stanislaus, bishop of Cracow, was descended from an illustrious Polish family. The piety of his parents was equal to their opulence, and the latter they rendered subservient to all the purposes of charity and benevolence. Stanislaus remained for some time undetermined, whether he should embrace a monastic life, or engage among the secular clergy. He was at length persuaded to the latter by Lambert Zula, bishop of Cracow, who gave him holy orders, and made him a canon of his cathedral. Lambert died on November 25, 1071, when all concerned in the choice of a successor declared for Stanislaus, and he succeeded to the prelacy. Bolislaus, the second king of Poland, had, by nature, many good qualities, but giving away to his passions he ran into many enormities, and at length had the appellation of Cruel bestowed upon him. Stanislaus alone had the courage to tell him of his faults, when, taking a private opportunity, he freely displayed to him the enormities of his crimes. The king, greatly exasperated at his repeated freedoms, at length determined, at any rate, to get the better of a prelate who was so extremely faithful. Hearing one day that the bishop was by himself, in the chapel of St. Michael, at a small distance from the town, he despatched some soldiers to murder him. The soldiers readily undertook the bloody task; but, when they came into the presence of Stanislaus, the venerable aspect of the prelate struck them with such awe, that they could not perform what they had promised. On their return, the king, finding that they had not obeyed his orders, stormed at them violently, snatched a dagger from one of them, and ran furiously to the chapel, where, finding Stanislaus at the altar, he plunged the weapon into his heart. The prelate immediately expired on the 8th of May, A. D. 1079. CHAPTER IV. PAPAL PERSECUTIONS. Thus far our history of persecution has been confined principally to the pagan world. We come now to a period, when persecution under the guise of christianity, committed more enormities than ever disgraced the annals of paganism. Disregarding the maxims and the spirit of the gospel, the papal church, arming herself with the power of the sword, vexed the church of God and wasted it for several centuries, a period most appropriately termed in history, the "dark ages." The kings of the earth, gave their power to the "beast," and submitted to be trodden on by the miserable vermin that often filled the papal chair, as in the case of Henry, emperor of Germany. The storm of papal persecution first burst upon the Waldenses in France. _Persecution of the Waldenses in France._ Popery having brought various innovations into the church, and overspread the christian world with darkness and superstition, some few, who plainly perceived the pernicious tendency of such errors, determined to show the light of the gospel in its real purity, and to disperse those clouds which artful priests had raised about it, in order to blind the people, and obscure its real brightness. The principal among these was Berengarius, who, about the year 1000, boldly preached gospel truths, according to their primitive purity. Many, from conviction, assented to his doctrine, and were, on that account, called Berengarians. To Berengarius succeeded Peter Bruis, who preached at Thoulouse, under the protection of an earl, named Hildephonsus; and the whole tenets of the reformers, with the reasons of their separation from the church of Rome, were published in a book written by Bruis, under the title of ANTI-CHRIST. By the year of Christ 1140, the number of the reformed was very great, and the probability of its increasing alarmed the pope, who wrote to several princes to banish them from their dominions, and employed many learned men to write against their doctrines. A. D. 1147, Henry of Thoulouse, being deemed their most eminent preacher, they were called Henericians; and as they would not admit of any proofs relative to religion, but what could be deduced from the scriptures themselves, the popish party gave them the name of apostolics. At length, Peter Waldo, or Valdo, a native of Lyons, eminent for his piety and learning, became a strenuous opposer of popery; and from him the reformed, at that time, received the appellation of Waldenses or Waldoys. Pope Alexander III being informed by the bishop of Lyons of these transactions, excommunicated Waldo and his adherents, and commanded the bishop to exterminate them, if possible, from the face of the earth; and hence began the papal persecutions against the Waldenses. The proceedings of Waldo and the reformed, occasioned the first rise of the inquisitors; for pope Innocent III. authorized certain monks as inquisitors, to inquire for, and deliver over, the reformed to the secular power. The process was short, as an accusation was deemed adequate to guilt, and a candid trial was never granted to the accused. The pope, finding that these cruel means had not the intended effect, sent several learned monks to preach among the Waldenses, and to endeavour to argue them out of their opinions. Among these monks was one Dominic, who appeared extremely zealous in the cause of popery. This Dominic instituted an order, which, from him, was called the order of Dominican friars; and the members of this order have ever since been the principal inquisitors in the various inquisitions in the world. The power of the inquisitors was unlimited; they proceeded against whom they pleased, without any consideration of age, sex, or rank. Let the accusers be ever so infamous, the accusation was deemed valid; and even anonymous informations, sent by letter, were thought sufficient evidence. To be rich was a crime equal to heresy; therefore many who had money were accused of heresy, or of being favourers of heretics, that they might be obliged to pay for their opinions. The dearest friends or nearest kindred could not, without danger, serve any one who was imprisoned on account of religion. To convey to those who were confined, a little straw, or give them a cup of water, was called favouring of the heretics, and they were prosecuted accordingly. No lawyer dared to plead for his own brother, and their malice even extended beyond the grave; hence the bones of many were dug up and burnt, as examples to the living. If a man on his death-bed was accused of being a follower of Waldo, his estates were confiscated, and the heir to them defrauded of his inheritance; and some were sent to the Holy Land, while the Dominicans took possession of their houses and properties, and, when the owners returned, would often pretend not to know them. These persecutions were continued for several centuries under different popes and other great dignitaries of the catholic church. _Persecutions of the Albigenses._ The Albigenses were a people of the reformed religion, who inhabited the country of Albi. They were condemned on the score of religion, in the council of Lateran, by order of Pope Alexander III. Nevertheless, they increased so prodigiously, that many cities were inhabited by persons only of their persuasion, and several eminent noblemen embraced their doctrines. Among the latter were Raymond earl of Thoulouse, Raymond earl of Foix, the earl of Beziers, &c. A friar, named Peter, having been murdered in the dominions of the earl of Thoulouse, the pope made the murder a pretence to persecute that nobleman and his subjects. To effect this, he sent persons throughout all Europe, in order to raise forces to act coercively against the Albigenses, and promised paradise to all that would come to this war, which he termed a Holy War, and bear arms for forty days. The same indulgences were likewise held out to all who entered themselves for the purpose as to such as engaged in crusades to the Holy Land. The brave earl defended Thoulouse and other places with the most heroic bravery and various success against the pope's legates and Simon earl of Montfort, a bigoted catholic nobleman. Unable to subdue the earl of Thoulouse openly, the king of France, and queen mother, and three archbishops, raised another formidable army, and had the art to persuade the earl of Thoulouse to come to a conference, when he was treacherously seized upon, made a prisoner, forced to appear bare-footed and bare-headed before his enemies, and compelled to subscribe an abject recantation. This was followed by a severe persecution against the Albigenses; and express orders that the laity should not be permitted to read the sacred scriptures. In the year 1620 also the persecution against the Albigenses was very severe. In 1648 a heavy persecution raged throughout Lithuania and Poland. The cruelty of the Cossacks was so excessive, that the Tartars themselves were ashamed of their barbarities. Among others who suffered, was the Rev. Adrian Chalinski, who was roasted alive by a slow fire, and whose sufferings and mode of death may depict the horrors which the professors of christianity have endured from the enemies of the Redeemer. The reformation of papistical error very early was projected in France; for in the third century a learned man, named Almericus, and six of his disciples, were ordered to be burnt at Paris, for asserting that God was no otherwise present in the sacramental bread than in any other bread; that it was idolatry to build altars or shrines to saints and that it was ridiculous to offer incense to them. The martyrdom of Almericus and his pupils did not, however, prevent many from acknowledging the justness of his notions, and seeing the purity of the reformed religion, so that the truth of Christ continually increased, and in time not only spread itself over many parts of France, but diffused the light of the gospel over various other countries. In the year 1524, at a town in France, called Melden, one John Clark set up a bill on the church door, wherein he called the pope Anti-christ. For this offence he was repeatedly whipped, and then branded on the forehead. Going afterward to Mentz, in Lorraine, he demolished some images, for which he had his right hand and nose cut off, and his arms and breasts torn with pincers. He sustained these cruelties with amazing fortitude, and was even sufficiently cool to sing the 115th psalm, which expressly forbids idolatry; after which he was thrown into the fire, and burnt to ashes. Many persons of the reformed persuasion were, about this time, beaten, racked, scourged, and burnt to death, in several parts of France but more particularly at Paris, Malda, and Limosin. A native of Malda was burnt by a slow fire, for saying that mass was a plain denial of the death and passion of Christ. At Limosin, John de Cadurco, a clergyman of the reformed religion, was apprehended, degraded, and ordered to be burnt. Francis Bribard, secretary to cardinal de Pellay, for speaking in favour of the reformed, had his tongue cut out, and was then burnt, A. D. 1545. James Cobard, a schoolmaster in the city of St. Michael, was burnt, A. D. 1545, for saying "That mass was useless and absurd;" and about the same time, fourteen men were burnt at Malda, their wives being compelled to stand by and behold the execution. A. D. 1546, Peter Chapot brought a number of bibles in the French tongue to France, and publicly sold them there; for which he was brought to trial, sentenced, and executed a few days afterward. Soon after, a cripple of Meaux, a schoolmaster of Fera, named Stephen Polliot, and a man named John English, were burnt for the faith. Monsieur Blondel, a rich jeweller, was, A. D. 1548, apprehended at Lyons, and sent to Paris; where he was burnt for the faith, by order of the court, A. D. 1549. Herbert, a youth of nineteen years of age, was committed to the flames at Dijon; as was Florent Venote, in the same year. In the year 1554, two men of the reformed religion, with the son and daughter of one of them, were apprehended and committed to the castle of Niverne. On examination, they confessed their faith, and were ordered for execution; being smeared with grease, brimstone, and gunpowder, they cried, "Salt on, salt on this sinful and rotten flesh!" Their tongues were then cut out, and they were afterward committed to the flames, which soon consumed them, by means of the combustible matter with which they were besmeared. _The Bartholomew Massacre at Paris, &c._ On the 22d of August, 1572, commenced this diabolical act of sanguinary brutality. It was intended to destroy at one stroke the root of the protestant tree, which had only before partially suffered in its branches. The king of France had artfully proposed a marriage between his sister and the prince of Navarre, the captain and prince of the protestants. This imprudent marriage was publicly celebrated at Paris, August 18, by the cardinal of Bourbon, upon a high stage erected for the purpose. They dined in great pomp with the bishop, and supped with the king at Paris. Four days after this, the prince, as he was coming from the council, was shot in both arms; he then said to Maure, his deceased mother's minister, "O my brother, I do now perceive that I am indeed beloved of my God, since for his most holy sake I am wounded." Although the Vidam advised him to fly, yet he abode in Paris, and was soon after slain by Bemjus; who afterward declared he never saw a man meet death more valiantly than the admiral. The soldiers were appointed at a certain signal to burst out instantly to the slaughter in all parts of the city. When they had killed the admiral, they threw him out at a window into the street, where his head was cut off, and sent to the pope. The savage papists, still raging against him, cut off his arms and private members, and, after dragging him three days through the streets, hung him up by the heels without the city. After him they slew many great and honourable persons who were protestants; as count Rochfoucault, Telinius, the admiral's son-in-law, Antonius, Clarimontus, marquis of Ravely, Lewes Bussius, Bandineus, Pluvialius, Burneius, &c. &c. and falling upon the common people, they continued the slaughter for many days; in the three first, they slew of all ranks and conditions to the number of 10,000. The bodies were thrown into the rivers, and blood ran through the streets with a strong current, and the river appeared presently like a stream of blood. So furious was their hellish rage, that they slew all papists whom they suspected to be not very staunch to their diabolical religion. From Paris the destruction spread to all quarters of the realm. At Orleans, a thousand were slain of men, women, and children, and 6000 at Rouen. At Meldith, two hundred were put into prison, and brought out by units, and cruelly murdered. At Lyons, eight hundred were massacred. Here children hanging about their parents, and parents affectionately embracing their children, were pleasant food for the swords and blood-thirsty minds of those who call themselves the catholic church. Here 300 were slain only in the bishop's house; and the impious monks would suffer none to be buried. At Augustobona, on the people hearing of the massacre at Paris, they shut their gates that no protestants might escape, and searching diligently for every individual of the reformed church, imprisoned and then barbarously murdered them. The same cruelty they practised at Avaricum, at Troys, at Thoulouse, Rouen and many other places, running from city to city, towns, and villages, through the kingdom. As a corroboration of this horrid carnage, the following interesting narrative, written by a sensible and learned Roman catholic, appears in this place, with peculiar propriety. "The nuptials (says he) of the young king of Navarre with the French king's sister, was solemnized with pomp; and all the endearments, all the assurances of friendship, all the oaths sacred among men, were profusely lavished by Catharine, the queen-mother, and by the king; during which, the rest of the court thought of nothing but festivities, plays, and masquerades. At last, at twelve o'clock at night, on the eve of St. Bartholomew, the signal was given. Immediately all the houses of the protestants were forced open at once. Admiral Coligni, alarmed by the uproar jumped out of bed; when a company of assassins rushed in his chamber. They were headed by one Besme, who had been bred up as a domestic in the family of the Guises. This wretch thrust his sword into the admiral's breast, and also cut him in the face. Besme was a German, and being afterwards taken by the protestants, the Rochellers would have bought him, in order to hang and quarter him; but he was killed by one Bretanville. Henry, the young duke of Guise, who afterwards framed the catholic league, and was murdered at Blois, standing at the door till the horrid butchery should be completed, called aloud, 'Besme! is it done?' Immediately after which, the ruffians threw the body out of the window, and Coligni expired at Guise's feet. "Count de Teligny also fell a sacrifice. He had married, about ten months before, Coligni's daughter. His countenance was so engaging, that the ruffians, when they advanced in order to kill him, were struck with compassion; but others, more barbarous, rushing forward, murdered him. "In the meantime, all the friends of Coligni were assassinated throughout Paris; men, women, and children, were promiscuously slaughtered; every street was strewed with expiring bodies. Some priests, holding up a crucifix in one hand, and a dagger in the other, ran to the chiefs of the murderers, and strongly exhorted them to spare neither relations nor friends. "Tavannes, marshal of France, an ignorant, superstitious soldier, who joined the fury of religion to the rage of party, rode on horseback through the streets of Paris, crying to his men, 'Let blood! let blood! bleeding is as wholesome in August as in May.' In the memoirs of the life of this enthusiastic, written by his son, we are told, that the father, being on his death-bed, and making a general confession of his actions, the priest said to him, with surprise, 'What! no mention of St. Bartholomew's massacre?' to which Tavannes replied, 'I consider it as a meritorious action, that will wash away all my sins.' Such horrid sentiments can a false spirit of religion inspire! "The king's palace was one of the chief scenes of the butchery: the king of Navarre had his lodgings in the Louvre, and all his domestics were protestants. Many of these were killed in bed with their wives; others, running away naked, were pursued by the soldiers through the several rooms of the palace, even to the king's antichamber. The young wife of Henry of Navarre, awaked by the dreadful uproar, being afraid for her consort, and for her own life, seized with horror, and half dead, flew from her bed, in order to throw herself at the feet of the king her brother. But scarce had she opened her chamber-door, when some of her protestant domestics rushed in for refuge. The soldiers immediately followed, pursued them in sight of the princess, and killed one who had crept under her bed. Two others, being wounded with halberds, fell at the queen's feet, so that she was covered with blood. "Count de la Rochefoucault, a young nobleman, greatly in the king's favour for his comely air, his politeness, and a certain peculiar happiness in the turn of his conversation, had spent the evening till eleven o'clock with the monarch, in pleasant familiarity; and had given a loose, with the utmost mirth, to the sallies of his imagination. The monarch felt some remorse, and being touched with a kind of compassion, bid him, two or three times, not to go home, but lie in the Louvre. The count said, he must go to his wife; upon which the king pressed him no farther, but said, 'Let him go! I see God has decreed his death.' And in two hours after he was murdered. "Very few of the protestants escaped the fury of their enthusiastic persecutors. Among these was young La Force (afterwards the famous Marshal de la Force) a child about ten years of age, whose deliverance was exceedingly remarkable. His father, his elder brother, and himself were seized together by the Duke of Anjou's soldiers. These murderers flew at all three, and struck them at random, when they all fell, and lay one upon another. The youngest did not receive a single blow, but appearing as if he was dead, escaped the next day; and his life, thus wonderfully preserved, lasted four score and five years. "Many of the wretched victims fled to the water-side, and some swam over the Seine to the suburbs of St. Germaine. The king saw them from his window, which looked upon the river, and fired upon them with a carbine that had been loaded for that purpose by one of his pages; while the queen-mother, undisturbed and serene in the midst of slaughter, looking down from a balcony, encouraged the murderers and laughed at the dying groans of the slaughtered. This barbarous queen was fired with a restless ambition, and she perpetually shifted her party in order to satiate it. "Some days after this horrid transaction, the French court endeavoured to palliate it by forms of law. They pretended to justify the massacre by a calumny, and accused the admiral of a conspiracy, which no one believed. The parliament was commanded to proceed against the memory of Coligni; and his dead body was hung in chains on Montfaucon gallows. The king himself went to view this shocking spectacle; when one of his courtiers advising him to retire, and complaining of the stench of the corpse, he replied, 'A dead enemy smells well.'--The massacres on St. Bartholomew's day are painted in the royal saloon of the Vatican at Rome, with the following inscription: _Pontifex_ Coligni _necem probat_, i. e. 'The pope approves of Coligni's death.' "The young king of Navarre was spared through policy, rather than from the pity of the queen-mother, she keeping him prisoner till the king's death, in order that he might be as a security and pledge for the submission of such protestants as might effect their escape. "This horrid butchery was not confined merely to the city of Paris. The like orders were issued from court to the governors of all the provinces in France; so that, in a week's time, about one hundred thousand protestants were cut to pieces in different parts of the kingdom! Two or three governors only refused to obey the king's orders. One of these, named Montmorrin, governor of Auvergne, wrote the king the following letter, which deserves to be transmitted to the latest posterity. "SIRE--I have received an order, under your majesty's seal, to put to death all the protestants in my province. I have too much respect for your majesty, not to believe the letter a forgery; but if (which God forbid) the order should be genuine, I have too much respect for your majesty to obey it." At Rome the horrid joy was so great, that they appointed a day of high festival, and a jubilee, with great indulgence to all who kept it and showed every expression of gladness they could devise! and the man who first carried the news received 1000 crowns of the cardinal of Lorrain for his ungodly message. The king also commanded the day to be kept with every demonstration of joy, concluding now that the whole race of Huguenots was extinct. Many who gave great sums of money for their ransom were immediately after slain; and several towns, which were under the king's promise of protection and safety, were cut off as soon as they delivered themselves up, on those promises, to his generals or captains. At Bordeaux, at the instigation of a villanous monk, who used to urge the papists to slaughter in his sermons, 264 were cruelly murdered; some of them senators. Another of the same pious fraternity produced a similar slaughter at Agendicum, in Maine, where the populace at the holy inquisitors' satanical suggestion, ran upon the protestants, slew them, plundered their houses, and pulled down their church. The duke of Guise, entering into Bloise, suffered his soldiers to fly upon the spoil, and slay or drown all the protestants they could find. In this they spared neither age nor sex; defiling the women, and then murdering them; from whence he went to Mere, and committed the same outrages for many days together. Here they found a minister named Cassebonius, and threw him into the river. At Anjou, they slew Albiacus, a minister; and many women were defiled and murdered there; among whom were two sisters, abused before their father, whom the assassins bound to a wall to see them, and then slew them and him. The president of Turin, after giving a large sum for his life, was cruelly beaten with clubs, stripped of his clothes, and hung feet upwards, with his head and breast in the river: before he was dead, they opened his belly, plucked out his entrails, and threw them into the river; and then carried his heart about the city upon a spear. At Barre great cruelty was used, even to young children, whom they cut open, pulled out their entrails, which through very rage they knawed with their teeth. Those who had fled to the castle, when they yielded, were almost all hanged. Thus they did at the city of Matiscon; counting it sport to cut off their arms and legs and afterward kill them; and for the entertainment of their visiters, they often threw the protestants from a high bridge into the river, saying, "Did you ever see men leap so well?" At Penna, after promising them safety, 300 were inhumanly butchered; and five and forty at Albin, on the Lord's day. At Nonne, though it yielded on conditions of safeguard, the most horrid spectacles were exhibited. Persons of both sexes and conditions were indiscriminately murdered; the streets ringing with doleful cries, and flowing with blood; and the houses flaming with fire, which the abandoned soldiers had thrown in. One woman, being dragged from her hiding place with her husband, was first abused by the brutal soldiers, and then with a sword which they commanded her to draw, they forced it while in her hands into the bowels of her husband. At Samarobridge, they murdered above 100 protestants, after promising them peace; and at Antisidor, 100 were killed, and cast part into a jakes, and part into a river. One hundred put into prison at Orleans, were destroyed by the furious multitude. The protestants at Rochelle, who were such as had miraculously escaped the rage of hell, and fled there, seeing how ill they fared who submitted to those holy devils, stood for their lives; and some other cities, encouraged thereby, did the like. Against Rochelle, the king sent almost the whole power of France, which besieged it seven months, though, by their assaults, they did very little execution on the inhabitants, yet, by famine, they destroyed eighteen thousand out of two and twenty. The dead being too numerous for the living to bury, became food for vermin and carnivorous birds. Many taking their coffins into the church yard, laid down in them, and breathed their last. Their diet had long been what the minds of those in plenty shudder at; even human flesh entrails, dung, and the most loathsome things, became at last the only food of those champions for that truth and liberty, of which the world was not worthy. At every attack, the besiegers met with such an intrepid reception, that they left 132 captains, with a proportionate number of men, dead in the field. The siege at last was broken up at the request of the duke of Anjou, the king's brother, who was proclaimed king of Poland, and the king, being wearied out, easily complied, whereupon honourable conditions were granted them. It is a remarkable interference of Providence, that, in all this dreadful massacre, not more than two ministers of the gospel were involved in it. The tragical sufferings of the protestants are too numerous to detail; but the treatment of Philip de Deux will give an idea of the rest. After the miscreants had slain this martyr in his bed, they went to his wife, who was then attended by the midwife, expecting every moment to be delivered. The midwife entreated them to stay the murder, at least till the child, which was the twentieth, should be born. Notwithstanding this, they thrust a dagger up to the hilt into the poor woman. Anxious to be delivered, she ran into a corn loft; but hither they pursued her, stabbed her in the belly, and then threw her into the street. By the fall, the child came from the dying mother, and being caught up by one of the catholic ruffians, he stabbed the infant, and then threw it into the river. _From the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, to the French Revolution in 1789._ The persecutions occasioned by the revocation of the edict of Nantes, took place under Louis XIV. This edict was made by Henry the Great of France in 1598, and secured to the protestants an equal right in every respect, whether civil or religious, with the other subjects of the realm. All those privileges Louis the XIII. confirmed to the protestants by another statute, called the edict of Nismes, and kept them inviolably to the end of his reign. On the accession of Louis XIV. the kingdom was almost ruined by civil wars. At this critical juncture, the protestants, heedless of our Lord's admonition, "They that take the sword, shall perish with the sword," took such an active part in favour of the king, that he was constrained to acknowledge himself indebted to their arms for his establishment on the throne. Instead of cherishing and rewarding that party who had fought for him, he reasoned, that the same power which had protected could overturn him, and, listening to the popish machinations, he began to issue out proscriptions and restrictions, indicative of his final determination. Rochelle was presently fettered with an incredible number of denunciations. Montaban and Millau were sacked by soldiers. Popish commissioners were appointed to preside over the affairs of the protestants, and there was no appeal from their ordinance, except to the king's council. This struck at the root of their civil and religious exercises, and prevented them, being protestants, from suing a catholic in any court of law. This was followed by another injunction, to make an inquiry in all parishes into whatever the protestants had said or done for twenty years past. This filled the prisons with innocent victims, and condemned others to the galleys or banishment. Protestants were expelled from all offices, trades, privileges and employs; thereby depriving them of the means of getting their bread: and they proceeded to such excess in their brutality, that they would not suffer even the midwives to officiate, but compelled their women to submit themselves in that crisis of nature to their enemies, the brutal catholics. Their children were taken from them to be educated by the catholics, and at seven years made to embrace popery. The reformed were prohibited from relieving their own sick or poor, from all private worship, and divine service was to be performed in the presence of a popish priest. To prevent the unfortunate victims from leaving the kingdom, all the passages on the frontiers were strictly guarded; yet, by the good hand of God, about 150,000 escaped their vigilance, and emigrated to different countries to relate the dismal narrative. All that has been related hitherto were only infringements on their established charter, the edict of Nantes. At length the diabolical revocation of that edict passed on the 18th of October, 1685, and was registered the 22d in the vacation, contrary to all form of law. Instantly the dragoons were quartered upon the protestants throughout the realm, and filled all France with the like news, that the king would no longer suffer any Huguenots in his kingdom, and therefore they must resolve to change their religion. Hereupon the intendants in every parish (which were popish governors and spies set over the protestants) assembled the reformed inhabitants, and told them, they must without delay turn catholics, either freely or by force. The protestants replied, "They were ready to sacrifice their lives and estates to the king, but their consciences being God's, they could not so dispose of them." Instantly the troops seized the gates and avenues of the cities, and placing guards in all the passages, entered with sword in hand, crying, "Die, or be catholics!" In short, they practised every wickedness and horror they could devise, to force them to change their religion. They hung both men and women by their hair or their feet, and smoked them with hay till they were nearly dead; and if they still refused to sign a recantation, they hung them up again and repeated their barbarities, till, wearied out with torments without death, they forced many to yield to them. Others, they plucked off all the hair of their heads and beards with pincers. Others they threw on great fires, and pulled them out again, repeating it till they extorted a promise to recant. Some they stripped naked, and after offering them the most infamous insults, they stuck them with pins from head to foot, and lanced them with penknives; and sometimes with red-hot pincers they dragged them by the nose till they promised to turn. Sometimes they tied fathers and husbands, while they ravished their wives and daughters before their eyes. Multitudes they imprisoned in the most noisome dungeons, where they practised all sorts of torments in secret. Their wives and children they shut up in monasteries. Such as endeavoured to escape by flight were pursued in the woods and hunted in the fields, and shot at like wild beasts; nor did any condition or quality screen them from the ferocity of these infernal dragoons: even the members of parliament and military officers, though on actual service, were ordered to quit their posts, and repair directly to their houses to suffer the like storm. Such as complained to the king were sent to the Bastile, where they drank of the same cup. The bishops and the intendants marched at the head of the dragoons, with a troop of missionaries, monks, and other ecclesiastics, to animate the soldiers to an execution so agreeable to their holy church, and so glorious to their demon god and their tyrant king. In forming the edict to repeal the edict of Nantes, the council were divided; some would have all the ministers detained and forced into popery as well as the laity: others were for banishing them, because their presence would strengthen the protestants in perseverance: and if they were forced to turn, they would ever be secret and powerful enemies in the bosom of the church, by their great knowledge and experience in controversial matters. This reason prevailing, they were sentenced to banishment, and only fifteen days allowed them to depart the kingdom. The same day the edict for revoking the protestant's charter was published, they demolished their churches, and banished their ministers, whom they allowed but twenty-four hours to leave Paris. The papists would not suffer them to dispose of their effects, and threw every obstacle in their way to delay their escape till the limited time was expired which subjected them to condemnation for life to the galleys. The guards were doubled at the seaports, and the prisons were filled with the victims, who endured torments and wants at which human nature must shudder. The sufferings of the ministers and others, who were sent to the galleys, seemed to exceed all. Chained to the oar, they were exposed to the open air night and day, at all seasons, and in all weathers; and when through weakness of body they fainted under the oar, instead of a cordial to revive them, or viands to refresh them, they received only the lashes of a scourge, or the blows of a cane or rope's end. For the want of sufficient clothing and necessary cleanliness, they were most grievously tormented with vermin, and cruelly pinched with the cold, which removed by night the executioners who beat and tormented them by day. Instead of a bed, they were allowed, sick or well, only a hard board, eighteen inches broad, to sleep on, without any covering but their wretched apparel; which was a shirt of the coarsest canvass, a little jerkin of red serge, slit up each side up to the arm-holes, with open sleeves that reached not to the elbow; and once in three years they had a coarse frock, and a little cap to cover their heads, which were always kept close shaved as a mark of their infamy. The allowance of provision was as narrow as the sentiments of those who condemned them to such miseries, and their treatment when sick is too shocking to relate, doomed to die upon the boards of a dark hold; covered with vermin, and without the least convenience for the calls of nature. Nor was it among the least of the horrors they endured, that, as ministers of Christ, and honest men, they were chained side by side to felons and the most execrable villains, whose blasphemous tongues were never idle. If they refused to hear mass, they were sentenced to the bastinado, of which dreadful punishment the following is a description. Preparatory to it, the chains are taken off, and the victims delivered into the hands of the Turks that preside at the oars, who strip them quite naked, and stretching them upon a great gun, they are held so that they cannot stir; during which there reigns an awful silence throughout the galley. The Turk who is appointed the executioner, and who thinks the sacrifice acceptable to his prophet Mahomet, most cruelly beats the wretched victim with a rough cudgel, or knotty rope's end, till the skin is flayed off his bones, and he is near the point of expiring; then they apply a most tormenting mixture of vinegar and salt, and consign him to that most intolerable hospital where thousands under their cruelties have expired. _Martyrdom of John Calas._ We pass over many other individual martyrdoms to insert that of John Calas, which took place so lately as 1761, and is an indubitable proof of the bigotry of popery, and shows that neither experience nor improvement can root out the inveterate prejudices of the Roman catholics, or render them less cruel or inexorable to protestants. John Calas was a merchant of the city of Thoulouse, where he had been settled, and lived in good repute, and had married an English woman of French extraction. Calas and his wife were protestants, and had five sons, whom they educated in the same religion; but Lewis, one of the sons, became a Roman catholic, having been converted by a maid-servant, who had lived in the family about thirty years. The father, however, did not express any resentment or ill-will upon the occasion, but kept the maid in the family and settled an annuity upon the son. In October, 1761, the family consisted of John Calas and his wife, one woman servant, Mark Antony Calas, the eldest son, and Peter Calas, the second son. Mark Antony was bred to the law, but could not be admitted to practise, on account of his being a protestant; hence he grew melancholy, read all the books he could procure relative to suicide, and seemed determined to destroy himself. To this may be added, that he led a dissipated life, was greatly addicted to gaming, and did all which could constitute the character of a libertine; on which account his father frequently reprehended him and sometimes in terms of severity, which considerably added to the doom that seemed to oppress him. On the 13th of October, 1761, Mr. Gober la Vaisse, a young gentleman about 19 years of age, the son of La Vaisse, a celebrated advocate of Thoulouse, about five o'clock in the evening, was met by John Calas, the father, and the eldest son Mark Antony, who was his friend. Calas, the father, invited him to supper, and the family and their guest sat down in a room up one pair of stairs; the whole company, consisting of Calas the father and his wife, Antony and Peter Calas, the sons, and La Vaisse the guest, no other person being in the house, except the maid-servant who has been already mentioned. It was now about seven o'clock; the super was not long; but before it was over, Antony left the table, and went into the kitchen, which was on the same floor, as he was accustomed to do. The maid asked him if he was cold? He answered, "Quite the contrary, I burn;" and then left her. In the mean time his friend and family left the room they had supped in, and went into a bed-chamber; the father and La Vaisse sat down together on a sofa; the younger son Peter in an elbow chair; and the mother in another chair; and, without making any inquiry after Antony, continued in conversation together till between nine and ten o'clock, when La Vaisse took his leave, and Peter, who had fallen asleep, was awakened to attend him with a light. On the ground floor of Calas's house was a shop and a ware-house, the latter of which was divided from the shop by a pair of folding-doors. When Peter Calas and La Vaisse came down stairs into the shop, they were extremely shocked to see Antony hanging in his shirt, from a bar which he had laid across the top of the two folding-doors, having half opened them for that purpose. On discovery of this horrid spectacle, they shrieked out, which brought down Calas the father, the mother being seized with such terror as kept her trembling in the passage above. When the maid discovered what had happened, she continued below, either because she feared to carry an account of it to her mistress, or because she busied herself in doing some good office to her master, who was embracing the body of his son, and bathing it in his tears. The mother, therefore, being thus left alone, went down and mixed in the scene that has been already described, with such emotions as it must naturally produce. In the mean time Peter had been sent for La Moire, a surgeon in the neighbourhood. La Moire was not at home, but his apprentice, Mr. Grosle, came instantly. Upon examination, he found the body quite dead; and by this time a papistical crowd of people were gathered about the house, and, having by some means heard that Antony Calas was suddenly dead, and that the surgeon who had examined the body, declared that he had been strangled, they took it into their heads he had been murdered; and as the family was protestant, they presently supposed that the young man was about to change his religion, and had been put to death for that reason. The poor father, overwhelmed with grief for the loss of his child, was advised by his friends to send for the officers of justice to prevent his being torn to pieces by the catholic multitude, who supposed he had murdered his son. This was accordingly done, and David, the chief magistrate, or capitoul, took the father, Peter the son, the mother, La Vaisse, and the maid, all into custody, and set a guard over them. He sent for M. de la Tour, a physician, and MM. la Marque and Perronet, surgeons, who examined the body for marks of violence, but found none except the mark of the ligature on the neck; they found also the hair of the deceased done up in the usual manner, perfectly smooth, and without the least disorder; his clothes were also regularly folded up, and laid upon the counter, nor was his shirt either torn or unbuttoned. Notwithstanding these innocent appearances, the capitoul thought proper to agree with the opinion of the mob, and took it into his head that old Calas had sent for La Vaisse, telling him that he had a son to be hanged; that La Vaisse had come to perform the office of executioner: and that he had received assistance from the father and brother. As no proof of the supposed fact could be procured, the capitoul had recourse to a monitory, or general information, in which the crime was taken for granted, and persons were required to give such testimony against it as they were able. This recites, that La Vaisse was commissioned by the protestants to be their executioner in ordinary, when any of their children were to be hanged for changing their religion; it recites also, that, when the protestants thus hang their children, they compel them to kneel, and one of the interrogatories was whether any person had seen Antony Calas kneel before his father when he strangled him; it recites likewise, that Antony died a Roman catholic, and requires evidence of his catholicism. But before this monitory was published, the mob had got a notion that Antony Calas was the next day to have entered into the fraternity of the White Penitents. The capitoul therefore caused his body to be buried in the middle of St. Stephen's church. A few days after the interment of the deceased, the White Penitents performed a solemn service for him in their chapel; the church was hung with white, and a tomb was raised in the middle of it, on the top of which was placed a human skeleton, holding in one hand a paper, on which was written, "Abjuration of heresy," and in the other a palm, the emblem of martyrdom. The next day the Franciscans performed a service of the same kind for him. The capitoul continued the persecution with unrelenting severity, and, without the least proof coming in, thought fit to condemn the unhappy father, mother, brother, friend, and servant, to the torture, and put them all into irons on the 18th of November. From these dreadful proceedings the sufferers appealed to the parliament, which immediately took cognizance of the affair, and annulled the sentence of the capitoul as irregular, but they continued the prosecution, and, upon the hangman deposing it was impossible Antony should hang himself as was pretended, the majority of the parliament were of the opinion, that the prisoners were guilty, and therefore ordered them to be tried by the criminal court of Thoulouse. One voted him innocent, but after long debates the majority was for the torture and wheel, and probably condemned the father by way of experiment, whether he was guilty or not, hoping he would, in the agony, confess the crime, and accuse the other prisoners, whose fate therefore, they suspended. Poor Calas, however, an old man of 68, was condemned to this dreadful punishment alone. He suffered the torture with great constancy, and was led to execution in a frame of mind which excited the admiration of all that saw him, and particularly of the two Dominicans (father Bourges and father Coldagues) who attended him in his last moments, and declared that they thought him not only innocent of the crime laid to his charge, but an exemplary instance of true christian patience, fortitude, and charity. When he saw the executioner prepared to give him the last stroke, he made a fresh declaration to father Bourges, but while the words were still in his mouth, the capitoul, the author of this catastrophe, and who came upon the scaffold merely to gratify his desire of being a witness of his punishment and death, ran up to him, and bawled out, "Wretch, there are the fagots which are to reduce your body to ashes! speak the truth." M. Calas made no reply, but turned his head a little aside, and that moment the executioner did his office. The popular outcry against this family was so violent in Languedoc, that every body expected to see the children of Calas broke upon the wheel, and the mother burnt alive. Young Donat Calas was advised to fly into Switzerland: he went, and found a gentleman who, at first, could only pity and relieve him, without daring to judge of the rigour exercised against the father, mother, and brothers. Soon after, one of the brothers, who was only banished, likewise threw himself into the arms of the same person, who, for more than a month, took every possible precaution to be assured of the innocence of the family. Once convinced, he thought himself obliged, in conscience, to employ his friends, his purse, his pen, and his credit, to repair the fatal mistake of the seven judges of Thoulouse, and to have the proceedings revised by the king's council. This revision lasted three years, and it is well known what honour Messrs. de Grosne and Bacquancourt acquired by investigating this memorable cause. Fifty masters of the Court of Requests unanimously declared the whole family of Calas innocent, and recommended them to the benevolent justice of his majesty. The duke de Choiseul, who never let slip an opportunity of signalizing the greatness of his character, not only assisted this unfortunate family with money, but obtained for them a gratuity of 36,000 livres from the king. On the ninth of March, 1765, the arret was signed which justified the family of Calas, and changed their fate. The ninth of March, 1762, was the very day on which the innocent and virtuous father of that family had been executed. All Paris ran in crowds to see them come out of prison, and clapped their hands for joy while the tears streamed from their eyes. This dreadful example of bigotry employed the pen of Voltaire in deprecation of the horrors of superstition; and though an infidel himself, his essay on toleration does honour to his pen, and has been a blessed means of abating the rigour of persecution in most European states. Gospel purity will equally shun superstition and cruelty, as the mildness of Christ's tenets teaches only to comfort in this world, and to procure salvation in the next. To persecute for being of a different opinion, is as absurd as to persecute for having a different countenance: if we honour God, keep sacred the pure doctrines of Christ, put a full confidence in the promises contained in the holy scriptures, and obey the political laws of the state in which we reside, we have an undoubted right to protection instead of persecution, and to serve heaven as our consciences, regulated by the gospel rules, may direct. CHAPTER V. AN ACCOUNT OF THE INQUISITION. When the reformed religion began to diffuse the gospel light throughout church. He accordingly instituted a number of inquisitors, or persons who were to make inquiry after, apprehend, and punish, heretics, as the reformed were called by the papists. At the head of these inquisitors was one Dominic, who had been canonized by the pope, in order to render his authority the more respectable. Dominic, and the other inquisitors, spread themselves into various Roman catholic countries, and treated the protestants with the utmost severity. In process of time, the pope, not finding these roving inquisitors so useful as he had imagined, resolved upon the establishment of fixed and regular courts of inquisition. After the order for these regular courts, the first office of inquisition was established in the city of Thoulouse, and Dominic became the first regular inquisitor, as he had before been the first roving inquisitor. Courts of inquisition were now erected in several countries; but the Spanish inquisition became the most powerful, and the most dreaded of any. Even the kings of Spain themselves, though arbitrary in all other respects, were taught to dread the power of the lords of the inquisition; and the horrid cruelties they exercised compelled multitudes, who differed in opinion from the Roman catholics, carefully to conceal their sentiments. The most zealous of all the popish monks, and those who most implicitly obeyed the church of Rome, were the Dominicans and Franciscans: these, therefore, the pope thought proper to invest with an exclusive right of presiding over the different court of inquisition, and gave them the most unlimited powers, as judges delegated by him, and immediately representing his person: they were permitted to excommunicate, or sentence to death whom they thought proper, upon the most slight information of heresy. They were allowed to publish crusades against all whom they deemed heretics, and enter into leagues with sovereign princes, to join their crusades with their forces. In 1244, their power was farther increased by the emperor Frederic the Second, who declared himself the protector and friend of all the inquisitors, and published the cruel edicts, viz. 1. That all heretics who continued obstinate, should be burnt. 2. That all heretics who repented, should be imprisoned for life. This zeal in the emperor, for the inquisitors of the Roman catholic persuasion, arose from a report which had been propagated throughout Europe, that he intended to renounce christianity, and turn Mahometan; the emperor therefore, attempted, by the height of bigotry to contradict the report, and to show his attachment to popery by cruelty. The officers of the inquisition are three inquisitors, or judges, a fiscal proctor, two secretaries, a magistrate, a messenger, a receiver, a jailer, an agent of confiscated possessions; several assessors, counsellors, executioners, physicians, surgeons, door-keepers, familiars, and visiters, who are sworn to secrecy. The principal accusation against those who are subject to this tribunal is heresy, which comprises all that is spoken, or written, against any of the articles of the creed, or the traditions of the Roman church. The inquisition likewise takes cognizance of such as are accused of being magicians, and of such who read the bible in the common language, the Talmud of the Jews, or the Alcoran of the Mahometans. Upon all occasions the inquisitors carry on their processes with the utmost severity, and punish those who offend them with the most unparalleled cruelty. A protestant has seldom any mercy shown him, and a Jew, who turns christian, is far from being secure. A defence in the inquisition is of little use to the prisoner, for a suspicion only is deemed sufficient cause of condemnation, and the greater his wealth the greater his danger. The principal part of the inquisitors' cruelties is owing to their rapacity: they destroy the life to possess the property; and, under the pretence of zeal, plunder each obnoxious individual. A prisoner in the inquisition is never allowed to see the face of his accuser, or of the witnesses against him, but every method is taken by threats and tortures, to oblige him to accuse himself, and by that means corroborate their evidence. If the jurisdiction of the inquisition is not fully allowed, vengeance is denounced against such as call it in question for if any of its officers are opposed, those who oppose them are almost certain to be sufferers for their temerity; the maxim of the inquisition being to strike terror, and awe those who are the objects of its power into obedience. High birth, distinguished rank, great dignity, or eminent employments, are no protection from its severities; and the lowest officers of the inquisition can make the highest characters tremble. When the person impeached is condemned, he is either severely whipped, violently tortured, sent to the galleys, or sentenced to death; and in either case the effects are confiscated. After judgment, a procession is performed to the place of execution, which ceremony is called an AUTO DE FE, or act of faith. The following is an account of an auto de fe, performed at Madrid in the year 1682. The officers of the inquisition, preceded by trumpets, kettle-drums, and their banner, marched on the 30th of May, in cavalcade, to the palace of the great square, where they declared by proclamation, that, on the 30th of June, the sentence of the prisoners would be put in execution. Of these prisoners, twenty men and women, with one renegade Mahometan, were ordered to be burned; fifty Jews and Jewesses, having never before been imprisoned, and repenting of their crimes were sentenced to a long confinement, and to wear a yellow cap. The whole court of Spain was present on this occasion. The grand inquisitor's chair was placed in a sort of tribunal far above that of the king. Among those who were to suffer, was a young Jewess of exquisite beauty, and but seventeen years of age. Being on the same side of the scaffold where the queen was seated, she addressed her, in hopes of obtaining a pardon, in the following pathetic speech: "Great queen, will not your royal presence be of some service to the in my miserable condition! Have regard to my youth; and, oh! consider, that I am about to die for professing a religion imbibed from my earliest infancy!" Her majesty seemed greatly to pity her distress, but turned away her eyes, as she did not dare to speak a word in behalf of a person who had been declared a heretic. Now mass began, in the midst of which the priest came from the altar, placed himself near the scaffold, and seated himself in a chair prepared for that purpose. The chief inquisitor then descended from the amphitheatre, dressed in his cope, and having a mitre on his head. After having bowed to the altar, he advanced towards the king's balcony, and went up to it, attended by some of his officers, carrying a cross and the gospels, with a book containing the oath by which the kings of Spain oblige themselves to protect the catholic faith, to extirpate heretics, and to support with all their power and force the prosecutions and decrees of the inquisition: a like oath was administered to the counsellors and whole assembly. The mass was begun about twelve at noon, and did not end till nine in the evening, being protracted by a proclamation of the sentences of the several criminals, which were already separately rehearsed aloud one after the other. After this, followed the burning of the twenty-one men and women, whose intrepidity in suffering that horrid death was truly astonishing. The king's near situation to the criminals rendered their dying groans very audible to him; he could not, however, be absent from this dreadful scene, as it is esteemed a religious one; and his coronation oath obliges him to give a sanction by his presence to all the acts of the tribunal. What we have already said may be applied to inquisitions in general, as well as to that of Spain in particular. The inquisition belonging to Portugal is exactly upon a similar plan to that of Spain, having been instituted much about the same time, and put under the same regulations. The inquisitors allow the torture to be used only three times, but during those times it is so severely inflicted, that the prisoner either dies under it, or continues always after a cripple, and suffers the severest pains upon every change of weather. We shall give an ample description of the severe torments occasioned by the torture, from the account of one who suffered it the three respective times, but happily survived the cruelties he underwent. At the first time of torturing, six executioners entered, stripped him naked to his drawers, and laid him upon his back on a kind of stand, elevated a few feet from the floor. The operation commenced by putting an iron collar round his neck, and a ring to each foot, which fastened him to the stand. His limbs being thus stretched out, they wound two ropes round each thigh; which ropes being passed under the scaffold, through holes made for that purpose, were all drawn tight at the same instant of time, by four of the men, on a given signal. It is easy to conceive that the pains which immediately succeeded were intolerable; the ropes, which were of a small size, cut through the prisoner's flesh to the bone, making the blood to gush out at eight different places thus bound at a time. As the prisoner persisted in not making any confession of what the inquisitors required, the ropes were drawn in this manner four times successively. The manner of inflicting the second torture was as follows: they forced his arms backwards so that the palms of his hands were turned outward behind him; when, by means of a rope that fastened them together at the wrists, and which was turned by an engine, they drew them by degrees nearer each other, in such a manner that the back of each hand touched, and stood exactly parallel to each other. In consequence of this violent contortion, both his shoulders became dislocated, and a considerable quantity of blood issued from his mouth. This torture was repeated thrice; after which he was again taken to the dungeon, and the surgeon set the dislocated bones. Two months after the second torture, the prisoner being a little recovered, was again ordered to the torture-room, and there, for the last time, made to undergo another kind of punishment, which was inflicted twice without any intermission. The executioners fastened a thick iron chain round his body, which crossing at the breast, terminated at the wrists. They then placed him with his back against a thick board, at each extremity whereof was a pulley, through which there ran a rope that caught the end of the chain at his wrists. The executioner then, stretching the end of this rope by means of a roller, placed at a distance behind him, pressed or bruised his stomach in proportion as the ends of the chains were drawn tighter. They tortured him in this manner to such a degree, that his wrists, as well as his shoulders, were quite dislocated. They were, however, soon set by the surgeons; but the barbarians, not yet satisfied with this species of cruelty, made him immediately undergo the like torture a second time, which he sustained (though, if possible, attended with keener pains,) with equal constancy and resolution. After this, he was again remanded to his dungeon, attended by the surgeon to dress his bruises and adjust the part dislocated, and here he continued till their Auto de Fe, or jail delivery, when he was discharged, crippled and diseased for life. _An account of the cruel Handling and Burning of Nicholas Burton, an English Merchant, in Spain._ The fifth day of November, about the year of our Lord 1560, Mr. Nicholas Burton, citizen sometime of London, and merchant, dwelling in the parish of Little St. Bartholomew, peaceably and quietly following his traffic in the trade of merchandize, and being in the city of Cadiz, in the party of Andalusia, in Spain, there came into his lodging a Judas, or, as they term them, a familiar of the fathers of the inquisition; who asking for the said Nicholas Burton, feigned that he had a letter to deliver into his own hands; by which means he spake with him immediately. And having no letter to deliver to him, then the said promoter, or familiar, at the motion of the devil his master, whose messenger he was, invented another lie, and said, that he would take lading for London in such ships as the said Nicholas Burton had freighted to lade, if he would let any; which was partly to know where he loaded his goods, that they might attach them, and chiefly to protract the time until the sergeant of the inquisition might come and apprehend the body of the said Nicholas Burton; which they did incontinently. He then well perceiving that they were not able to burden or charge him that he had written, spoke, or done any thing there in that country against the ecclesiastical or temporal laws of the same realm, boldly asked them what they had to lay to his charge that they did so arrest him, and bade them to declare the cause, and he would answer them. Notwithstanding they answered nothing, but commanded him with threatening words to hold his peace, and not speak one word to them. And so they carried him to the filthy common prison of the town of Cadiz, where he remained in irons fourteen days amongst thieves. All which time he so instructed the poor prisoners in the word of God, according to the good talent which God had given him in that behalf, and also in the Spanish tongue to utter the same, that in that short space he had well reclaimed several of those superstitious and ignorant Spaniards to embrace the word of God, and to reject their popish traditions. Which being known unto the officers of the inquisition, they conveyed him laden with irons from thence to a city called Seville, into a more cruel and straiter prison called Triana, where the said fathers of the inquisition proceeded against him secretly according to their accustomable cruel tyranny, that never after he could be suffered to write or speak to any of his nation: so that to this day it is unknown who was his accuser. Afterward, the 20th of December, they brought the said Nicholas Burton, with a great number of other prisoners, for professing the true Christian religion, into the city of Seville, to a place where the said inquisitors sat in judgment which they called Auto, with a canvass coat, whereupon in divers parts was painted the figure of a huge devil, tormenting a soul in a flame of fire, and on his head a copping tank of the same work. His tongue was forced out of his mouth with a cloven stick fastened upon it, that he should not utter his conscience and faith to the people, and so he was set with another Englishman of Southampton, and divers other condemned men for religion, as well Frenchmen as Spaniards, upon a scaffold over against the said inquisition, where their sentences and judgments were read and pronounced against them. And immediately after the said sentences given, they were carried from thence to the place of execution without the city, where they most cruelly burned them, for whose constant faith, God be praised. This Nicholas Burton by the way, and in the flames of fire, had so cheerful a countenance, embracing death with all patience and gladness, that the tormentors and enemies which stood by, said, that the devil had his soul before he came to the fire; and therefore they said his senses of feeling were past him. It happened that after the arrest of Nicholas Burton aforesaid, immediately all the goods and merchandize which he brought with him into Spain by the way of traffic, were (according to their common usage) seized, and taken into the sequester; among which they also rolled up much that appertained to another English merchant, wherewith he was credited as factor. Whereof so soon as news was brought to the merchant as well of the imprisonment of his factor, as of the arrest made upon his goods, he sent his attorney into Spain, with authority from him to make claim to his goods, and to demand them; whose name was John Fronton, citizen of Bristol. When his attorney was landed at Seville, and had shown all his letters and writings to the holy house, requiring them that such goods might be delivered into his possession, answer was made to him that he must sue by bill, and retain an advocate (but all was doubtless to delay him,) and they forsooth of courtesy assigned him one to frame his supplication for him, and other such bills of petition, as he had to exhibit into their holy court, demanding for each bill eight rials, albeit they stood him in no more stead than if he had put up none at all. And for the space of three or four months this fellow missed not twice a day attending every morning and afternoon at the inquisitors' palace, suing unto them upon his knees for his despatch, but especially to the bishop of Tarracon, who was at that very time chief in the inquisition at Seville, that he of his absolute authority would command restitution to be made thereof; but the booty was so good and great, that it was very hard to come by it again. At length, after he had spent four whole months in suits and requests, and also to no purpose, he received this answer from them, That he must show better evidence, and bring more sufficient certificates out of England for proof of this matter, than those which he had already presented to the court. Whereupon the party forthwith posted to London, and with all speed returned to Seville again with more ample and large letters testimonial, and certificates, according to their requests, and exhibited them to the court. Notwithstanding the inquisitors still shifted him off, excusing themselves by lack of leisure, and for that they were occupied in more weighty affairs, and with such answers put him off, four months after. At last, when the party had well nigh spent all his money, and therefore sued the more earnestly for his despatch, they referred the matter wholly to the bishop. Of whom, when he repaired unto him, he made this answer, That for himself, he knew what he had to do, howbeit he was but one man, and the determination appertained to the other commissioners as well as unto him; and thus by posting and passing it from one to another, the party could obtain no end of his suit. Yet for his importunity's sake, they were resolved to despatch him: it was on this sort: one of the inquisitors, called Gasco, a man very well experienced in these practices, willed the party to resort unto him after dinner. The fellow being glad to hear this news, and supposing that his goods should be restored unto him, and that he was called in for that purpose to talk with the other that was in prison to confer with him about their accounts, rather through a little misunderstanding, hearing the inquisitors cast out a word, that it should be needful for him to talk with the prisoner, and being thereupon more than half persuaded, that at length they meant good faith, did so, and repaired thither about the evening. Immediately upon his coming, the jailer was forthwith charged with him, to shut him up close in such a prison where they appointed him. The party, hoping at the first that he had been called for about some other matter, and seeing himself, contrary to his expectation, cast into a dark dungeon, perceived at length that the world went with him far otherwise than he supposed it would have done. But within two or three days after, he was brought into the court where he began to demand his goods: and because it was a device that well served their turn without any more circumstance, they bid him say his Ave Maria; "Ave Maria gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus. Amen." The same was written word by word as he spake it, and without any more talk of claiming his goods, because it was needless, they commanded him to prison again, and entered an action against him as a heretic, forasmuch as he did not say his Ave Maria after the Romish fashion, but ended it very suspiciously, for he should have added moreover; "Sancta Maria mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus:" by abbreviating whereof, it was evident enough (said they) that he did not allow the mediation of saints. Thus they picked a quarrel to detain him in prison a longer season, and afterward brought him forth upon their stage disguised after their manner; where sentence was given, that he should lose all the goods which he sued for, though they were not his own, and besides this, suffer a year's imprisonment. Mark Brughes, an Englishman, master of an English ship called the Minion, was burnt in a city in Portugal. William Hoker, a young man about the age of sixteen years, being an Englishman, was stoned to death by certain young men in the city of Seville, for the same righteous cause. _Some private Enormities of the inquisition laid open, by a very singular occurrence._ When the crown of Spain was contested for in the beginning of the present century, by two princes, who equally pretended to the sovereignty, France espoused the cause of one competitor, and England of the other. The duke of Berwick, a natural son of James II. who abdicated England, commanded the Spanish and French forces, and defeated the English at the celebrated battle of Almanza. The army was then divided into two parts; the one consisting of Spaniards and French, headed by the duke of Berwick, advanced towards Catalonia; the other body, consisting of French troops only, commanded by the duke of Orleans, proceeded to the conquest of Arragon. As the troops drew near to the city of Arragon, the magistrates came to offer the keys to the duke of Orleans; but he told them, haughtily, they were rebels, and that he would not accept the keys, for he had orders to enter the city through a breach. He accordingly made a breach in the walls with his cannon, and then entered the city through it, together with his whole army.--When he had made every necessary regulation here, he departed to subdue other places, leaving a strong garrison at once to overawe and defend, under the command of his lieutenant-general M. de Legal. This gentleman, though brought up a Roman catholic, was totally free from superstition: he united great talents with great bravery: and was, at once, the skilful officer, and accomplished gentleman. The duke, before his departure, had ordered that heavy contributions should be levied upon the city to the following manner: 1. That the magistrates and principal inhabitants should pay a thousand crowns per month for the duke's table. 2. That every house should pay one pistole, which would monthly amount to 18,000 pistoles. 3. That every convent and monastery should pay a donative, proportionable to its riches and rents. The two last contributions to be appropriated to the maintenance of the army. The money levied upon the magistrates and principal inhabitants, and upon every house, was paid as soon as demanded; but when the proper persons applied to the heads of convents and monasteries, they found that the ecclesiastics were not so willing, as other people, to part with their cash. Of the donatives to be raised by the clergy: The college of Jesuits to pay 2000 pistoles Carmelites, 1000 Augustins, 1000 Dominicans 1000 M. de Legal sent to the Jesuits a peremptory order to pay the money immediately. The superior of the Jesuits returned for answer, that for the clergy to pay money for the army was against all ecclesiastical immunities; and that he knew of no argument which could authorize such a procedure. M. de Legal then sent four companies of dragoons to quarter themselves in the college, with this sarcastic message, "To convince you of the necessity of paying the money, I have sent four substantial arguments to your college, drawn from the system of military logic; and, therefore, hope you will not need any further admonition to direct your conduct." These proceedings greatly perplexed the Jesuits, who despatched an express to court to the king's confessor, who was of their order; but the dragoons were much more expeditious in plundering and doing mischief, than the courier in his journey: so that the Jesuits, seeing every thing going to wreck and ruin, thought proper to adjust the matter amicably, and paid the money before the return of their messenger. The Augustins and Carmelites, taking warning by what had happened to the Jesuits, prudently went and paid the money, and by that means escaped the study of military arguments, and of being taught logic by dragoons. But the Dominicans, who were all familiars of, or agents dependent on, the inquisition, imagined, that that very circumstance would be their protection; but they were mistaken, for M. de Legal neither feared nor respected the inquisition. The chief of the Dominicans sent word to the military commander that his order was poor, and had not any money whatever to pay the donative; for, says he, the whole wealth of the Dominicans consists only in the silver images of the apostles and saints, as large as life, which are placed in our church, and which it would be sacrilege to remove. This insinuation was meant to terrify the French commander, whom the inquisitors imagined would not dare to be so profane as to wish for the possession of the precious idols. He, however, sent word that the silver images would make admirable substitutes for money, and would be more in character in his possession, than in that of the Dominicans themselves, "For, (said he) while you possess them in the manner you do at present, they stand up in niches, useless and motionless, without being of the least benefit to mankind in general, or even to yourselves; but, when they come into my possession, they shall be useful; I will put them in motion; for I intend to have them coined, when they may travel like the apostles, be beneficial in various places, and circulate for the universal service of mankind." The inquisitors were astonished at this treatment, which they never expected to receive, even from crowned heads; they therefore determined to deliver their precious images in a solemn procession, that they might excite the people to an insurrection. The Dominican friars were accordingly ordered to march to De Legal's house, with the silver apostles and saints, in a mournful manner, having lighted tapers with them, and bitterly crying all the way, heresy, heresy. M. de Legal, hearing these proceedings, ordered four companies of grenadiers to line the street which led to his house; each grenadier was ordered to have his loaded fuzee in one hand, and a lighted taper in the other; so that the troops might either repel force with force, or do honour to the farcical solemnity. The friars did all they could to raise the tumult, but the common people were too much afraid of the troops under arms to obey them, the silver images were, therefore, of necessity delivered up to M. de Legal, who sent them to the mint, and ordered them to be coined immediately. The project of raising an insurrection having failed, the inquisitors determined to excommunicate M. de Legal, unless he would release their precious silver saints from imprisonment in the mint, before they were melted down, or otherwise mutilated. The French commander absolutely refused to release the images, but said they should certainly travel and do good; upon which the inquisitors drew up the form of excommunication, and ordered their secretary to go and read it to M. De Legal. The secretary punctually performed his commission, and read the excommunication deliberately and distinctly. The French commander heard it with great patience, and politely told the secretary he would answer it the next day. When the secretary of the inquisition was gone, M. De Legal ordered his own secretary to prepare a form of excommunication, exactly like that sent by the inquisition; but to make this alteration, instead of his name to put in those of the inquisitors. The next morning he ordered four regiments under arms, and commanded them to accompany his secretary, and act as he directed. The secretary went to the inquisition, and insisted upon admittance, which, after a great deal of altercation, was granted. As soon as he entered, he read, in an audible voice, the excommunication sent by M. De Legal against the inquisitors. The inquisitors were all present, and heard it with astonishment, never having before met with any individual who dared behave so boldly. They loudly cried out against De Legal, as a heretic; and said, this was a most daring insult against the catholic faith. But, to surprise them still more, the French secretary told them, they must remove from their present lodgings; for the French commander wanted to quarter the troops in the inquisition, as it was the most commodious place in the whole city. The inquisitors exclaimed loudly upon this occasion, when the secretary put them under a strong guard, and sent them to a place appointed by M. De Legal to receive them. The inquisitors, finding how things went, begged that they might be permitted to take their private property, which was granted, and they immediately set out for Madrid, where they made the most bitter complaints to the king; but the monarch told them, he could not grant them any redress, as the injuries they had received were from his grandfather, the king of France's troops, by whose assistance alone he could be firmly established in his kingdom. "Had it been my own troops, (said he) I would have punished them; but as it is, I cannot pretend to exert any authority." In the mean time, M. De Legal's secretary set open all the doors of the inquisition, and released the prisoners, who amounted in the whole to 400; and among these were 60 beautiful young women, who appeared to form a seraglio for the three principal inquisitors. This discovery, which laid the enormity of the inquisitors so open, greatly alarmed the archbishop, who desired M. De Legal to send the women to his palace, and he would take proper care of them; and at the same time he published an ecclesiastical censure against all such as should ridicule, or blame, the holy office of the inquisition. The French commander sent word to the archbishop, that the prisoners had either run away, or were so securely concealed by their friends, or even by his own officers, that it was impossible for him to send them back again; and, therefore, the inquisition having committed such atrocious actions, must now put up with their exposure. One of the ladies thus happily delivered from captivity, was afterward married to the very French officer who opened the door of her dungeon, and released her from confinement. The lady related the following circumstances to her husband, and to M. Gavin, (author of the Master Key to Popery) from the latter of whom we have selected the most material particulars. "I went one day (says the lady) with my mother, to visit the countess Attarass, and I met there Don Francisco Tirregon, her confessor and second inquisitor of the holy office. After we had drunk chocolate, he asked me my age, my confessor's name, and many intricate questions about religion. The severity of his countenance frightened me, which he perceiving, told the countess to inform me, that he was not so severe as he looked for. He then caressed me in a most obliging manner, presented his hand, which I kissed with great reverence and modesty; and, as he went away, he made use of this remarkable expression. My dear child, I shall remember you till the next time. I did not, at the time, mark the sense of the words; for I was inexperienced in matters of gallantry, being, at that time but fifteen years old. Indeed, he unfortunately did remember me, for the very same night, when our whole family were in bed, we heard a great knocking at the door. The maid, who laid in the same room with me, went to the window, and inquired who was there. The answer was, THE HOLY INQUISITION. On hearing this I screamed out, Father! father! dear father, I am ruined forever! My father got up, and came to me to know the occasion of my crying out; I told him the inquisitors were at the door. On hearing this, instead of protecting me, he hurried down stairs as fast as possible; and, lest the maid should be too slow, opened the street door himself; under such abject and slavish fears, are bigoted minds! as soon as he knew they came for me, he fetched me with great solemnity, and delivered me to the officers with much submission. I was hurried into a coach, with no other clothing than a petticoat and a mantle, for they would not let me stay to take any thing else. My fright was so great, I expected to die that very night; but judge my surprise, when I was ushered into an apartment, decorated with all the elegance that taste, united with opulence, could bestow. Soon after the officers left me, a maid servant appeared with a silver salver, on which were sweetmeats and cinnamon water. She desired me to take some refreshment before I went to bed; I told her I could not, but should be glad if she could inform me whether I was to be put to death that night or not. "To be put to death! (exclaimed she) you do not come here to be put to death, but to live like a princess, and you shall want for nothing in the world, but the liberty of going out; so pray don't be afraid, but go to bed and sleep easy; for to-morrow you shall see wonders within this house; and as I am chosen to be your waiting-maid, I hope you'll be very kind to me." I was going to ask some questions, but she told me she must not answer any thing more till the next day, but assured me that nobody would come to disturb me. I am going, she said, about a little business but I will come back presently, for my bed is in the closet next yours, so she left me for about a quarter of an hour, and then returned. She then said, madam, pray let me know when you will be pleased have your chocolate ready in the morning. This greatly surprised me, so that without replying to her question, I asked her name;--she said, my name is Mary. Mary, then, said I, for heaven's sake, tell me whether I am brought here to die or not?--I have told you already, replied she, that you came here to be one of the happiest ladies in the world. We went to bed, but the fear of death prevented me from sleeping the whole night; Mary waked; she was surprised to find me up, but she soon rose, and after leaving me for about half an hour, she brought in two cups of chocolate, and some biscuit on a silver plate. I drank one cup of chocolate, and desired her to drink the other, which she did: when we had done, I said, well, Mary, can you give me any account of the reasons for my being brought here? To which she answered, not yet, madam, you must have patience, and immediately slipped out of the room. About half an hour after, she brought a great quantity of elegant clothes, suitable to a lady of the highest rank, and told me, I must dress myself. Among several trinkets which accompanied the clothes, I observed, with surprise, a snuff box, in the lid of which was a picture of Don Francisco Tirregon. This unravelled to me the mystery of my confinement, and at the same time roused my imagination to contrive how to evade receiving the present. If I absolutely refused it, I thought immediate death must ensue; and to accept it, was giving him too much encouragement against my honour. At length I hit upon a medium, and said to Mary, pray present my respects to Don Francisco Tirregon, and tell him, that, as I could not bring my clothes along with me last night, modesty permits me to accept of these garments, which are requisite to keep me decent; but since I do not take snuff, I hope his lordship will excuse me in not accepting his box. Mary went with my answer, and soon returned with Don Francisco's portrait elegantly set in gold, and richly embellished with diamonds. This message accompanied it: "That his lordship had made a mistake, his intent not being to send me a snuffbox, but his portrait." I was at a great loss what to do; when Mary said, pray, madam, take my poor advice; accept of the portrait, and every thing else that his lordship sends you; for if you do not, he can compel you to do what he pleases, and put you to death when he thinks proper, without any body being able to defend you. But if you are obliging to him, continued she, he will be very kind, and you will be as happy as a queen; you will have elegant apartments to live in, beautiful gardens to range in, and agreeable ladies to visit you: therefore, I advise you to send a civil answer, or even not to deny a visit from his lordship, or perhaps you may repent of your disrespect. O, my God! exclaimed I, must I sacrifice my honour to my fears, and give up my virtue to his despotic power? Alas! what can I do? To resist, is vain. If I oppose his desires, force will obtain what chastity refuses. I now fell into the greatest agonies, and told Mary to return what answer she thought proper. She said she was glad of my humble submission, and ran to acquaint Don Francisco with it. In a few minutes she returned, with joy in her countenance, telling me his lordship would honour me with his company to supper. "And now give me leave, madam, (said she) to call you mistress, for I am to wait upon you. I have been in a holy office fourteen years, and know all the customs perfectly well; but as silence is imposed upon me, under pain of death, I can only answer such questions as immediately relate to your own person. But I would advise you never to oppose the holy father's will; or if you see any young ladies about, never ask them any questions. You may divert yourself sometimes among them, but must never tell them any thing: three days hence you will dine with them; and at all times you may have music, and other recreations. In fine, you will be so happy, that you will not wish to go abroad; and when your time is expired, the holy fathers will send you out of this country, and marry you to some nobleman." After saying these words she left me, overwhelmed with astonishment, and scarce knowing what to think. As soon as I recovered myself, I began to look about, and finding a closet, I opened it, and perceived that it was filled with books: they ware chiefly upon historical and profane subjects, but not any on religious matter. I chose out a book of history, and so passed the interval with some degree of satisfaction till dinner time. The dinner was served up with the greatest elegance, and consisted of all that could gratify the most luxurious appetite. When dinner was over, Mary left me, and told me, if I wanted any thing I might ring a bell, which she pointed out to me. I read a book to amuse myself during the afternoon, and at seven in the evening, Don Francisco came to visit me in his night-gown and cap, not with the gravity of an inquisitor, but with the gayety of a gallant. He saluted me with great respect, and told me, that he came to see me in order to show the great respect he had for my family, and to inform me that it was my lovers who had procured my confinement, having accused me in matters of religion; and that the informations were taken, and the sentence pronounced against me, to be burnt in a dry pan, with a gradual fire; but that he, out of pity and love to my family, had stopped the execution of it. These words were like daggers to my heart; I dropped at his feet, and said, "Ah, my lord! have you stopped the execution for ever?" He replied, "that belongs to yourself only," and abruptly wished me good night. As soon as he was gone I burst into tears, when Mary came and asked me what could make me cry so bitterly. To which I answered, oh, Mary! what is the meaning of the dry pan and gradual fire? for I am to die by them! Madam, said she, never fear, you shall see, ere long, the dry pan and gradual fire; but they are made for those who oppose the holy father's will, not for you who are so good as to obey it. But pray, says she, was Don Francisco very obliging? I don't know, said I, for he frightened me out of my wits by his discourse; he saluted me with civility, but left me abruptly. Well, said Mary, you do not yet know his temper, he is extremely obliging to them that are kind to him; but if they are disobedient he is unmerciful as Nero; so, for your own sake, take care to oblige him in all respects: and now, dear madam, pray go to supper, and be easy. I went to supper, indeed, and afterward to bed; but I could neither eat nor sleep, for the thoughts of the dry pan and gradual fire deprived me of appetite, and banished drowsiness. Early the next morning Mary said, that as nobody was stirring, if I would promise her secrecy, she would show me the dry pan and gradual fire; so taking me down stairs, she brought me to a large room, with a thick iron door, which she opened. Within it was an oven, with fire in it at the time, and a large brass upon it, with a cover of the same, and a lock to it. In the next room there was a great wheel, covered on both sides with thick boards, opening a little window in the centre, Mary desired me to look in with a candle; there I saw all the circumference of the wheel set with sharp razors, which made me shudder. She then took me to a pit, which was full of venomous animals. On my expressing great horror at the sight, she said, "Now my good mistress, I'll tell you the use of these things. The dry pan is for heretics, and those who oppose the holy father's will and pleasure; they are put alive into the pan, being first stripped naked; and the cover being locked down, the executioner begins to put a small fire into the oven, and by degrees he augments it, till the body is reduced to ashes. The wheel is designed for those who speak against the pope, or the holy fathers of the inquisition; for they are put into the machine through the little wheel, which is locked after them, and then the wheel is turned swiftly, till they are cut to pieces. The pit is for those who contemn the images, and refuse to give proper respect to ecclesiastical persons; for they are thrown into the pit, and so become the food of poisonous animals." We went back again to my chamber, and Mary said, that another day she would show me the torments designed for other transgressors, but I was in such agonies at what I had seen, that I begged to be terrified with no more such sights. She soon after left me, but not without enjoining my strict obedience to Don Francisco; for if you do not comply with his will, said she, the dry pan and gradual fire will be your fate. The horrors which the sight of these things, and Mary's expressions, impressed on my mind, almost bereaved me of my senses, and left me in such a state of stupefaction that I seemed to have no manner of will of my own. The next morning Mary said, now let me dress you as nice as possible, for you must go and wish Don Francisco good-morrow, and breakfast with him. When I was dressed, she conveyed me through a gallery into his apartment, where I found that he was in bed. He ordered Mary to withdraw, and to serve up breakfast in about two hours time. When Mary was gone, he commanded me to undress myself and come to bed to him. The manner in which he spoke, and the dreadful ideas with which my mind was filled, so terribly frightened me, that I pulled off my cloths, without knowing what I did, and stepped into bed, insensible of the indecency I was transacting: so totally had the care of self preservation absorbed all my other thoughts, and so entirely were the ideas of delicacy obliterated by the force of terror! Thus, to avoid the dry pan, did I entail upon myself perpetual infamy; and to escape the so much dreaded gradual fire, give myself up to the flames of lust. Wretched alternative, where the only choice is an excruciating death, or everlasting pollution! Mary came at the expiration of two hours, and served us with chocolate in the most submissive manner; for she kneeled down by the bedside to present it. When I was dressed, Mary took me into a very delightful apartment, which I had never yet seen. It was furnished with the most costly elegance; but what gave me the greatest astonishment was, the prospect from its windows, of a beautiful garden, and a fine meandering river. Mary told me, that the young ladies she had mentioned would come to pay their compliments to me before dinner, and begged me to remember her advice in keeping a prudent guard over my tongue. In a few minutes a great number of very beautiful young ladies, richly dressed, entered my room, and successively embracing me, wished me joy. I was so surprised, that I was unable to answer their compliments: which one of the ladies perceiving, said, "Madam, the solitude of this place will affect you in the beginning, but whenever you begin to feel the pleasures and amusements you may enjoy, you will quit those pensive thoughts. We, at present, beg the honour of you to dine with us to-day, and henceforward three days in a week." I returned them suitable thanks in general terms, and so went to dinner, in which the most exquisite and savoury dishes, of various kinds, were served up with the most delicate and pleasant fruits and sweetmeats. The room was long, with two tables on each side, and a third in the front. I reckoned fifty-two young ladies, the eldest not exceeding twenty-four years of age. There were five maid-servants besides Mary, to wait upon us; but Mary confined her attention to me alone. After dinner we retired to a capacious gallery, where they played on musical instruments, a few diverted themselves with cards, and the rest amused themselves with walking about. Mary, at length, entered the gallery, and said, ladies, this is a day of recreation, and so you may go into whatever rooms you please till eight o'clock in the evening. They unanimously agreed to adjourn to my apartment. Here we found a most elegant cold collation, of which all the ladies partook, and passed the time in innocent conversation and harmless mirth; but none mentioned a word concerning the inquisition, or the holy fathers, or gave the least distant hint concerning the cause of their confinement. At eight o'clock Mary rang a bell, which was a signal for all to retire to their respective apartments, and I was conducted to the chamber of Don Francisco, where I slept. The next morning Mary brought me a richer dress than any I had yet had; and as soon as I retired to my apartment, all the ladies came to wish me good-morning, dressed much richer than the preceding day. We passed the time till eight o'clock in the evening, in much the same manner as we had done the day before. At that time the bell rang, the separation took place, and I was conducted to Don Francisco's chamber. The next morning I had a garment richer than the last, and they accosted me in apparel still more sumptuous than before. The transactions of the two former days were repeated on the third, and the evening concluded in a similar manner. On the fourth morning Mary came into Don Francisco's chamber and told me I must immediately rise, for a lady wanted me in her own chamber. She spoke with a kind of authority which surprised me; but as Don Francisco did not speak a syllable, I got up and obeyed. Mary then conveyed me into a dismal dungeon, not eight feet in length; and said sternly to me, This is your room, and this lady your bed-fellow and companion. At which words she bounced out of the room, and left me in the utmost consternation. After remaining a considerable time in the most dreadful agonies tears came to my relief, and I exclaimed, "What is this place, dear lady! Is it a scene of enchantment, or is it a hell upon earth! Alas! I have lost my honour and my soul forever!" The lady took me by the hand, and said in a sympathizing tone of voice, "Dear sister, (for this is the name I shall henceforth give you) forbear to cry and grieve, for you can do nothing by such an extravagant behaviour, but draw upon yourself a cruel death. Your misfortunes, and those of all the ladies you have seen, are exactly of a piece, you suffer nothing but what we have suffered before you; but we dare not show our grief, for fear of greater evils. Pray take courage, and hope in God, for he will surely deliver us from this hellish place; but be sure you discover no uneasiness before Mary, who is the only instrument either of our torments or comfort. Have patience until we go to bed, and then I will venture to tell you more of the matter." My perplexity and vexation were inexpressible: but my new companion, whose name was Leonora, prevailed on me to disguise my uneasiness from Mary. I dissembled tolerably well when she came to bring our dinners, but could not help remarking, in my own mind, the difference between this repast, and those I had before partook of. This consisted only of plain, common food, and of that a scanty allowance, with one plate, and one knife and fork for us both, which she took away as soon as we had dined. When we were in bed, Leonora was as good as her word; and upon my solemn promise of secrecy thus began to open her mind to me. "My dear sister, you think your case very hard, but I assure you all the ladies in the house have gone through the same. In time, you will know all their stories, as they hope to know yours. I suppose Mary has been the chief instrument of your fright, as she has been of ours; and I warrant she has shown you some horrible places, though not all; and that, at the very thought of them you were so terrified, that you chose the same way we have done to redeem yourself from death. By what hath happened to us, we know that Don Francisco hath been your Nero, your tyrant; for the three colours of our clothes are the distinguishing tokens of the three holy fathers. The red silk belongs to Don Francisco, the blue to Don Guerrero, and the green to Don Aliga; and they always give those colours (after the farce of changing garments and the short-lived recreations are over) to those ladies whom they bring here for their respective uses. "We are strictly commanded to express all the demonstrations of joy, and to be very merry for three days, when a young lady first comes amongst us, as we did with you, and as you must now do with others. But afterward we live like the most wretched prisoners, without seeing any body but Mary, and the other maid-servants, over whom Mary hath a kind of superiority, for she acts as housekeeper. We all dine in the great hall three days in a week; and when any one of the inquisitors hath a mind for one of his slaves, Mary comes about nine o'clock, and leads her to his apartment. "Some nights Mary leaves the doors of our chambers open, and that is a token that one of the inquisitors hath a mind to come that night; but he comes so silent that we are ignorant whether he is our patron or not. If one of us happens to be with child, she is removed into a better chamber till she is delivered; but during the whole of her pregnancy, she never sees any body but the person appointed to attend her. "As soon as the child is born it is taken away, and carried we know not whither; for we never hear a syllable mentioned about it afterward. I have been in this house six years, was not fourteen when the officers took me from my father's house, and have had one child. There are, at this present time, fifty-two young ladies in the house; but we annually lose six or eight, though we know not what becomes of them, or whither they are sent. This, however, does not diminish our number, for new ones are always brought in to supply the place of those who are removed from hence; and I remember, at one time, to have seen seventy-three ladies here together. Our continual torment is to reflect that when they are tired of any of the ladies, they certainly put to death those they pretend to send away; for it is natural to think, that they have too much policy to suffer their atrocious and infernal villanies to be discovered, by enlarging them. Hence our situation is miserable indeed, and we have only to pray that the Almighty will pardon those crimes which we are compelled to commit. Therefore, my dear sister, arm yourself with patience, for that is the only palliative to give you comfort, and put a firm confidence in the providence of Almighty God." This discourse of Leonora greatly affected me; but I found everything to be as she told me, in the course of time, and I took care to appear as cheerful as possible before Mary. In this manner I continued eighteen months, during which time eleven ladies were taken from the house; but in lieu of them we got nineteen new ones, which made our number just sixty, at the time we were so happily relieved by the French officers, and providentially restored to the joys of society, and to the arms of our parents and friends. On that happy day, the door of my dungeon was opened by the gentleman who is now my husband, and who with the utmost expedition, sent both Leonora and me to his father's; and (soon after the campaign was over) when he returned home, he thought proper to make me his wife, in which situation I enjoy a recompense for all the miseries I before suffered. From the foregoing narrative it is evident, that the inquisitors are a set of libidinous villains, lost to every just idea of religion, and totally destitute of humanity. Those who possess wealth, beauty, or liberal sentiments, are sure to find enemies in them. Avarice, lust, and prejudice, are their ruling passions; and they sacrifice every law, human and divine, to gratify their predominant desire. Their supposed piety is affectation; their pretended compassion hypocrisy; their justice depends on their will: and their equitable punishments are founded on their prejudices. None are secure from them, all ranks fall equally victims to their pride, their power, their avarice, or their aversion. Some may suggest, that it is strange crowned heads and eminent nobles, have not attempted to crush the power of the inquisition, and reduce the authority of those ecclesiastical tyrants, from whose merciless fangs neither their families nor themselves are secure. But astonishing as it is, superstition hath, in this case, always overcome common sense, and custom operated against reason. One prince, indeed, intended to abolish the inquisition, but he lost his life before he became king, and consequently before he had the power so to do; for the very intimation of his design procured his destruction. This was that amiable prince Don Carlos, son of Philip the Second, king of Spain, and grandson of the celebrated emperor Charles V. Don Carlos, possessed all the good qualities of his grandfather without any of the bad ones of his father; and was a prince of great vivacity, admirable learning, and the most amiable disposition.--He had sense enough to see into the errors of popery, and abhorred the very name of the inquisition. He inveighed publicly against the institution, ridiculed the affected piety of the inquisitors, did all he could to expose their atrocious deeds, end even declared, that if he ever came to the crown, he would abolish the inquisition, and exterminate its agents. These things were sufficient to irritate the inquisitors against the prince: they, accordingly, bent their minds to vengeance, and determined on his destruction. The inquisitors now employed all their agents and emissaries to spread abroad the most artful insinuations against the prince; and, at length, raised such a spirit of discontent among the people, that the king was under the necessity of removing Don Carlos from court. Not content with this, they pursued even his friends, and obliged the king likewise to banish Don John, duke of Austria, his own brother, and consequently uncle to the prince; together with the prince of Parma, nephew to the king, and cousin to the prince, because they well knew that both the duke of Austria, and the prince of Parma, had a most sincere and inviolable attachment to Don Carlos. Some few years after, the prince having shown great lenity and favour to the protestants in the Netherlands, the inquisition loudly exclaimed against him, declaring, that as the persons in question were heretics, the prince himself must necessarily be one, since he gave them countenance. In short, they gained so great an ascendency over the mind of the king, who was absolutely a slave to superstition, that, shocking to relate, he sacrificed the feelings of nature to the force of bigotry, and, for fear of incurring the anger of the inquisition, gave up his only son, passing the sentence of death on him himself. The prince, indeed, had what was termed an indulgence; that is, he was permitted to choose the manner of his death. Roman like, the unfortunate young hero chose bleeding and the hot bath; when the veins of his arms and legs being opened, he expired gradually, falling a martyr to the malice of the inquisitors, and the stupid bigotry of his father. _The Persecution of Dr. Ægidio._ Dr. Ægidio was educated at the university of Alcala, where he took his several degrees, and particularly applied himself to the study of the sacred scriptures and school divinity. The professor of theology dying, he was elected into his place, and acted so much to the satisfaction of every one, that his reputation for learning and piety was circulated throughout Europe. Ægidio, however, had his enemies, and these laid a complaint against him to the inquisitors, who sent him a citation, and when he appeared to it, cast him into a dungeon. As the greatest part of those who belonged to the cathedral church at Seville, and many persons belonging to the bishopric of Dortois highly approved of the doctrines of Ægidio, which they thought perfectly consonant with true religion, they petitioned the emperor in his behalf. Though the monarch had been educated a Roman catholic, he had too much sense to be a bigot, and therefore sent an immediate order for his enlargement. He soon after visited the church of Valladolid, did every thing he could to promote the cause of religion, and returning home he soon after fell sick, and died in an extreme old age. The inquisitors having been disappointed of gratifying their malice against him while living, determined (as the emperor's whole thoughts were engrossed by a military expedition) to wreak their vengeance on him when dead. Therefore, soon after he was buried, they ordered his remains to be dug out of the grave; and a legal process being carried on, they were condemned to be burnt, which was executed accordingly. _The Persecution of Dr. Constantine._ Dr. Constantine, an intimate acquaintance of the already mentioned Dr. Ægidio, was a man of uncommon natural abilities and profound learning; exclusive of several modern tongues, he was acquainted with the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages, and perfectly well knew not only the sciences called abstruse, but those arts which come under the denomination of polite literature. His eloquence rendered him pleasing, and the soundness of his doctrines a profitable preacher; and he was so popular, that he never preached but to a crowded audience. He had many opportunities of rising in the church, but never would take advantage of them; for if a living of greater value than his own was offered him, he would refuse it, saying, I am content with what I have; and he frequently preached so forcibly against simony, that many of his superiors, who were not so delicate upon the subject, took umbrage at his doctrines upon that head. Having been fully confirmed in protestantism by Dr. Ægidio, he preached boldly such doctrines only as were agreeable to gospel purity, and uncontaminated by the errors which had at various times crept into the Romish church. For these reasons he had many enemies among the Roman catholics, and some of them were fully determined on his destruction. A worthy gentleman named Scobaria, having erected a school for divinity lectures, appointed Dr. Constantine to be reader therein. He immediately undertook the task, and read lectures, by portions, on the Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Canticles; and was beginning to expound the book of Job, when he was seized by the inquisitors. Being brought to examination, he answered with such precaution that they could not find any explicit charge against him, but remained doubtful in what manner to proceed, when the following circumstances occurred to determine them. Dr. Constantine had deposited with a woman named Isabella Martin several books, which to him were very valuable, but which he knew, in the eyes of the inquisition, were exceptionable. This woman having been informed against as a protestant, was apprehended, and, after a small process, her goods were ordered to be confiscated. Previous, however, to the officers coming to her house, the woman's son had removed away several chests full of the most valuable articles; and among these were Dr. Constantine's books. A treacherous servant giving intelligence of this to the inquisitors, an officer was despatched to the son to demand the chests. The son, supposing the officer only came for Constantine's books, said, I know what you come for, and I will fetch them to you immediately. He then fetched Dr. Constantine's books and papers, when the officer was greatly surprised to find what he did not look for. He, however, told the young man, that he was glad these books and papers were produced, but nevertheless he must fulfil the end of his commission, which was, to carry him and the goods he had embezzled before the inquisitors, which he did accordingly; for the young man knew it would be in vain to expostulate, or resist, and therefore quietly submitted to his fate. The inquisitors being thus possessed of Constantine's books and writings, now found matter sufficient to form charges against him. When he was brought to a re-examination, they presented one of his papers, and asked him if he knew the hand writing! Perceiving it was his own, he guessed the whole matter, confessed the writing, and justified the doctrine it contained: saying, "In that, and all my other writings, I have never departed from the truth of the gospel, but have always kept in view the pure precepts of Christ, as he delivered them to mankind." After being detained upwards of two years in prison, Dr. Constantine was seized with a bloody flux, which put an end to his miseries in this world. The process, however, was carried on against his body, which, at the ensuing auto de fe, was publicly burnt. _The Life of William Gardiner._ William Gardiner was born at Bristol, received a tolerable education, and was, at a proper age, placed under the care of a merchant, named Paget. At the age of twenty-six years, he was, by his master, sent to Lisbon, to act as factor. Here he applied himself to the study of the Portuguese language, executed his business with assiduity and despatch, and behaved with the most engaging affability to all persons with whom he had the least concern. He conversed privately with a few, whom he knew to be zealous protestants; and, at the same time cautiously avoided giving the least offence to any who were Roman catholics; he had not, however, hitherto gone into any of the popish churches. A marriage being concluded between the king of Portugal's son, and the Infanta of Spain, upon the wedding-day the bride-groom, bride, and the whole court went to the cathedral church, attended by multitudes of all ranks of people, and among the rest William Gardiner who stayed during the whole ceremony, and was greatly shocked at the superstitions he saw. The erroneous worship which he had seen ran strongly in his mind, he was miserable to see a whole country sunk into such idolatry, when the truth of the gospel might be so easily obtained. He, therefore, took the inconsiderate, though laudable design, into his head, of making a reform in Portugal, or perishing in the attempt; and determined to sacrifice his prudence to his zeal, though he became a martyr upon the occasion. To this end, he settled all his worldly affairs, paid his debts, closed his books, and consigned over his merchandize. On the ensuing Sunday he went again to the cathedral church, with a New Testament in his hand, and placed himself near the altar. The king and the court soon appeared, and a cardinal began mass at that part of the ceremony in which the people adore the wafer, Gardiner could hold out no longer, but springing towards the cardinal, he snatched the host from him, and trampled it under his feet. This action amazed the whole congregation, and one person drawing a dagger, wounded Gardiner in the shoulder, and would, by repeating the blow, have finished him, had not the king called to him to desist. Gardiner, being carried before the king, the monarch asked him what countryman he was: to which he replied, I am an Englishman by birth, a protestant by religion, and a merchant by occupation. What I have done is not out of contempt to your royal person, God forbid it should, but out of an honest indignation, to see the ridiculous superstitions and gross idolatries practised here. The king, thinking that he had been stimulated by some other person to act as he had done, demanded who was his abetter, to which he replied, My own conscience alone. I would not hazard what I have done for any man living, but I owe that and all other services to God. Gardiner was sent to prison, and a general order issued to apprehend all Englishmen in Lisbon. This order was in a great measure put into execution, (some few escaping) and many innocent persons were tortured to make them confess if they knew any thing of the matter; in particular, a person who resided in the same house with Gardiner, was treated with unparallelled barbarity to make him confess something which might throw a light upon the affair. Gardiner himself was then tormented in the most excruciating manner; but in the midst of all his torments he gloried in the deed. Being ordered for death, a large fire was kindled near a gibbet, Gardiner was drawn up to the gibbet by pulleys, and then let down near the fire, but not so close as to touch it; for they burnt or rather roasted him by slow degrees. Yet he bore his sufferings patiently and resigned his soul to the Lord cheerfully. It is observable that some of the sparks were blown from the fire, (which consumed Gardiner) towards the haven, burnt one of the king's ships of war, and did other considerable damage. The Englishmen who were taken up on this occasion were, soon after Gardiner's death, all discharged, except the person who resided in the same house with him, who was detained two years before he could procure his liberty. _An account of the Life and Sufferings of Mr. William Lithgow, a native of Scotland._ This gentleman was descended from a good family, and having a natural propensity for travelling, he rambled, when very young, over the northern and western islands; after which he visited France, Germany, Switzerland and Spain. He set out on his travels in the month of March, 1609, and the first place he went to was Paris, where he stayed for some time. He then prosecuted his travels through Germany and other parts, and at length arrived at Malaga, in Spain, the seat of all his misfortunes. During his residence here, he contracted with the master of a French ship for his passage to Alexandria, but was prevented from going by the following circumstances. In the evening of the 17th of October, 1620, the English fleet, at that time on a cruise against the Algerine rovers, came to anchor before Malaga, which threw the people of the town into the greatest consternation, as they imagined them to be Turks. The morning, however, discovered the mistake, and the governor of Malaga, perceiving the cross of England in their colours, went on board Sir Robert Mansell's ship, who commanded on that expedition, and after staying some time returned, and silenced the fears of the people. The next day many persons from on board the fleet came ashore. Among these were several well known by Mr. Lithgow, who, after reciprocal compliments, spent some days together in festivity and the amusements of the town. They then invited Mr. Lithgow to go on board, and pay his respects to the admiral. He accordingly accepted the invitation, was kindly received by him, and detained till the next day when the fleet sailed. The admiral would willingly have taken Mr. Lithgow with him to Algiers; but having contracted for his passage to Alexandria, and his baggage, &c. being in the town, he could not accept the offer. As soon as Mr. Lithgow got on shore, he proceeded towards his lodgings by a private way, (being to embark the same night for Alexandria) when, in passing through a narrow uninhabited street, he found himself suddenly surrounded by nine sergeants, or officers, who threw a black cloak over him, and forcibly conducted him to the governor's house. After some little time the governor appeared when Mr. Lithgow earnestly begged he might be informed of the cause of such violent treatment. The governor only answered by shaking his head, and gave orders that the prisoner should be strictly watched till he (the governor) returned from his devotions; directing at the same time, that the captain of the town, the alcade major, and town notary, should be summoned to appear at his examination, and that all this should he done with the greatest secrecy, to prevent the knowledge thereof reaching the ears of the English merchants then residing in the town. These orders were strictly discharged, and on the governor's return, he, with the officers, having seated themselves, Mr. Lithgow was brought before them for examination. The governor began by asking several questions, namely, of what country he was, whither bound, and how long he had been in Spain. The prisoner, after answering these and other questions, was conducted to a closet, where, in a short space of time, he was visited by the town-captain, who inquired whether he had ever been at Seville, or was lately come from thence; and patting his cheeks with an air of friendship conjured him to tell the truth: "For (said he) your very countenance shows there is some hidden matter in your mind, which prudence should direct you to disclose." Finding himself, however, unable to extort anything from the prisoner, he left him, and reported the same to the governor and the other officers; on which Mr. Lithgow was again brought before them, a general accusation was laid against him, and he was compelled to swear that he would give true answers to such questions as should be asked him. The governor proceeded to inquire the quality of the English commander, and the prisoner's opinion what were the motives that prevented his accepting an invitation from him to come on shore. He demanded, likewise, the names of the English captains in the squadron, and what knowledge he had of the embarkation, or preparation for it before his departure from England. The answers given to the several questions asked were set down in writing by the notary; but the junto seemed surprised at his denying any knowledge of the fitting out of the fleet, particularly the governor, who said he lied that he was a traitor and a spy, and came directly from England to favour and assist the designs that were projected against Spain, and that he had been for that purpose nine months in Seville, in order to procure intelligence of the time the Spanish navy was expected from the Indies. They exclaimed against his familiarity with the officers of the fleet, and many other English gentlemen, between whom, they said, unusual civilities had passed, but all these transactions had been carefully noticed. Besides, to sum up the whole, and put the truth past all doubt, they said, he came from a council of war, held that morning on board the admiral's ship, in order to put in execution the orders assigned him. They upbraided him with being accessary to the burning of the island of St. Thomas, in the West Indies. "Wherefore, (said they) these Lutherans, and sons of the devil, ought to have no credit given to what they say or swear." In vain did Mr. Lithgow, endeavour to obviate every accusation laid against him, and to obtain belief from his prejudiced judges. He begged permission to send for his cloak-bag, which contained his papers, and might serve to show his innocence. This request they complied with, thinking it would discover some things of which they were ignorant. The cloak-bag was accordingly brought, and being opened, among other things, was found a license from king James the First, under the sign manuel, setting forth the bearer's intention to travel into Egypt; which was treated by the haughty Spaniards with great contempt. The other papers consisted of passports, testimonials, &c. of persons of quality. All these credentials, however, seemed rather to confirm than abate the suspicions of these prejudiced judges, who, after seizing all the prisoner's papers, ordered him again to withdraw. In the mean time a consultation was held to fix the place where the prisoner should be confined. The alcade, or chief judge, was for putting him into the town prison; but this was objected to, particularly by the corregidor, who said, in Spanish, "In order to prevent the knowledge of his confinement from reaching his countrymen, I will take the matter on myself, and be answerable for the consequences;" upon which it was agreed, that he should be confined in the governor's house with the greatest secrecy. This matter being determined, one of the sergeants went to Mr. Lithgow, and begged his money, with liberty to search him. As it was needless to make any resistance, the prisoner quietly complied, when the sergeant (after rifling his pockets of eleven ducatoons) stripped him to his shirt; and searching his breeches he found, enclosed in the waistband, two canvass bags, containing one hundred and thirty-seven pieces of gold. The sergeant immediately took the money to the corregidor, who, after having told it over, ordered him to clothe the prisoner, and shut him up close till after supper. About midnight, the sergeant and two Turkish slaves released Mr. Lithgow from his then confinement, but it was to introduce him to one much more horrible. They conducted him through several passages, to a chamber in a remote part of the palace, towards the garden, where they loaded him with irons, and extended his legs by means of an iron bar above a yard long, the weight of which was so great that he could neither stand nor sit, but was obliged to lie continually on his back. They left him in this condition for some time, when they returned with a refreshment of food, consisting of a pound of boiled mutton and a loaf, together with a small quantity of wine; which was not only the first, but the best and last of the kind, during his confinement in this place. After delivering these articles, the sergeant locked the door, and left Mr. Lithgow to his own private contemplations. The next day he received a visit from the governor, who promised him his liberty, with many other advantages, if he would confess being a spy; but on his protesting that he was entirely innocent, the governor left him in a rage, saying, He should see him no more till farther torments constrained him to confess, commanding the keeper, to whose care he was committed, that he should permit no person whatever to have access to, or commune with him; that his sustenance should not exceed three ounces of musty bread, and a pint of water every second day; that he shall be allowed neither bed, pillow, nor coverlid. "Close up (said he) this window in his room with lime and stone, stop up the holes of the door with double mats: let him have nothing that bears any likeness to comfort." These, and several other orders of the like severity, were given to render it impossible for his condition to be known to those of the English nation. In this wretched and melancholy state did poor Lithgow continue without seeing any person for several days, in which time the governor received an answer to a letter he had written, relative to the prisoner from Madrid; and, pursuant to the instructions given him, began to put in practice the cruelties devised, which they hastened, because Christmas holy-days approached, it being then the forty-seventh day since his imprisonment. About two o'clock in the morning, he heard the noise of a coach in the street, and some time after heard the opening of the prison doors, not having had any sleep for two nights; hunger, pain, and melancholy reflections having prevented him from taking any repose. Soon after the prison doors were opened, the nine sergeants, who had first seized him, entered the place where he lay, and without uttering a word, conducted him in his irons through the house into the street, where a coach waited, and into which they laid him at the bottom on his back, not being able to sit. Two of the sergeants rode with him, and the rest walked by the coach side, but all observed the most profound silence. They drove him to a vinepress house, about a league from the town, to which place a rack had been privately conveyed before; and here they shut him up for that night. At day-break the next morning, arrived the governor and the alcade, into whose presence Mr. Lithgow was immediately brought to undergo another examination. The prisoner desired he might have an interpreter, which was allowed to strangers by the laws of that country, but this was refused, nor would they permit him to appeal to Madrid, the superior court of judicature. After a long examination, which lasted from morning till night, there appeared in all his answers so exact a conformity with what he had before said, that they declared he had learned them by heart, there not being the least prevarication. They, however, pressed him again to make a full discovery; that is, to accuse himself of crimes never committed, the governor adding, "You are still in my power; I can set you free if you comply, if not, I must deliver you to the alcade." Mr. Lithgow still persisting in his innocence, the governor ordered the notary to draw up a warrant for delivering him to the alcade to be tortured. In consequence of this he was conducted by the sergeants to the end of a stone gallery, where the rack was placed. The encarouador or executioner, immediately struck off his irons, which put him to very great pains, the bolts being so close riveted, that the sledge hammer tore away half an inch of his heel, in forcing off the bolt; the anguish of which, together with his weak condition, (not having the least sustenance for three days) occasioned him to groan bitterly; upon which the merciless alcade said, "Villain, traitor, this is but the earnest of what you shall endure." When his irons were off he fell on his knees, uttering a short prayer, that God would be pleased to enable him to be steadfast, and undergo courageously the grievous trial he had to encounter. The alcade and notary having placed themselves in chairs, he was stripped naked, and fixed upon the rack, the office of these gentlemen being to be witness of, and set down the confessions and tortures endured by the delinquent. It is impossible to describe all the various tortures inflicted upon him. Suffice it to say, that he lay on the rack for above five hours, during which time he received above sixty different tortures of the most hellish nature; and had they continued them a few minutes longer, he must have inevitably perished. These cruel persecutors being satisfied for the present, the prisoner was taken from the rack, and his irons being again put on, he was conducted to his former dungeon, having received no other nourishment than a little warm wine, which was given him rather to prevent his dying, and reserve him for future punishments, than from any principle of charity or compassion. As a confirmation of this, orders were given for a coach to pass every morning before day by the prison, that the noise made by it might give fresh terrors and alarms to the unhappy prisoner, and deprive him of all possibility of obtaining the least repose. He continued in this horrid situation, almost starved for want of the common necessaries to preserve his wretched existence, till Christmas day, when he received some relief from Mariane, waiting-woman to the governor's lady. This woman having obtained leave to visit him, carried with her some refreshments, consisting of honey, sugar, raisins, and other articles: and so affected was she at beholding his situation, that she wept bitterly, and at her departure expressed the greatest concern at not being able to give him further assistance. In this loathsome prison was poor Mr. Lithgow kept till he was almost devoured by vermin. They crawled about his beard, lips, eye-brows, &c. so that he could scarce open his eyes; and his mortification was increased by not having the use of his hands or legs to defend himself, from his being so miserably maimed by the tortures. So cruel was the governor, that he even ordered the vermin to be swept on him twice in every eight days. He, however obtained some little mitigation of this part of his punishment, from the humanity of a Turkish slave that attended him, who, when he could do it with safety, destroyed the vermin, and contributed every refreshment to him that laid in his power. From this slave Mr. Lithgow at length received information which gave him little hopes of ever being released, but, on the contrary, that he should finish his life under new tortures. The substance of this information was, that an English seminary priest, and a Scotch cooper, had been for some time employed by the governor to translate from the English into the Spanish language, all his books and observations; and that it was commonly said in the governor's house, that he was an arch heretic. This information greatly alarmed him, and he began, not without reason, to fear that they would soon finish him, more especially as they could neither by torture or any other means, bring him to vary from what he had all along said at his different examinations. Two days after he had received the above information, the governor, an inquisitor, and a canonical priest, accompanied by two Jesuits, entered his dungeon, and being seated, after several idle questions, the inquisitor asked Mr. Lithgow if he was a Roman catholic, and acknowledged the pope's supremacy? He answered, that he neither was the one or did the other; adding, that he was surprised at being asked such questions, since it was expressly stipulated by the articles of peace between England and Spain, that none of the English subjects should be liable to the inquisition, or any way molested by them on account of diversity in religion, &c. In the bitterness of his soul he made use of some warm expressions not suited to his circumstances: "As you have almost murdered me (said he) for pretended treason, so now you intend to make a martyr of me for my religion." He also expostulated with the governor on the ill return he made to the king of England, (whose subject he was) for the princely humanity exercised towards the Spaniards in 1588, when their armada was shipwrecked on the Scotch coast, and thousands of the Spaniards found relief, who must otherwise have miserably perished. The governor admitted the truth of what Mr. Lithgow said, but replied with a haughty air, that the king, who then only ruled Scotland, was actuated more by fear than love, and therefore did not deserve any thanks. One of the Jesuits said, there was no faith to be kept with heretics. The inquisitor then rising, addressed himself to Mr Lithgow in the following words: "You have been taken up as a spy, accused of treachery, and tortured, as we acknowledge, innocently: (which appears by the account lately received from Madrid of the intentions of the English) yet it was the divine power that brought those judgments upon you, for presumptuously treating the blessed miracle of Loretto with ridicule, and expressing yourself in your writings irreverently of his holiness, the great agent and Christ's vicar upon earth; therefore you are justly fallen into our hands by their special appointment: thy books and papers are miraculously translated by the assistance of Providence influencing thy own countrymen." This trumpery being ended, they gave the prisoner eight days to consider and resolve whether he would become a convert to their religion; during which time the inquisitor told him he, with other religious orders, would attend, to give him such assistance thereto as he might want. One of the Jesuits said, (first making the sign of the cross upon his breast) "My son, behold, you deserve to be burnt alive; but by the grace of our lady of Loretto, whom you have blasphemed, we will both save your soul and body." In the morning, the inquisitor with three other ecclesiastics returned, when the former asked the prisoner what difficulties he had on his conscience that retarded his conversion; to which he answered, "he had not any doubts in his mind, being confident in the promises of Christ, and assuredly believing his revealed will signified in the gospels, as professed in the reformed catholic church, being confirmed by grace, and having infallible assurance thereby of the christian faith." To these words the inquisitor replied, "Thou art no christian, but an absurd heretic, and without conversion a member of perdition." The prisoner then told him, it was not consistent with the nature and essence of religion and charity to convince by opprobrious speeches, racks, and torments, but by arguments deduced from the scriptures; and that all other methods would with him be totally ineffectual. The inquisitor was so enraged at the replies made by the prisoner, that he struck him on the face, used many abusive speeches, and attempted to stab him, which he had certainly done had he not been prevented by the Jesuits: and from this time he never again visited the prisoner. The next day the two Jesuits returned, and putting on a very grave supercilious air, the superior asked him, what resolution he had taken? To which Mr. Lithgow replied, that he was already resolved, unless he could show substantial reasons to make him alter his opinion. The superior, after a pedantic display of their seven sacraments, the intercession of saints, transubstantiation, &c. boasted greatly of their church, her antiquity, universality, and uniformity; all which Mr. Lithgow denied: "For (said he) the profession of the faith I hold hath been ever since the first days of the apostles, and Christ had ever his own church (however obscure) in the greatest time of your darkness." The Jesuits, finding their arguments had not the desired effect, that torments could not shake his constancy, nor even the fear of the cruel sentence he had reason to expect would be pronounced and executed on him, after severe menaces, left him. On the eighth day after being the last of their inquisition, when sentence is pronounced, they returned again, but quite altered both in their words and behaviour after repeating much of the same kind of arguments as before, they with seeming tears in their eyes, pretended they were sorry from their heart he must be obliged to undergo a terrible death, but above all, for the loss of his most precious soul; and falling on their knees, cried out, "Convert, convert, O dear brother, for our blessed lady's sake convert!" To which he answered, "I fear neither death nor fire, being prepared for both." The first effects Mr. Lithgow felt of the determination of this bloody tribunal was, a sentence to receive that night eleven different tortures, and if he did not die in the execution of them, (which might be reasonably expected from the maimed and disjointed condition he was in) he was, after Easter holy-days, to be carried to Grenada, and there burnt to ashes. The first part of this sentence was executed with great barbarity that night; and it pleased God to give him strength both of body and mind, to stand fast to the truth, and to survive the horrid punishments inflicted on him. After these barbarians had glutted themselves for the present, with exercising on the unhappy prisoner the most distinguished cruelties, they again put irons on, and conveyed him to his former dungeon. The next morning he received some little comfort from the Turkish slave before mentioned, who secretly brought him, in his shirt sleeve, some raisins and figs, which he licked up in the best manner his strength would permit with his tongue. It was to this slave Mr. Lithgow attributed his surviving so long in such a wretched situation; for he found means to convey some of these fruits to him twice every week. It is very extraordinary, and worthy of note, that this poor slave, bred up from his infancy, according to the maxims of his prophet and parents, in the greatest detestation of christians, should be so affected at the miserable situation of Mr. Lithgow, that he fell ill, and continued so for upwards of forty days. During this period Mr. Lithgow was attended by a negro woman, a slave, who found means to furnish him with refreshments still more amply than the Turk, being conversant in the house and family. She brought him every day some victuals, and with it some wine in a bottle. The time was now so far elapsed, and the horrid situation so truly loathsome, that Mr. Lithgow waited with anxious expectation for the day, which, by putting an end to his life, would also end his torments. But his melancholy expectations were, by the interposition of Providence, happily rendered abortive, and his deliverance obtained from the following circumstances. It happened that a Spanish gentleman of quality came from Grenada to Malaga, who being invited to an entertainment by the governor, he informed him of what had befallen Mr. Lithgow from the time of his being apprehended as a spy, and described the various sufferings he had endured. He likewise told him, that after it was known the prisoner was innocent, it gave him great concern. That on this account he would gladly have released him, restored his money and papers, and made some atonement for the injuries he had received but that, upon an inspection into his writings, several were found of a very blasphemous nature, highly reflecting on their religion. That on his refusing to abjure these heretical opinions, he was turned over to the inquisition, by whom he was finally condemned. While the governor was relating this tragical tale, a Flemish youth (servant to the Spanish gentleman) who waited at the table, was struck with amazement and pity at the sufferings of the stranger described. On his return to his master's lodgings he began to revolve in his mind what he had heard, which made such an impression on him that he could not rest in his bed. In the short slumbers he had, his imagination painted to him the person described, on the rack, and burning in the fire. In this anxiety he passed the night; and when the morning came, without disclosing his intentions to any person whatever, he went into the town, and enquired for an English factor. He was directed to the house of a Mr. Wild, to whom he related the whole of what he had heard pass, the preceding evening, between his master and the governor; but could not tell Mr. Lithgow's name. Mr. Wild, however, conjectured it was him, by the servant's remembering the circumstance of his being a traveller, and his having had some acquaintance with him. On the departure of the Flemish servant, Mr. Wild immediately sent for the other English factors, to whom he related all the particulars relative to their unfortunate countryman. After a short consultation it was agreed, that an information of the whole affair should be sent, by express, to Sir Walter Aston, the English ambassador to the king of Spain, then at Madrid. This was accordingly done, and the ambassador having presented a memorial to the king and council of Spain, he obtained an order for Mr. Lithgow's enlargement, and his delivery to the English factory. This order was directed to the governor of Malaga; and was received with great dislike and surprise by the whole assembly of the bloody inquisition. Mr. Lithgow was released from his confinement on the eve of Easter Sunday, when he was carried from his dungeon on the back of the slave who had attended him, to the house of one Mr. Bosbich, where all proper comforts were given him. It fortunately happened, that there was at this time a squadron of English ships in the road, commanded by Sir Richard Hawkins, who being informed of the past sufferings and present situation of Mr. Lithgow, came the next day ashore, with a proper guard, and received him from the merchants. He was instantly carried in blankets on board the Vanguard, and three days after was removed to another ship, by direction of the general Sir Robert Mansel, who ordered that he should have proper care taken of him. The factory presented him with clothes, and all necessary provisions, besides which they gave him 200 reals in silver; and Sir Richard Hawkins sent him two double pistoles. Before his departure from the Spanish coast, Sir Richard Hawkins demanded the delivery of his papers, money, books, &c. but could not obtain any satisfactory answer on that head. We cannot help making a pause here to reflect, how manifestly Providence interfered in behalf of this poor man, when he was just on the brink of destruction; for by his sentence, from which there was no appeal, he would have been taken, in a few days, to Grenada, and burnt to ashes: and that a poor ordinary servant, who had not the least knowledge of him, nor was any ways interested in his preservation, should risk the displeasure of his master, and hazard his own life, to disclose a thing of so momentous and perilous a nature, to a strange gentleman, on whose secrecy depended his own existence. By such secondary means does Providence frequently interfere in behalf of the virtuous and oppressed; of which this is a most distinguished example. After lying twelve days in the road, the ship weighed anchor, and in about two months arrived safe at Deptford. The next morning, Mr. Lithgow was carried on a feather bed to Theobalds, in Hertfordshire, where at that time was the king and royal family. His majesty happened to be that day engaged in hunting, but on his return in the evening, Mr. Lithgow was presented to him, and related the particulars of his sufferings, and his happy delivery. The king was so affected at the narrative, that he expressed the deepest concern, and gave orders that he should be sent to Bath, and his wants properly supplied from his royal munificence. By these means, under God, after some time, Mr. Lithgow was restored, from the most wretched spectacle, to a great share of health and strength; but he lost the use of his left arm, and several of the smaller bones were so crushed and broken, as to be ever after rendered useless. Notwithstanding every effort was used, Mr. Lithgow could never obtain any part of his money or effects, though his majesty and the ministers of state, interested themselves in his behalf. Gondamore, the Spanish ambassador, indeed, promised that all his effects should be restored, with the addition of £1000 English money, as some atonement for the tortures he had undergone, which last was to be paid him by the governor of Malaga. These engagements, however, were but mere promises; and though the king was a kind of guarantee for the well performance of them, the cunning Spaniard found means to elude the same. He had, indeed, too great a share of influence in the English council during the time of that pacific reign, when England suffered herself to be bullied into slavish compliance by most of the states and kings in Europe. _Croly on the Inquisition._ We shall conclude this chapter with the subjoined extract from the New Interpretation of the Apocalypse by the Rev. George Croly. In our fortunate country, the power of the Romish church has so long perished, that we find some difficulty in conceiving the nature, and still more in believing the tyranny of its dominion. The influence of the monks and the murders of the inquisition have passed into a nursery tale; and we turn with a generous, yet rash and most unjustifiable scepticism from the history of Romish authority. Through almost the entire of Italy, through the Flemish dominions of Germany, through a large portion of France, and through the entire of Spain, a great monastic body was established, which, professing a secondary and trivial obedience to the sovereign, gave its first and real obedience to the pope. The name of spiritual homage cloaked the high treason of an oath of allegiance to a foreign monarch; and whoever might be king of France, or Spain, the pope was king of the Dominicans. All the other monastic orders were so many papal outposts. But the great Dominican order, immensely opulent in its pretended poverty; formidably powerful in its hypocritical disdain of earthly influence; and remorselessly ambitious, turbulent, and cruel in its primitive zeal; was an actual lodgment and province of the papacy, an inferior Rome, in the chief European kingdoms. In the closest imitation of Rome, this spiritual power had fiercely assumed the temporal sword; the inquisition was army, revenues, and throne in one. With the racks and fires of a tribunal worthy of the gulf of darkness and guilt from which it rose, the Dominicans bore popery in triumph through christendom, crushing every vestige of religion under the wheels of its colossal idol. The subjugation of the Albigenses in 1229 had scattered the church; the shock of the great military masses was past; a subtler and more active force was required to destroy the wandering people of God; and the inquisition multiplied itself for the work of death. This terrible tribunal set every principle, and even every form of justice at defiance. Secrecy, that confounds innocence with guilt, was the spirit of its whole proceeding. All its steps were in darkness. The suspected revolter from popery was seized in secret, tried in secret, never suffered to see the face of accuser, witness, advocate, or friend, was kept unacquainted with the charge, was urged to criminate himself; if tardy, was compelled to this self-murder by the rack; if terrified, was only the more speedily murdered for the sport of the multitude. From the hour of his seizure he never saw the face of day, until he was brought out as a public show, a loyal and festal sacrifice, to do honor to the entrance of some travelling viceroy, some new married princess, or, on more fortunate occasions, to the presence of the sovereign. The dungeons were then drained, the human wreck of the torture and scourge were gathered out of darkness, groups of misery and exhaustion with wasted forms and broken limbs, and countenances subdued by pain and famine into idiotism, and despair, and madness; to feed the fires round which the Dominicans were chanting the glories of popery, and exulting in the destruction of the body for the good of the soul! In the original establishment of the inquisition in 1198, it had raged against the Vaudois and their converts. But the victims were exhausted; or not worth the pursuit of a tribunal which looked to the wealth as keenly as to the faith of the persecuted. Opulence and heresy were at length to be found only to Spain, and there the inquisition turned with a gigantic step. In the early disturbances of the Peninsula, the Jews, by those habits of trade, and mutual communion, which still make them the lords of commerce, had acquired the chief wealth of the country. The close of the Moorish war in the 15th century had left the Spanish monarch at leisure for extortion; and he grasped at the Jewish gains in the spirit of a robber, as he pursued his plunder with the cruelty of a barbarian. The inquisition was the great machine, the comprehensive torturer, ready to squeeze out alike the heart and the gold. In 1481, an edict was issued against the Jews; before the end of the year, in the single diocess of Cadiz, two thousand Jews were burnt alive! The fall of the kingdom of Grenada, in 1492, threw the whole of the Spanish Moors into the hands of the king. They were cast into the same furnace of plunder and torture. Desperate rebellions followed; they were defeated and, in 1609, were finally exiled. "In the space of one hundred and twenty nine years, the inquisition deprived Spain of three millions of inhabitants." On the death of Leo X. in 1521, Adrian, the inquisitor general was elected pope. He had laid the foundation of his papal celebrity in Spain. "It appears, according to the most moderate calculation, that during the five years of the ministry of Adrian, 24,025 persons were condemned by the inquisition, of whom one thousand six hundred and twenty were burned alive." It is the constant sophism of those who would cast christianity bound hand and foot at the mercy of her enemies, that the pope desires to exercise no interference in the internal concerns of kingdoms; that, if he had the desire, he has not the power; and that, if he possessed the power, he would be resisted by the whole body of the national clergy. For the exposure of this traitorous delusion, we are to look to the times, when it was the will of popery to put forth its strength; not to the present, when it is its will to lull us into a belief of its consistency with the constitution, in defiance of common sense, common experience, the spirit of British law, and the loud warnings of insulted and hazarded religion. Of the multitudes who perished by the inquisition throughout the world, no authentic record is now discoverable. But wherever popery had power, there was the tribunal. It had been planted even in the east, and the Portuguese inquisition of Goa was, till within these few years, fed with many an agony. South America was partitioned into provinces of the inquisition; and with a ghastly mimickry of the crimes of the mother state, the arrivals of viceroys, and the other popular celebrations were thought imperfect without an auto de fe. The Netherlands were one scene of slaughter from the time of the decree which planted the inquisition among them. In Spain the calculation is more attainable. Each of the _seventeen_ tribunals during a long period burned annually on an average ten miserable beings! We are to recollect that this number was in a country where persecution had for ages abolished all religious differences, and where the difficulty was not to find the stake, but the offering. Yet, even in Spain, thus gleaned of all heresy, the inquisition could still swell its list of murders to thirty-two thousand! The numbers burned in effigy, or condemned to penance, punishments generally equivalent to exile, confiscation, and taint of blood, to all ruin but the mere loss of worthless life amounted to three hundred and nine thousand. But the crowds who perished in dungeons, of the torture, of confinement, and of broken hearts, the millions of dependent lives made utterly helpless, or hurried to the grave by the death of the victims, are beyond all register; or recorded only before HIM, who has sworn that "He who leadeth into captivity, shall go into captivity: and he that killeth with the sword shall be killed by the sword." Such was the inquisition, declared by the Spirit of God to be at once the offspring and the _image_ of the popedom. To feel the force of the parentage, we must look to the time. In the thirteenth century, the popedom was at the summit of mortal dominion; it was independent of all kingdoms; it ruled with a rank of influence never before or since possessed by a human sceptre; it was the acknowledged sovereign of body and soul; to all earthly intents its power was immeasurable for good or evil. It might have spread literature, peace, freedom, and christianity to the ends of Europe, or the world. But its nature was hostile; its fuller triumph only disclosed its fuller evil; and, to the shame of human reason, and the terror and suffering of human virtue, Rome, in the hour of its consummate grandeur, teemed with the monstrous and horrid birth of the INQUISITION! CHAPTER VI. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTION IN ITALY, UNDER THE PAPACY. We shall now enter on an account of the persecutions in Italy, a country which has been, and still is, 1. The centre of popery. 2. The seat of the pontiff. 3. The source of the various errors which have spread themselves over other countries, deluded the minds of thousands, and diffused the clouds of superstition and bigotry over the human understanding. In pursuing our narrative we shall include the most remarkable persecutions which have happened, and the cruelties which have been practised, 1. By the immediate power of the pope. 2. Through the power of the inquisition. 3. At the instigation of particular orders of the clergy. 4. By the bigotry of the Italian princes. In the 12th century, the first persecutions under the papacy began in Italy, at the time that Adrian, an Englishman, was pope, being occasioned by the following circumstances: A learned man, and an excellent orator of Brixia, named Arnold came to Rome, and boldly preached against the corruptions and innovations which had crept into the church. His discourses were so clear, consistent, and breathed forth such a pure spirit of piety, that the senators, and many of the people, highly approved of, and admired his doctrines. This so greatly enraged Adrian, that he commanded Arnold instantly to leave the city, as a heretic. Arnold, however, did not comply, for the senators, and some of the principal people, took his part, and resisted the authority of the pope. Adrian now laid the city of Rome under an interdict, which caused the whole body of clergy to interpose; and, at length, persuaded the senators and people to give up the point, and suffer Arnold to be banished. This being agreed to, he received the sentence of exile, and retired to Germany, where he continued to preach against the pope, and to expose the gross errors of the church of Rome. Adrian, on this account, thirsted for his blood, and made several attempts to get him into his hands; but Arnold, for a long time, avoided every snare laid for him. At length, Frederic Barbarossa arriving at the imperial dignity, requested that the pope would crown him with his own hand. This Adrian complied with, and at the same time asked a favour of the emperor, which was, to put Arnold into his hands. The emperor very readily delivered up the unfortunate preacher, who soon fell a martyr to Adrian's vengeance, being hanged, and his body burnt to ashes, at Apulia. The same fate attended several of his old friends and companions. Encenas, a Spaniard, was sent to Rome, to be brought up in the Roman catholic faith; but having conversed with some of the reformed, and read several treatises which they had put into his hands, he became a protestant. This, at length, being known, one of his own relations informed against him, when he was burnt by order of the pope, and a conclave of cardinals. The brother of Encenas had been taken up much about the same time, for having a New Testament, in the Spanish language, in his possession; but before the time appointed for his execution, he found means to escape out of prison, and retired to Germany. Faninus, a learned layman, by reading controversial books, became of the reformed religion. An information being exhibited against him to the pope, he was apprehended, and cast into prison. His wife, children, relations and friends, visited him in his confinement, and so far wrought upon his mind, that he renounced his faith, and obtained his release. But he was no sooner free from confinement, than his mind felt the heaviest of chains; the weight of a guilty conscience. His horrors were so great, that he found them insupportable, till he had returned from his apostacy, and declared himself fully convinced of the errors of the church of Rome. To make amends for his falling off, he now openly and strenuously did all he could to make converts to protestantism, and was pretty successful in his endeavours. These proceedings occasioned his second imprisonment, but he had his life offered him if he would recant again. This proposal he rejected with disdain, saying, that he scorned life upon such terms. Being asked why he would obstinately persist in his opinions and leave his wife and children in distress, he replied, I shall not leave them in distress; I have recommended them to the care of an excellent trustee. What trustee? said the person who had asked the question, with some surprise: to which Faninus answered, Jesus Christ is the trustee I mean, and I think I could not commit them to the care of a better. On the day of execution he appeared remarkably cheerful, which one observing, said, it is strange you should appear so merry upon such an occasion, when Jesus Christ himself, just before his death, was in such agonies, that he sweated blood and water. To which Faninus replied; Christ sustained all manner of pangs and conflicts, with hell and death, on our accounts; and thus, by his sufferings, freed those who really believe in him from the fear of them. He was then strangled, and his body being burnt to ashes, they were scattered about by the wind. Dominicus, a learned soldier, having read several controversial writings, became a zealous protestant, and retiring to Placentia, he preached the gospel in its utmost purity, to a very considerable congregation. At the conclusion of his sermon one day, he said, "If the congregation will attend to-morrow, I will give them a description of Anti-christ, and paint him out in his proper colours." A vast concourse of people attended the next day, but just as Dominicus was beginning his sermon, a civil magistrate went up to the pulpit, and took him into custody. He readily submitted; but as he went along with the magistrate, made use of this expression: I wonder the devil hath let me alone so long. When he was brought to examination, this question was put to him: Will you renounce your doctrines? To which he replied: My doctrines! I maintain no doctrines of my own; what I preach are the doctrines of Christ, and for those I will forfeit my blood, and even think myself happy to suffer for the sake of my Redeemer. Every method was taken to make him recant from his faith, and embrace the errors of the church of Rome; but when persuasions and menaces were found ineffectual, he was sentenced to death, and hanged in the market-place. Galeacius, a protestant gentleman, who resided near the castle of St. Angelo, was apprehended on account of his faith. Great endeavours being used by his friends he recanted, and subscribed to several of the superstitious doctrines propagated by the church of Rome. Becoming, however, sensible of his error, he publicly renounced his recantation. Being apprehended for this, he was condemned to be burnt, and agreeable to the order, was chained to a stake, where he was left several hours before the fire was put to the faggots, in order that his wife, relations, and friends, who surrounded him, might induce him to give up his opinions. Galeacius, however, retained his constancy of mind, and entreated the executioner to put fire to the wood that was to burn him. This at length he did, and Galeacius was soon consumed in the flames, which burnt with amazing rapidity and deprived him of sensation in a few minutes. Soon after this gentleman's death, a great number of protestants were put to death in various parts of Italy, on account of their faith, giving a sure proof of their sincerity in their martyrdoms. _An account of the Persecutions of Calabria._ In the 14th century, many of the Waldenses of Pragela and Dauphiny, emigrated to Calabria, and settling some waste lands, by the permission of the nobles of that country, they soon, by the most industrious cultivation, made several wild and barren spots appear with all the beauties of verdure and fertility. The Calabrian lords were highly pleased with their new subjects and tenants, as they were honest, quiet, and industrious; but the priests of the country exhibited several negative complaints against them; for not being able to accuse them of anything bad which they did do, they founded accusations on what they did not do, and charged them, With not being Roman catholics. With not making any of their boys priests. With not making any of their girls nuns. With not going to mass. With not giving wax tapers to their priests as offerings. With not going on pilgrimages. With not bowing to images. The Calabrian lords, however, quieted the priests, by telling them that these people were extremely harmless; that they gave no offence to the Roman catholics, and cheerfully paid the tithes to the priests, whose revenues were considerably increased by their coming into the country, and who, of consequence, ought to be the last persons to complain of them. Things went on tolerably well after this for a few years, during which the Waldenses formed themselves into two corporate towns, annexing several villages to the jurisdiction of them. At length, they sent to Geneva for two clergymen; one to preach in each town, as they determined to make a public profession of their faith. Intelligence of this affair being carried to the pope, Pius the Fourth, he determined to exterminate them from Calabria. To this end he sent cardinal Alexandrino, a man of very violent temper and a furious bigot, together with two monks, to Calabria, where they were to act as inquisitors. These authorized persons came to St. Xist, one of the towns built by the Waldenses, and having assembled the people told them, that they should receive no injury or violence, if they would accept of preachers appointed by the pope; but if they would not, they should be deprived both of their properties and lives; and that their intentions might be known, mass should be publicly said that afternoon, at which they were ordered to attend. The people of St. Xist, instead of attending mass, fled into the woods, with their families, and thus disappointed the cardinal and his coadjutors. The cardinal then proceeded to La Garde, the other town belonging to the Waldenses, where, not to be served as he had been at St. Xist, he ordered the gates to be locked, and all avenues guarded. The same proposals were then made to the inhabitants of La Garde, as had previously been offered to those of St. Xist, but with this additional piece of artifice: the cardinal assured them that the inhabitants of St. Xist had immediately come into his proposals, and agreed that the pope should appoint them preachers. This falsehood succeeded; for the people of La Garde, thinking what the cardinal had told them to be the truth, said they would exactly follow the example of their brethren at St. Xist. The cardinal having gained his point by deluding the people of one town, sent for troops of soldiers, with a view to murder those of the other. He, accordingly, despatched the soldiers into the woods, to hunt down the inhabitants of St. Xist like wild beasts, and gave them strict orders to spare neither age nor sex, but to kill all they came near. The troops entered the woods, and many fell a prey to their ferocity, before the Waldenses were properly apprised of their design. At length, however, they determined to sell their lives as dear as possible, when several conflicts happened, in which the half-armed Waldenses performed prodigies of valour, and many were slain on both sides. The greatest part of the troops being killed in the different rencontres, the rest were compelled to retreat, which so enraged the cardinal, that he wrote to the viceroy of Naples for reinforcements. The viceroy immediately ordered a proclamation to be made throughout all the Neapolitan territories, that all outlaws, deserters, and other proscribed persons should be surely pardoned for their respective offences, on condition of making a campaign against the inhabitants of St. Xist, and continuing under arms till those people were exterminated. Many persons of desperate fortunes, came in upon this proclamation, and being formed into light companies, were sent to scour the woods, and put to death all they could meet with of the reformed religion. The viceroy himself likewise joined the cardinal, at the head of a body of regular forces; and, in conjunction, they did all they could to harass the poor people in the woods. Some they caught and hanged up upon trees, cut down boughs and burnt them, or ripped them open and left their bodies to be devoured by wild beasts, or birds of prey. Many they shot at a distance, but the greatest number they hunted down by way of sport. A few hid themselves in caves, but famine destroyed them in their retreat; and thus all these poor people perished, by various means, to glut the bigoted malice of their merciless persecutors. The inhabitants of St. Xist were no sooner exterminated, than those of La Garde engaged the attention of the cardinal and viceroy. It was offered, that if they should embrace the Roman catholic persuasion, themselves and families should not be injured, but their houses and properties should be restored, and none would be permitted to molest them; but, on the contrary, if they refused this mercy, (as it was termed) the utmost extremities would be used, and the most cruel deaths the certain consequence of their non-compliance. Notwithstanding the promises on one side, and menaces on the other, these worthy people unanimously refused to renounce their religion, or embrace the errors of popery. This exasperated the cardinal and viceroy so much, that 30 of them were ordered to be put immediately to the rack, as a terror to the rest. Those who were put to the rack were treated with such severity, that several died under the tortures; one Charlin, in particular, was so cruelly used, that his belly burst, his bowels came out, and he expired in the greatest agonies. These barbarities, however, did not answer the purposes for which they were intended; for those who remained alive after the rack, and those who had not felt the rack, remained equally constant in their faith, and boldly declared, that no tortures of body, or terrors of mind, should ever induce them to renounce their God, or worship images. Several were then, by the cardinal's order, stripped stark naked, and whipped to death with iron rods; and some were hacked to pieces with large knives; others were thrown down from the top of a large tower, and many were covered over with pitch, and burnt alive. One of the monks who attended the cardinal, being naturally of a savage and cruel disposition, requested of him that he might shed some of the blood of these poor people with his own hands; when his request being granted, the barbarous man took a large sharp knife, and cut the throats of fourscore men, women, and children, with as little remorse as a butcher would have killed so many sheep. Every one of these bodies were then ordered to be quartered, the quarters placed upon stakes, and then fixed in different parts of the country, within a circuit of 30 miles. The four principal men of La Garde were hanged, and the clergyman was thrown from the top of his church steeple. He was terribly mangled, but not quite killed by the fall; at which time the viceroy passing by, said, is the dog yet living? Take him up, and give him to the hogs, when, brutal as this sentence may appear, it was executed accordingly. Sixty women were racked so violently, that the cords pierced their arms and legs quite to the bone; when, being remanded to prison, their wounds mortified, and they died in the most miserable manner. Many others were put to death by various cruel means; and if any Roman catholic, more compassionate than the rest, interceded for any of the reformed, he was immediately apprehended, and shared the same fate as a favourer of heretics. The viceroy being obliged to march back to Naples, on some affairs of moment which required his presence, and the cardinal being recalled to Rome, the marquis of Butane was ordered to put the finishing stroke to what they had begun; which he at length effected, by acting with such barbarous rigour, that there was not a single person of the reformed religion left living in all Calabria. Thus were a great number of inoffensive and harmless people deprived of their possessions, robbed of their property, driven from their homes, and, at length, murdered by various means, only because they would not sacrifice their consciences to the superstitions of others, embrace idolatrous doctrines which they abhorred, and accept of teachers whom they could not believe. Tyranny is of three kinds, viz., that which enslaves the person, that which seizes the property, and that which prescribes and dictates to the mind. The two first sorts may be termed civil tyranny, and have been practised by arbitrary sovereigns in all ages, who have delighted in tormenting the persons, and stealing the properties of their unhappy subjects. But the third sort, viz. prescribing and dictating to the mind, may be called ecclesiastical tyranny: and this is the worst kind of tyranny, as it includes the other two sorts; for the Romish clergy not only do torture the bodies and seize the effects of those they persecute, but take the lives, torment the minds, and, if possible, would tyrannize over the souls of the unhappy victims. _Account of the Persecutions in the Valleys of Piedmont._ Many of the Waldenses, to avoid the persecutions to which they were continually subjected in France, went and settled in the valleys of Piedmont, where they increased exceedingly, and flourished very much for a considerable time. Though they were harmless in their behaviour, inoffensive in their conversation, and paid tithes to the Roman clergy, yet the latter could not be contented, but wished to give them some disturbance; they, accordingly, complained to the archbishop of Turin, that the Waldenses of the valleys of Piedmont were heretics, for these reasons: 1. That they did not believe in the doctrines of the church of Rome. 2. That they made no offerings or prayers for the dead. 3. That they did not go to mass. 4. That they did not confess, and receive absolution. 5. That they did not believe in purgatory, or pay money to get the souls of their friends out of it. Upon these charges the archbishop ordered a persecution to be commenced, and many fell martyrs to the superstitious rage of the priests and monks. At Turin, one of the reformed had his bowels torn out, and put in a basin before his face, where they remained in his view till he expired. At Revel, Catelin Girard being at the stake, desired the executioner to give him a stone; which he refused, thinking that he meant to throw it at somebody; but Girard assuring him that he had no such design, the executioner complied; when Girard, looking earnestly at the stone, said, When it is in the power of a man to eat and digest this solid stone, the religion for which I am about to suffer shall have an end, and not before. He then threw the stone on the ground, and submitted cheerfully to the flames. A great many more of the reformed were oppressed, or put to death, by various means, till the patience of the Waldenses being tired out, they flew to arms in their own defence, and formed themselves into regular bodies. Exasperated at this, the bishop of Turin procured a number of troops and sent against them; but in most of the skirmishes and engagements the Waldenses were successful, which partly arose from their being better acquainted with the passes of the valleys of Piedmont than their adversaries, and partly from the desperation with which they fought; for they well knew, if they were taken, they should not be considered as prisoners of war, but tortured to death as heretics. At length, Philip the seventh, duke of Savoy, and supreme lord of Piedmont, determined to interpose his authority, and stop these bloody wars, which so greatly disturbed his dominions. He was not willing to disoblige the pope, or affront the archbishop of Turin; nevertheless, he sent them both messages, importing, that he could not any longer tamely see his dominions overrun with troops, who were directed by priests instead of officers, and commanded by prelates instead of generals; nor would he suffer his country to be depopulated, while he himself had not been even consulted upon the occasion. The priests, finding the resolution of the duke, did all they could to prejudice his mind against the Waldenses; but the duke told them, that though he was unacquainted with the religious tenets of these people, yet he had always found them quiet, faithful, and obedient, and therefore he determined they should be no longer persecuted. The priests now had recourse to the most palpable and absurd falsehoods: they assured the duke that he was mistaken in the Waldenses for they were a wicked set of people, and highly addicted to intemperance, uncleanness, blasphemy, adultery, incest, and many other abominable crimes; and that they were even monsters in nature, for their children were born with black throats, with four rows of teeth, an bodies all over hairy. The duke was not so devoid of common sense as to give credit to what the priests said, though they affirmed in the most solemn manner the truth of their assertions. He, however, sent twelve very learned and sensible gentlemen into the Piedmontese valleys, to examine into the real characters of the inhabitants. These gentlemen, after travelling through all their towns and villages, and conversing with people of every rank among the Waldenses returned to the duke, and gave him the most favourable account of those people; affirming, before the faces of the priests who villified them, that they were harmless, inoffensive, loyal, friendly, industrious, and pious: that they abhorred the crimes of which they were accused; and that, should an individual, through his depravity, fall into any of those crimes, he would, by their laws, be punished in the most exemplary manner. With respect to the children, the gentlemen said, the priests had told the most gross and ridiculous falsities, for they were neither born with black throats, teeth in their mouths, nor hair on their bodies, but were as fine children as could be seen. "And to convince your highness of what we have said, (continued one of the gentlemen), we have brought twelve of the principal male inhabitants, who are come to ask pardon in the name of the rest, for having taken up arms without your leave, though even in their own defence, and to preserve their lives from their merciless enemies. And we have likewise brought several women, with children of various ages, that your highness may have an opportunity of personally examining them as much as you please." The duke, after accepting the apology of the twelve delegates, conversing with the women, and examining the children, graciously dismissed them. He then commanded the priests, who had attempted to mislead him, immediately to leave the court; and gave strict orders, that the persecution should cease throughout his dominions. The Waldenses had enjoyed peace many years, when Philip, the seventh duke of Savoy, died, and his successor happened to be a very bigoted papist. About the same time, some of the principal Waldenses proposed, that their clergy should preach in public, that every one might know the purity of their doctrines: for hitherto they had preached only in private, and to such congregations as they well knew to consist of none but persons of the reformed religion. On hearing these proceedings, the new duke was greatly exasperated, and sent a considerable body of troops into the valleys, swearing that if the people would not change their religion, he would have them flayed alive. The commander of the troops soon found the impracticability of conquering them with the number of men he had with him, he, therefore, sent word to the duke, that the idea of subjugating the Waldenses, with so small a force, was ridiculous; that those people were better acquainted with the country than any that were with him; that they had secured all the passes, were well armed, and resolutely determined to defend themselves; and, with respect to flaying them alive, he said, that every skin belonging to those people would cost him the lives of a dozen of his subjects. Terrified at this information, the duke withdrew the troops, determining to act not by force, but by stratagem. He, therefore, ordered rewards for the taking of any of the Waldenses, who might be found straying from their places of security; and these, when taken, were either flayed alive, or burnt. The Waldenses had hitherto only had the new Testament and a few books of the Old, in the Waldensian tongue; but they determined now to have the sacred writings complete in their own language. They, therefore, employed a Swiss printer to furnish them with a complete edition of the Old and New Testaments in the Waldensian tongue, which he did for the consideration of fifteen hundred crowns of gold, paid him by those pious people. Pope Paul the third, a bigoted papist, ascending the pontifical chair, immediately solicited the parliament of Turin to persecute the Waldenses, as the most pernicious of all heretics. The parliament readily agreed, when several were suddenly apprehended and burnt by their order. Among these was Bartholomew Hector, a bookseller and stationer of Turin, who was brought up a Roman catholic, but having read some treatises written by the reformed clergy, he was fully convinced of the errors of the church of Rome; yet his mind was, for some time, wavering, and he hardly knew what persuasion to embrace. At length, however, he fully embraced the reformed religion, and was apprehended, as we have already mentioned, and burnt by order of the parliament of Turin. A consultation was now held by the parliament of Turin, in which it was agreed to send deputies to the valleys of Piedmont, with the following propositions: 1. That if the Waldenses would come to the bosom of the church of Rome, and embrace the Roman catholic religion, they should enjoy their houses, properties and lands, and live with their families, without the least molestation. 2. That to prove their obedience, they should send twelve of their principal persons, with all their ministers and schoolmasters, to Turin, to be dealt with at discretion. 3. That the pope, the king of France, and the duke of Savoy, approved of, and authorized the proceedings of the parliament of Turin, upon this occasion. 4. That if the Waldenses of the valleys of Piedmont, refused to comply with these propositions, persecution should ensue, and certain death be their portion. To each of these propositions the Waldenses nobly replied in the following manner, answering them respectively: 1. That no considerations whatever should make them renounce their religion. 2. That they would never consent to commit their best and most respectable friends, to the custody and discretion of their worst and most inveterate enemies. 3. That they valued the approbation of the King of kings, who reigns in heaven, more than any temporal authority. 4. That their souls were more precious than their bodies. These pointed and spirited replies greatly exasperated the parliament of Turin; they continued, with more avidity than ever, to kidnap such Waldenses as did not act with proper precaution, who were sure to suffer the most cruel deaths. Among these, it unfortunately happened, that they got hold of Jeffery Varnagle, minister of Angrogne, whom they committed to the flames as a heretic. They then solicited a considerable body of troops of the king of France, in order to exterminate the reformed entirely from the valleys of Piedmont; but just as the troops were going to march, the protestant princes of Germany interposed, and threatened to send troops to assist the Waldenses, if they should be attacked. The king of France, not caring to enter into a war, remanded the troops, and sent word to the parliament of Turin, that he could not spare any troops at present to act in Piedmont. The members of the parliament were greatly vexed at this disappointment, and the persecution gradually ceased, for as they could only put to death such of the reformed as they caught by chance, and as the Waldenses daily grew more cautious, their cruelty was obliged to subside, for want of objects on whom to exercise it. After the Waldenses had enjoyed a few years tranquility, they were again disturbed by the following means: the pope's nuncio coming to Turin to the duke of Savoy upon business, told that prince, he was astonished he had not yet either rooted out the Waldenses from the valleys of Piedmont entirely, or compelled them to enter into the bosom of the church of Rome. That he could not help looking upon such conduct with a suspicious eye, and that he really thought him a favourer of those heretics, and should report the affair accordingly to his holiness the pope. Stung by this reflection, and unwilling to be misrepresented to the pope, the duke determined to act with the greatest severity, in order to show his zeal, and to make amends for former neglect by future cruelty. He, accordingly, issued express orders for all the Waldenses to attend mass regularly on pain of death. This they absolutely refused to do, on which he entered the Piedmontese valleys, with a formidable body of troops, and began a most furious persecution, in which great numbers were hanged, drowned, ripped open, tied to trees, and pierced with prongs, thrown from precipices, burnt, stabbed, racked to death, crucified with their heads downwards, worried by dogs, &c. These who fled had their goods plundered, and their houses burnt to the ground: they were particularly cruel when they caught a minister or a schoolmaster, whom they put to such exquisite tortures, as are almost incredible to conceive. If any whom they took seemed wavering in their faith, they did not put them to death, but sent them to the galleys, to be made converts by dint of hardships. The most cruel persecutors, upon this occasion, that attended the duke, were three in number, viz. 1. Thomas Incomel, an apostate, for he was brought up in the reformed religion, but renounced his faith, embraced the errors of popery, and turned monk. He was a great libertine, given to unnatural crimes, and sordidly solicitous for plunder of the Waldenses. 2. Corbis, a man of a very ferocious and cruel nature, whose business was to examine the prisoners.--3. The provost of justice, who was very anxious for the execution of the Waldenses, as every execution put money in his pocket. These three persons were unmerciful to the last degree; and wherever they came, the blood of the innocent was sure to flow. Exclusive of the cruelties exercised by the duke, by these three persons, and the army, in their different marches, many local barbarities were committed. At Pignerol, a town in the valleys, was a monastery, the monks of which, finding they might injure the reformed with impunity, began to plunder the houses and pull down the churches of the Waldenses. Not meeting with any opposition, they seized upon the persons of those unhappy people, murdering the men, confining the women, and putting the children to Roman catholic nurses. The Roman catholic inhabitants of the valley in St. Martin, likewise, did all they could to torment the neighbouring Waldenses: they destroyed their churches, burnt their houses, seized their properties, stole their cattle, converted their lands to their own use, committed their ministers to the flames, and drove the Waldenses to the woods, where they had nothing to subsist on but wild fruits, roots, the bark of trees, &c. Some Roman catholic ruffians having seized a minister as he was going to preach, determined to take him to a convenient place, and burn him. His parishioners having intelligence of this affair, the men armed themselves, pursued the ruffians, and seemed determined to rescue their minister; which the ruffians no sooner perceived than they stabbed the poor gentleman, and leaving him weltering in his blood, made a precipitate retreat. The astonished parishioners did all they could to recover him, but in vain; for the weapon had touched the vital parts, and he expired as they were carrying him home. The monks of Pignerol having a great inclination to get the minister of a town in the valleys, called St. Germain, into their power, hired a band of ruffians for the purpose of apprehending him. These fellows were conducted by a treacherous person, who had formerly been a servant to the clergyman, and who perfectly well knew a secret way to the house, by which he could lead them without alarming the neighbourhood. The guide knocked at the door, and being asked who was there, answered in his own name. The clergyman, not expecting any injury from a person on whom he had heaped favours, immediately opened the door; but perceiving the ruffians, he started back, and fled to a back door; but they rushed in, followed, and seized him. Having murdered all his family, they made him proceed towards Pignerol, goading him all the way with pikes, lances, swords, &c. He was kept a considerable time in prison, and then fastened to the stake to be burnt; when two women of the Waldenses, who had renounced their religion to save their lives, were ordered to carry fagots to the stake to burn him; and as they laid them down, to say, Take these, thou wicked heretic, in recompense for the pernicious doctrines thou hast taught us. These words they both repeated to him to which he calmly replied, I formerly taught you well, but you have since learned ill. The fire was then put to the fagots, and he was speedily consumed, calling upon the name of the Lord as long as his voice permitted. As the troops of ruffians, belonging to the monks, did great mischief about the town of St. Germain, murdering and plundering many of the inhabitants, the reformed of Lucerne and Angrogne, sent some bands of armed men to the assistance of their brethren of St. Germain. These bodies of armed men frequently attacked the ruffians, and often put them to the rout, which so terrified the monks, that they left the monastery of Pignerol for some time, till they could procure a body of regular troops to guard them. The duke not thinking himself so successful as he at first imagined he should be, greatly augmented his forces; ordered the bands of ruffians, belonging to the monks, should join him; and commanded, that a general jail-delivery should take place, provided the persons released would bear arms, and form themselves into light companies, to assist in the extermination of the Waldenses. The Waldenses, being informed of the proceedings, secured as much of their properties as they could, and quitting the valleys, retired to the rocks and caves among the Alps; for it is to be understood, that the valleys of Piedmont are situated at the foot of those prodigious mountains called the Alps, or the Alpine hills. The army now began to plunder and burn the towns and villages wherever they came; but the troops could not force the passes to the Alps, which were gallantly defended by the Waldenses, who always repulsed their enemies: but if any fell into the hands of the troops, they were sure to be treated with the most barbarous severity. A soldier having caught one of the Waldenses, bit his right ear off, saying, I will carry this member of that wicked heretic with me into my own country, and preserve it as a rarity. He then stabbed the man and threw him into a ditch. A party of the troops found a venerable man, upwards of a hundred years of age, together with his grand-daughter, a maiden, of about eighteen, in a cave. They butchered the poor old man in the most inhuman manner, and then attempted to ravish the girl, when she started away and fled from them; but they pursuing her, she threw herself from a precipice and perished. The Waldenses, in order the more effectually to be able to repel force by force, entered into a league with the protestant powers of Germany, and with the reformed of Dauphiny and Pragela. These were respectively to furnish bodies of troops; and the Waldenses determined, when thus reinforced, to quit the mountains of the Alps, (where they must soon have perished, as the winter was coming on,) and to force the duke's army to evacuate their native valleys. The duke of Savoy was now tired of the war; it had cost him great fatigue and anxiety of mind, a vast number of men, and very considerable sums of money. It had been much more tedious and bloody than he expected, as well as more expensive than he could at first have imagined, for he thought the plunder would have discharged the expenses of the expedition; but in this he was mistaken, for the pope's nuncio, the bishops, monks, and other ecclesiastics, who attended the army and encouraged the war, sunk the greatest part of the wealth that was taken under various pretences. For these reasons, and the death of his duchess, of which he had just received intelligence, and fearing that the Waldenses, by the treaties they had entered into, would become more powerful than ever, he determined to return to Turin with his army, and to make peace with the Waldenses. This resolution he executed, though greatly against the will of the ecclesiastics, who were the chief gainers, and the best pleased with revenge. Before the articles of peace could be ratified, the duke himself died, soon after his return to Turin; but on his death-bed he strictly enjoined his son to perform what he intended, and to be as favourable as possible to the Waldenses. The duke's son, Charles Emmanuel, succeeded to the dominions of Savoy, and gave a full ratification of peace to the Waldenses, according to the last injunctions of his father, though the ecclesiastics did all they could to persuade him to the contrary. _An account of the Persecutions in Venice._ While the state of Venice was free from inquisitors, a great number of protestants fixed their residence there, and many converts were made by the purity of the doctrines they professed, and the inoffensiveness of the conversation they used. The pope being informed of the great increase of protestantism, in the year 1512 sent inquisitors to Venice to make an inquiry into the matter, and apprehend such as they might deem obnoxious persons. Hence a severe persecution began, and many worthy persons were martyred for serving God with purity, and scorning the trappings of idolatry. Various were the modes by which the protestants were deprived of life; but one particular method, which was first invented upon this occasion, we shall describe; as soon as sentence was passed, the prisoner had an iron chain which ran through a great stone fastened to his body. He was then laid flat upon a plank, with his face upwards, and rowed between two boats to a certain distance at sea, when the two boats separated, and he was sunk to the bottom by the weight of the stone. If any denied the jurisdiction of the inquisitors at Venice, they were sent to Rome, where, being committed purposely to damp prisons, and never called to a hearing, their flesh mortified, and they died miserably in jail. A citizen of Venice, Anthony Ricetti, being apprehended as a protestant, was sentenced to be drowned in the manner we have already described. A few days previous to the time appointed for his execution, his son went to see him, and begged him to recant, that his wife might be saved, and himself not left fatherless. To which the father replied, a good christian is bound to relinquish not only goods and children, but life itself, for the glory of his Redeemer: therefore I am resolved to sacrifice every thing in this transitory world, for the sake of salvation in a world that will last to eternity. The lords of Venice likewise sent him word, that if he would embrace the Roman catholic religion, they would not only give him his life, but redeem a considerable estate which he had mortgaged, and freely present him with it. This, however, he absolutely refused to comply with, sending word to the nobles that he valued his soul beyond all other considerations; and being told that a fellow-prisoner, named Francis Sega, had recanted, he answered, if he has forsaken God, I pity him; but I shall continue steadfast in my duty. Finding all endeavours to persuade him to renounce his faith ineffectual, he was executed according to his sentence, dying cheerfully, and recommending his soul fervently to the Almighty. What Ricetti had been told concerning the apostacy of Francis Sega, was absolutely false, for he had never offered to recant, but steadfastly persisted in his faith, and was executed, a few days after Ricetti, in the very same manner. Francis Spinola, a protestant gentleman of very great learning, being apprehended by order of the inquisitors, was carried before their tribunal. A treatise on the Lord's supper was then put into his hands and he was asked if he knew the author of it. To which he replied, I confess myself to be the author of it, and at the same time solemnly affirm, that there is not a line in it but what is authorized by, and consonant to, the holy scriptures. On this confession he was committed close prisoner to a dungeon for several days. Being brought to a second examination, he charged the pope's legate, and the inquisitors, with being merciless barbarians, and then represented the superstitions and idolatries practised by the church of Rome in so glaring a light, that not being able to refute his arguments, they sent him back to his dungeon, to make him repent of what he had said. On his third examination, they asked him if he would recant his errors! To which he answered, that the doctrines he maintained were not erroneous, being purely the same as those which Christ and his apostles had taught, and which were handed down to us in the sacred writings. The inquisitors then sentenced him to be drowned, which was executed in the manner already described. He went to meet death with the utmost serenity, seemed to wish for dissolution, and declaring, that the prolongation of his life did but tend to retard that real happiness which could only be expected in the world to come. _An account of several remarkable individuals, who were martyred in different parts of Italy, on account of their religion._ John Mollius was born at Rome, of reputable parents. At twelve years of age they placed him in the monastery of Gray Friars, where he made such a rapid progress in arts, sciences, and languages, that at eighteen years of age he was permitted to take priest's orders. He was then sent to Ferrara, where, after pursuing his studies six years longer, he was made theological reader in the university of that city. He now, unhappily, exerted his great talents to disguise the gospel truths, and to varnish over the errors of the church of Rome. After some years residence in Ferrara, he removed to the university of Bononia, where he became a professor. Having read some treatises written by ministers of the reformed religion, he grew fully sensible of the errors of popery, and soon became a zealous protestant in his heart. He now determined to expound, accordingly to the purity of the gospel, St. Paul's epistle to the Romans, in a regular course of sermons. The concourse of people that continually attended his preaching was surprising, but when the priests found the tenor of his doctrines, they despatched an account of the affair to Rome; when the pope sent a monk, named Cornelius, to Bononia, to expound the same epistle, according to the tenets of the church of Rome. The people, however, found such a disparity between the two preachers, that the audience of Mollius increased, and Cornelius was forced to preach to empty benches. Cornelius wrote an account of his bad success to the pope, who immediately sent an order to apprehend Mollius, who was seized upon accordingly, and kept in close confinement. The bishop of Bononia sent him word that he must recant, or be burnt; but he appealed to Rome, and was removed thither. At Rome he begged to have a public trial, but that the pope absolutely denied him, and commanded him to give an account of his opinions in writing, which he did under the following heads: Original sin. Free-will. The infallibility of the church of Rome. The infallibility of the pope. Justification by faith. Purgatory. Transubstantiation. Mass. Auricular confession. Prayers for the dead. The host. Prayers for saints. Going on pilgrimages. Extreme unction. Performing service in an unknown tongue, &c. &c. All these he confirmed from scripture authority. The pope, upon this occasion, for political reasons, spared him for the present, but soon after had him apprehended, and put to death; he being first hanged, and his body burnt to ashes, A. D. 1553. The year after, Francis Gamba, a Lombard, of the protestant persuasion, was apprehended, and condemned to death by the senate of Milan. At the place of execution, a monk presented a cross to him, to whom he said, My mind is so full of the real merits and goodness of Christ, that I want not a piece of senseless stick to put me in mind of him. For this expression his tongue was bored through, and he was afterwards burnt. A. D. 1555, Algerius, a student in the university of Padua, and a man of great learning, having embraced the reformed religion, did all he could to convert others. For these proceedings he was accused of heresy to the pope, and being apprehended, was committed to the prison at Venice. The pope, being informed of Algerius's great learning, and surprising natural abilities, thought it would be of infinite service to the church of Rome, if he could induce him to forsake the protestant cause. He, therefore, sent for him to Rome, and tried, by the most profane promises, to win him to his purpose. But finding his endeavours ineffectual, he ordered him to be burnt, which sentence was executed accordingly. A. D. 1559, John Alloysius, being sent from Geneva to preach in Calabria, was there apprehended as a protestant, carried to Rome, and burnt by order of the pope; and James Bovellus, for the same reason, was burnt at Messina. A. D. 1560, pope Pius the Fourth, ordered all the protestants to be severely persecuted throughout the Italian states, when great numbers of every age, sex, and condition, suffered martyrdom. Concerning the cruelties practised upon this occasion, a learned and humane Roman catholic thus spoke of them, in a letter to a noble lord: "I cannot, my lord, forbear disclosing my sentiments, with respect to the persecution now carrying on: I think it cruel and unnecessary; I tremble at the manner of putting to death, as it resembles more the slaughter of calves and sheep, than the execution of human beings. I will relate to your lordship a dreadful scene, of which I was myself an eye-witness: seventy protestants were cooped up in one filthy dungeon together; the executioner went in among them, picked out one from among the rest, blindfolded him, led him out to an open place before the prison, and cut his throat with the greatest composure. He then calmly walked into the prison again, bloody as he was, and with the knife in his hand selected another, and despatched him in the same manner; and this, my lord, he repeated till the whole number were put to death. I leave it to your lordship's feelings to judge of my sensations upon this occasion; my tears now wash the paper upon which I give you the recital. Another thing I must mention--the patience with which they met death: they seemed all resignation and piety, fervently praying to God, and cheerfully encountering their fate. I cannot reflect without shuddering, how the executioner held the bloody knife between his teeth; what a dreadful figure he appeared, all covered with blood, and with what unconcern he executed his barbarous office." A young Englishman who happened to be at Rome, was one day passing by a church, when the procession of the host was just coming out. A bishop carried the host, which the young man perceiving, he snatched it from him, threw it upon the ground, and trampled it under his feet, crying out, Ye wretched idolaters, who neglect the true God, to adore a morsel of bread. This action so provoked the people, that they would have torn him to pieces on the spot; but the priests persuaded them to let him abide by the sentence of the pope. When the affair was represented to the pope, he was so greatly exasperated that he ordered the prisoner to be burnt immediately; but a cardinal dissuaded him from this hasty sentence, saying, it was better to punish him by slow degrees, and to torture him, that they might find out if he had been instigated by any particular person to commit so atrocious an act. This being approved, he was tortured with the most exemplary severity, notwithstanding which they could only get these words from him, It was the will of God that I should do as I did. The pope then passed this sentence upon him. 1. That he should be led by the executioner, naked to the middle, through the streets of Rome. 2. That he should wear the image of the devil upon his head. 3. That his breeches should be painted with the representation of flames. 4. That he should have his right hand cut off. 5. That after having been carried about thus in procession, he should be burnt. When he heard this sentence pronounced, he implored God to give him strength and fortitude to go through it. As he passed through the streets he was greatly derided by the people, to whom he said some severe things respecting the Romish superstition. But a cardinal, who attended the procession, overhearing him, ordered him to be gagged. When he came to the church door, where he trampled on the host, the hangman cut off his right hand, and fixed it on a pole. Then two tormentors, with flaming torches, scorched and burnt his flesh all the rest of the way. At the place of execution he kissed the chains that were to bind him to the stake. A monk presenting the figure of a saint to him, he struck it aside, and then being chained to the stake, fire was put to the fagots, and he was soon burnt to ashes. A little after the last mentioned execution, a venerable old man, who had long been a prisoner in the inquisition, was condemned to be burnt, and brought out for execution. When he was fastened to the stake, a priest held a crucifix to him, on which he said "If you do not take that idol from my sight, you will constrain me to spit upon it." The priest rebuked him for this with great severity; but he bade him remember the first and second commandments, and refrain from idolatry, as God himself had commanded. He was then gagged, that he should not speak any more, and fire being put to the fagots, he suffered martyrdom in the flames. _An Account of the Persecutions in the Marquisate of Saluces._ The Marquisate of Saluces, on the south side of the valleys of Piedmont, was in A. D. 1561, principally inhabited by protestants, when the marquis, who was proprietor of it, began a persecution against them at the instigation of the then pope. He began by banishing the ministers, and if any of them refused to leave their flocks, they were sure to be imprisoned, and severely tortured; however, he did not proceed so far as to put any to death. Soon after the marquisate fell into the possession of the duke of Savoy, who sent circular letters to all the towns and villages, that he expected the people should all conform to go to mass. The inhabitants of Saluces, upon receiving this letter, returned a general epistle, in answer. The duke, after reading the letter, did not interrupt the protestants for some time; but, at length, he sent them word, that they must either conform to the mass, or leave his dominions in fifteen days. The protestants, upon this unexpected edict, sent a deputy to the duke to obtain its revocation, or at least to have it moderated. But their remonstrances were in vain, and they were given to understand that the edict was absolute. Some were weak enough to go to mass, in order to avoid banishment, and preserve their property; others removed, with all their effects, to different countries; and many neglected the time so long, that they were obliged to abandon all they were worth, and leave the marquisate in haste. Those, who unhappily staid behind, were seized, plundered, and put to death. _An Account of the Persecutions in the Valleys of Piedmont, in the Seventeenth Century._ Pope Clement the eighth, sent missionaries into the valleys of Piedmont, to induce the protestants to renounce their religion; and these missionaries having erected monasteries in several parts of the valleys, became exceedingly troublesome to those of the reformed, where the monasteries appeared, not only as fortresses to curb, but as sanctuaries for all such to fly to, as had any ways injured them. The protestants petitioned the duke of Savoy against these missionaries, whose insolence and ill-usage were become intolerable; but instead of getting any redress, the interest of the missionaries so far prevailed, that the duke published a decree, in which he declared, that one witness should be sufficient in a court of law against a protestant, and that any witness, who convicted a protestant of any crime whatever, should be entitled to one hundred crowns. It may be easily imagined, upon the publication of a decree of this nature, that many protestants fell martyrs to perjury and avarice; for several villanous papists would swear any thing against the protestants for the sake of the reward, and then fly to their own priests for absolution from their false oaths. If any Roman catholic, of more conscience than the rest, blamed these fellows for their atrocious crimes, they themselves were in danger of being informed against and punished as favourers of heretics. The missionaries did all they could to get the books of the protestants into their hands, in order to burn them; when the protestants doing their utmost endeavours to conceal their books, the missionaries wrote to the duke of Savoy, who, for the heinous crime of not surrendering their bibles, prayer-books, and religious treatises, sent a number of troops to be quartered on them. These military gentry did great mischief in the houses of the protestants, and destroyed such quantities of provisions, that many families were thereby ruined. To encourage, as much as possible, the apostacy of the protestants, the duke of Savoy published a proclamation wherein he said, "To encourage the heretics to turn catholics, it is our will and pleasure, and we do hereby expressly command, that all such as shall embrace the holy Roman catholic faith, shall enjoy an exemption, from all and every tax for the space of five years, commencing from the day of their conversion." The duke of Savoy likewise established a court, called the council for extirpating the heretics. This court was to enter into inquiries concerning the ancient privileges of the protestant churches, and the decrees which had been, from time to time, made in favour of the protestants. But the investigation of these things was carried on with the most manifest partiality; old charters were wrested to a wrong sense, and sophistry was used to pervert the meaning of every thing, which tended to favour the reformed. As if these severities were not sufficient, the duke, soon after, published another edict, in which he strictly commanded, that no protestant should act as a schoolmaster, or tutor, either in public or private, or dare to teach any art, science, or language, directly or indirectly, to persons of any persuasion whatever. This edict was immediately followed by another, which decreed, that no protestant should hold any place of profit, trust, or honour; and to wind up the whole, the certain token of an approaching persecution came forth in a final edict, by which it was positively ordered, that all protestants should diligently attend mass. The publication of an edict, containing such an injunction, may be compared to unfurling the bloody flag; for murder and rapine were sure to follow. One of the first objects that attracted the notice of the papists, was Mr. Sebastian Basan, a zealous protestant, who was seized by the missionaries, confined, tormented for fifteen months, and then burnt. Previous to the persecution, the missionaries employed kidnappers to steal away the protestants' children, that they might privately be brought up Roman catholics; but now they took away the children by open force, and if they met with any resistance, murdered the parents. To give greater vigour to the persecution, the duke of Savoy called a general assembly of the Roman catholic nobility and gentry when a solemn edict was published against the reformed, containing many heads, and including several reasons for extirpating the protestants among which were the following: 1. For the preservation of the papal authority. 2. That the church livings may be all under one mode of government. 3. To make a union among all parties. 4. In honour of all the saints, and of the ceremonies of the church of Rome. This severe edict was followed by a most cruel order, published on January 25, A. D. 1655, under the duke's sanction, by Andrew Gastaldo, doctor of civil laws. This order set forth, "That every head of a family, with the individuals of that family, of the reformed religion, of what rank, degree, or condition soevor, none excepted inhabiting and possessing estates in Lucerne, St. Giovanni, Bibiana, Campiglione, St. Secondo, Lucernetta, La Torre, Fenile, and Bricherassio, should, within three days after the publication thereof, withdraw and depart, and be withdrawn out of the said places, and translated into the places and limits tolerated by his highness during his pleasure; particularly Bobbio, Angrogna, Villaro, Rorata, and the county of Bonetti. "And all this to be done on pain of death, and confiscation of house and goods, unless within the limited time they turned Roman catholics." A flight with such speed, in the midst of winter, may be conceived as no agreeable task, especially in a country almost surrounded by mountains. The sudden order affected all, and things, which would have been scarcely noticed at another time, now appeared in the most conspicuous light. Women with child, or women just lain-in, were not objects of pity on this order for sudden removal, for all were included in the command; and it unfortunately happened, that the winter was remarkably severe and rigourous. The papists, however, drove the people from their habitations at the time appointed, without even suffering them to have sufficient clothes to cover them; and many perished in the mountains through the severity of the weather, or for want of food. Some, however, who remained behind after the decree was published, met with the severest treatment, being murdered by the popish inhabitants, or shot by the troops who were quartered in the valleys. A particular description of these cruelties is given in a letter, written by a protestant, who was upon the spot, and who happily escaped the carnage. "The army (says he) having got footing, became very numerous, by the addition of a multitude of the neighbouring popish inhabitants, who finding we were the destined prey of the plunderers, fell upon us with an impetuous fury. Exclusive of the duke of Savoy's troops, and the popish inhabitants, there were several regiments of French auxiliaries, some companies belonging to the Irish brigades, and several bands formed of outlaws, smugglers, and prisoners, who had been promised pardon and liberty in this world, and absolution in the next, for assisting to exterminate the protestants from Piedmont. "This armed multitude being encouraged by the Roman catholic bishops and monks, fell upon the protestants in a most furious manner. Nothing now was to be seen but the face of horror and despair, blood stained the floors of the houses, dead bodies bestrewed the streets, groans and cries were heard from all parts. Some armed themselves, and skirmished with the troops; and many, with their families, fled to the mountains. In one village they cruelly tormented 150 women and children after the men were fled, beheading the women, and dashing out the brains of the children. In the towns of Villaro and Bobbio, most of those who refused to go to mass, who were upwards of fifteen years of age, they crucified with their heads downwards; and the greatest number of those who were under that age were strangled." Sarah Rastignole des Vignes, a woman of 60 years of age, being seized by some soldiers, they ordered her to say a prayer to some saints, which she refusing, they thrust a sickle into her belly, ripped her up, and then cut off her head. Martha Constantine, a handsome young woman, was treated with great indecency and cruelty by several of the troops, who first ravished, and then killed her, by cutting off her breasts. These they fried, and set before some of their comrades, who ate them without knowing what they were. When they had done eating, the others told them what they had made a meal of, in consequence of which a quarrel ensued, swords were drawn, and a battle took place. Several were killed in the fray, the greater part of whom were those concerned in the horrid massacre of the woman, and who had practised such an inhuman deception on their companions. Some of the soldiers seized a man of Thrassiniere, and ran the points of their swords through his ears, and through his feet. They then tore off the nails of his fingers and toes with red-hot pincers, tied him to the tail of an ass, and dragged him about the streets; and, finally fastened a cord round his head, which they twisted with a stick in so violent a manner as to wring it from his body. Peter Symonds, a protestant, of about eighty years of age, was tied neck and heels, and then thrown down a precipice. In the fall the branch of a tree caught hold of the ropes that fastened him, and suspended him in the midway, so that he languished for several days, and at length miserably perished of hunger. Esay Garcino, refusing to renounce his religion, was cut into small pieces; the soldiers, in ridicule, saying, they had minced him. A woman, named Armand, had every limb separated from each other, and then the respective parts were hung upon a hedge. Two old women were ripped open, and then left in the fields upon the snow where they perished; and a very old woman, who was deformed, had her nose and hands cut off, and was left, to bleed to death in that manner. A great number of men, women, and children, were flung from the rocks, and dashed to pieces. Magdalen Bertino, a protestant woman of La Torre, was stripped stark naked, her head tied between her legs, and thrown down one of the precipices; and Mary Raymondet, of the same town, had the flesh sliced from her bones till she expired. Magdalen Pilot, of Villaro, was cut to pieces in the cave of Castolus; Ann Charboniere had one end of a stake thrust up her body; and the other being fixed in the ground, she was left in that manner to perish, and Jacob Perrin the elder, of the church of Villaro, and David, his brother, were flayed alive. An inhabitant of La Torre, named Giovanni Andrea Michialm, was apprehended, with four of his children, three of them were hacked to pieces before him, the soldiers asking him, at the death of every child, if he would renounce his religion which he constantly refused. One of the soldiers then took up the last and youngest by the legs, and putting the same question to the father he replied as before, when the inhuman brute dashed out the child's brains. The father, however, at the same moment started from them, and fled: the soldiers fired after him, but missed him; and he, by the swiftness of his heels, escaped, and hid himself in the Alps. _Further Persecutions in the Valleys of Piedmont, in the seventeenth Century._ Giovanni Pelanchion, for refusing to turn papist, was tied by one leg to the tail of a mule, and dragged through the streets of Lucerne, amidst the acclamations of an inhuman mob, who kept stoning him, and crying out, He is possessed with the devil, so that, neither stoning, nor dragging him through the streets, will kill him, for the devil keeps him alive. They then took him to the river side, chopped off his head, and left that and his body unburied, upon the bank of the stream. Magdalen, the daughter of Peter Fontaine, a beautiful child of ten years of age, was ravished and murdered by the soldiers. Another girl of about the same age, they roasted alive at Villa Nova; and a poor woman, hearing the soldiers were coming toward her house, snatched up the cradle in which her infant son was asleep, and fled toward the woods. The soldiers, however, saw and pursued her, when she lightened herself by putting down the cradle and child, which the soldiers no sooner came to, than they murdered the infant, and continuing the pursuit, found the mother in a cave, where they first ravished, and then cut her to pieces. Jacob Michelino, chief elder of the church of Bobbio, and several other protestants, were hung up by means of hooks fixed in their bellies and left to expire in the most excruciating tortures. Giovanni Rostagnal, a venerable protestant, upwards of fourscore years of age, had his nose and ears cut off, and slices cut from the fleshy parts of his body, till he bled to death. Seven persons, viz. Daniel Seleagio and his wife, Giovanni Durant, Lodwich Durant, Bartholomew Durant, Daniel Revel, and Paul Reynaud, had their mouths stuffed with gunpowder, which being set fire to, their heads were blown to pieces. Jacob Birone, a schoolmaster of Rorata, for refusing to change his religion, was stripped quite naked; and after having been very indecently exposed, had the nails of his toes and fingers torn off with red-hot pincers, and holes bored through his hands with the point of a dagger. He then had a cord tied round his middle, and was led through the streets with a soldier on each side of him. At every turning the soldier on his right hand side cut a gash in his flesh, and the soldier on his left hand side struck him with a bludgeon, both saying, at the same instant, Will you go to mass? will you go to mass? He still replied in the negative to these interrogatories, and being at length taken to the bridge, they cut off his head on the balustrades, and threw both that and his body into the river. Paul Garnier, a very pious protestant, had his eyes put out, was then flayed alive, and being divided into four parts, his quarters were placed on four of the principal houses of Lucerne. He bore all his sufferings with the most exemplary patience, praised God as long as he could speak, and plainly evinced, what confidence and resignation a good conscience can inspire. Daniel Cardon, of Rocappiata, being apprehended by some soldiers, they cut his head off, and having fried his brains, ate them. Two poor old blind women, of St. Giovanni, were burnt alive; and a widow of La Torre, with her daughter, were driven into the river, and there stoned to death. Paul Giles, on attempting to run away from some soldiers, was shot in the neck: they then slit his nose, sliced his chin, stabbed him, and gave his carcase to the dogs. Some of the Irish troops having taken eleven men of Garcigliana prisoners, they made a furnace red hot, and forced them to push each other in till they came to the last man, whom they pushed in themselves. Michael Gonet, a man of 90, was burnt to death; Baptista Oudri, another old man, was stabbed; and Bartholomew Frasche had holes made in his heels, through which ropes being put, he was dragged by them to the jail, where his wounds mortified and killed him. Magdalene de la Piere being pursued by some of the soldiers, and taken, was thrown down a precipice, and dashed to pieces. Margaret Revella, and Mary Pravillerin, two very old women, were burnt alive; and Michael Bellino, with Ann Bochardno, were beheaded. The son and daughter of a counsellor of Giovanni were rolled down a steep hill together, and suffered to perish in a deep pit at the bottom. A tradesman's family, viz: himself, his wife, and an infant in her arms, were cast from a rock, and dashed to pieces; and Joseph Chairet, and Paul Carniero, were flayed alive. Cypriania Bustia, being asked if he would renounce his religion and turn Roman catholic, replied, I would rather renounce life, or turn dog; to which a priest answered, For that expression you shall both renounce life, and be given to the dogs. They, accordingly, dragged him to prison, where he continued a considerable time without food, till he was famished; after which they threw his corpse into the street before the prison, and it was devoured by dogs in the most shocking manner. Margaret Saretta was stoned to death, and then thrown into the river; Antonio Bartina had his head cleft asunder; and Joseph Pont was cut through the middle of his body. Daniel Maria, and his whole family, being ill of a fever, several papist ruffians broke into his house, telling him they were practical physicians, and would give them all present ease, which they did by knocking the whole family on the head. Three infant children of a protestant, named Peter Fine, were covered with snow, and stifled; an elderly widow, named Judith, was beheaded, and a beautiful young woman was stripped naked, and had a stake driven through her body, of which she expired. Lucy, the wife of Peter Besson, a woman far gone in her pregnancy, who lived in one of the villages of the Piedmontese valleys, determined, if possible, to escape from such dreadful scenes as every where surrounded her: she, accordingly took two young children, one in each hand, and set off towards the Alps. But on the third day of the journey she was taken in labour among the mountains, and delivered of an infant, who perished through the extreme inclemency of the weather, as did the two other children; for all three were found dead by her, and herself just expiring, by the person to whom she related the above particulars. Francis Gros, the son of a clergyman, had his flesh slowly cut from his body into small pieces, and put into a dish before him; two of his children were minced before his sight; and his wife was fastened to a post, that she might behold all these cruelties practised on her husband and offspring. The tormentors, at length, being tired of exercising their cruelties, cut off the heads of both husband and wife, and then gave the flesh of the whole family to the dogs. The sieur Thomas Margher fled to a cave, when the soldiers shut up the mouth, and he perished with famine. Judith Revelin, with seven children, were barbarously murdered in their beds; and a widow of near fourscore years of age, was hewn to pieces by soldiers. Jacob Roseno was ordered to pray to the saints, which he absolutely refused to do: some of the soldiers beat him violently with bludgeons to make him comply, but he still refusing, several of them fired at him and lodged a great many balls in his body. As he was almost expiring, they cried to him, Will you call upon the saints? Will you pray to the saints? To which he answered, No! No! No! when one of the soldiers, with a broad sword, clove his head asunder, and put an end to his sufferings in this world; for which undoubtedly, he is gloriously rewarded in the next. A soldier, attempting to ravish a young woman, named Susanna Gacquin, she made a stout resistance, and in the struggle pushed him over a precipice, when he was dashed to pieces by the fall. His comrades, instead of admiring the virtue of the young woman, and applauding her for so nobly defending her chastity, fell upon her with their swords, and cut her to pieces. Giovanni Pulhus, a poor peasant of La Torre, being apprehended as a protestant by the soldiers, was ordered, by the marquis of Pianesta, to be executed in a place near the convent. When he came to the gallows, several monks attended, and did all they could to persuade him to renounce his religion. But he told them he never would embrace idolatry, and that he was happy at being thought worthy to suffer for the name of Christ. They then put him in mind of what his wife and children, who depended upon his labour, would suffer after his decease; to which he replied, I would have my wife and children, as well as myself, to consider their souls more than their bodies, and the next world before this; and with respect to the distress I may leave them in, God is merciful, and will provide for them while they are worthy of his protection. Finding the inflexibility of this poor man, the monks cried,--Turn him off, turn him off, which the executioner did almost immediately, and the body being afterward cut down, was flung into the river. Paul Clement, an elder of the church of Rossana, being apprehended by the monks of a neighbouring monastery, was carried to the market-place of that town, where some protestants having just been executed by the soldiers, he was shown the dead bodies, in order that the sight might intimidate him. On beholding the shocking subjects, he said, calmly, You may kill the body, but you cannot prejudice the soul of a true believer; but with respect to the dreadful spectacles which you have here shown me, you may rest assured, that God's vengeance will overtake the murderers of those poor people, and punish them for the innocent blood they have spilt. The monks were so exasperated at this reply, that they ordered him to be hung up directly; and while he was hanging, the soldiers amused themselves in standing at a distance, and shooting at the body as at a mark. Daniel Rambaut, of Villaro, the father of a numerous family, was apprehended, and, with several others, committed to prison, in the jail of Paysana. Here he was visited by several priests, who with continual importunities did all they could to persuade him to renounce the protestant religion, and turn papist; but this he peremptorily refused, and the priests finding his resolution, pretended to pity his numerous family, and told him that he might yet have his life, if he would subscribe to the belief of the following articles: 1. The real presence in the host. 2. Transubstantiation. 3. Purgatory. 4. The pope's infallibility. 5. That masses said for the dead will release souls from purgatory. 6. That praying to saints will procure the remission of sins. M. Rambaut told the priests, that neither his religion, his understanding, nor his conscience, would suffer him to subscribe to any of the articles, for the following reasons: 1. That to believe the real presence in the host, is a shocking union of both blasphemy and idolatry. 2. That to fancy the words of consecration perform what the papists call transubstantiation, by converting the wafer and wine into the real and identical body and blood of Christ, which was crucified, and which afterward ascended into heaven, is too gross an absurdity for even a child to believe, who was come to the least glimmering of reason; and that nothing but the most blind superstition could make the Roman catholics put a confidence in any thing so completely ridiculous. 3. That the doctrine of purgatory was more inconsistent and absurd than a fairy tale. 4. That the pope's being infallible was an impossibility, and the pope arrogantly laid claim to what could belong to God only, as a perfect being. 5. That saying masses for the dead was ridiculous, and only meant to keep up a belief in the fable of purgatory, as the fate of all is finally decided, on the departure of the soul from the body. 6. That praying to saints for the remission of sins, is misplacing adoration; as the saints themselves have occasion for an intercessor in Christ. Therefore, as God only can pardon our errors, we ought to sue to him alone for pardon. The priests were so highly offended at M. Rambaut's answers to the articles to which they would have had him subscribe, that they determined to shake his resolution by the most cruel method imaginable: they ordered one joint of his finger to be cut off every day, till all his fingers were gone; they then proceeded in the same manner with his toes; afterward they alternately cut off, daily, a hand and a foot; but finding that he bore his sufferings with the most admirable patience, increased both in fortitude and resignation, and maintained his faith with steadfast resolution, and unshaken constancy, they stabbed him to the heart, and then gave his body to be devoured by the dogs. Peter Gabriola, a protestant gentleman of considerable eminence, being seized by a troop of soldiers, and refusing to renounce his religion, they hung a great number of little bags of gunpowder about his body, and then setting fire to them, blew him up. Anthony, the son of Samuel Catieris, a poor dumb lad who was extremely inoffensive, was cut to pieces by a party of the troops; and soon after the same ruffians entered the house of Peter Moniriat, and cut off the legs of the whole family, leaving them to bleed to death, as they were unable to assist themselves, or to help each other. Daniel Benech being apprehended, had his nose slit, his ears cut off, and was then divided into quarters, each quarter being hung upon a tree, and Mary Monino, had her jaw bones broke and was then left to languish till she was famished. Mary Pelanchion, a handsome widow, belonging to the town of Villaro, was seized by a party of the Irish brigades, who having beat her cruelly, and ravished her, dragged her to a high bridge which crossed the river, and stripped her naked in a most indecent manner, hung her by the legs to the bridge, with her head downwards towards the water, and then going into boats, they fired at her till she expired. Mary Nigrino, and her daughter who was an idiot, were cut to pieces in the woods, and their bodies left to be devoured by wild beasts: Susanna Bales, a widow of Villaro, was immured till she perished through hunger; and Susanna Calvio running away from some soldiers and hiding herself in a barn, they set fire to the straw and burnt her. Paul Armand was hacked to pieces; a child named Daniel Bertino was burnt; Daniel Michialino had his tongue plucked out, and was left to perish in that condition; and Andreo Bertino, a very old man, who was lame, was mangled in a most shocking manner, and at length had his belly ripped open, and his bowels carried about on the point of a halbert. Constantia Bellione, a protestant lady, being apprehended on account of her faith, was asked by a priest if she would renounce the devil and go to mass; to which she replied, "I was brought up in a religion, by which I was always taught to renounce the devil; but should I comply with your desire, and go to mass, I should be sure to meet him there in a variety of shapes." The priest was highly incensed at what she said, and told her to recant, or she should suffer cruelly. The lady, however, boldly answered, that she valued not any sufferings he could inflict, and in spite of all the torments he could invent, she would keep her conscience pure and her faith inviolate. The priest then ordered slices of her flesh to be cut off from several parts of her body, which cruelty she bore with the most singular patience, only saying to the priest, what horrid and lasting torments will you suffer in hell, for the trifling and temporary pains which I now endure. Exasperated at this expression, and willing to stop her tongue, the priest ordered a file of musqueteers to draw up and fire upon her, by which she was soon despatched, and sealed her martyrdom with her blood. A young woman named Judith Mandon, for refusing to change her religion, and embrace popery, was fastened to a stake, and sticks thrown at her from a distance, in the very same manner as that barbarous custom which was formerly practised on Shrove-Tuesday, of shying at rocks, as it was termed. By this inhuman proceeding, the poor creature's limbs were beat and mangled in a terrible manner, and her brains were at last dashed out by one of the bludgeons. David Paglia and Paul Genre, attempting to escape to the Alps, with each his son, were pursued and overtaken by the soldiers in a large plain. Here they hunted them for their diversion, goading them with their swords, and making them run about till they dropped down with fatigue. When they found that their spirits were quite exhausted, and that they could not afford them any more barbarous sport by running, the soldiers hacked them to pieces, and left their mangled bodies on the spot. A young man of Bobbio, named Michael Greve, was apprehended to the town of La Torre, and being led to the bridge, was thrown over into the river. As he could swim very well, he swam down the stream, thinking to escape, but the soldiers and mob followed on both sides the river, and kept stoning him, till receiving a blow on one of his temples, he was stunned, and consequently sunk and was drowned. David Armand was ordered to lay his head down on a block, when a soldier, with a large hammer, beat out his brains. David Baridona being apprehended at Villaro, was carried to La Torre, where, refusing to renounce his religion, he was tormented by means of brimstone matches being tied between his fingers and toes, and set fire to; and afterward, by having his flesh plucked off with red-hot pincers, till he expired; and Giovanni Barolina, with his wife, were thrown into a pool of stagnant water, and compelled, by means of pitchforks and stones, to duck down their heads till they were suffocated. A number of soldiers went to the house of Joseph Garniero, and before they entered, fired in at the window, to give notice of their approach. A musket ball entered one of Mrs. Garniero's breasts, as she was suckling an infant with the other. On finding their intentions, she begged hard that they would spare the life of the infant, which they promised to do, and sent it immediately to a Roman catholic nurse. They then took the husband and hanged him at his own door, and having shot the wife through the head, they left her body weltering in its blood, and her husband hanging on the gallows. Isaiah Mondon, an elderly man, and a pious protestant, fled from the merciless persecutors to a cleft in a rock, where he suffered the most dreadful hardships; for, in the midst of the winter he was forced to lay on the bare stone, without any covering; his food was the roots he could scratch up near his miserable habitation; and the only way by which he could procure drink, was to put snow in his mouth till it melted. Here, however, some of the inhuman soldiers found him, and after having beaten him unmercifully, they drove him towards Lucerne, goading him with the points of their swords.--Being exceedingly weakened by his manner of living, and his spirits exhausted by the blows he had received, he fell down in the road. They again beat him to make him proceed: when on his knees, he implored them to put him out of his misery, by despatching him. This they at last agreed to do; and one of them stepping up to him shot him through the head with a pistol, saying, there, heretic, take thy request. Mary Revol, a worthy protestant, received a shot in her back, as she was walking along the street. She dropped down with the wound, but recovering sufficient strength, she raised herself upon her knees, and lifting her hands towards heaven, prayed in a most fervent manner to the Almighty, when a number of soldiers, who were near at hand, fired a whole volley of shot at her, many of which took effect, and put an end to her miseries in an instant. Several men, women, and children secreted themselves in a large cave, where they continued for some weeks in safety. It was the custom for two of the men to go when it was necessary, and by stealth procure provisions. These were, however, one day watched, by which the cave was discovered, and soon after, a troop of Roman catholics appeared before it. The papists that assembled upon this occasion were neighbours and intimate acquaintances of the protestants in the cave; and some of them were even related to each other. The protestants, therefore, came out, and implored them, by the ties of hospitality, by the ties of blood, and as old acquaintances and neighbours, not to murder them. But superstition overcomes every sensation of nature and humanity; so that the papists, blinded by bigotry, told them they could not show any mercy to heretics, and, therefore, bade them prepare to die. Hearing this, and knowing the fatal obstinacy of the Roman catholics, the protestants all fell prostrate, lifted their hands and hearts to heaven, prayed with great sincerity and fervency, and then bowing down, put their faces close to the ground, and patiently waited their fate, which was soon decided, for the papists fell upon them with unremitting fury, and having cut them to pieces, left the mangled bodies and limbs in the cave. Giovanni Salvagiot, passing by a Roman catholic church, and not taking off his hat, was followed by some of the congregation, who fell upon and murdered him; and Jacob Barrel and his wife, having been taken prisoners by the earl of St. Secondo, one of the duke of Savoy's officers, he delivered them up to the soldiery, who cut off the woman's breasts, and the man's nose, and then shot them both through the head. Anthony Guigo, a protestant, of a wavering disposition, went to Periero, with an intent to renounce his religion and embrace popery. This design he communicated to some priests, who highly commended it, and a day was fixed upon for his public recantation. In the mean time, Anthony grew fully sensible of his perfidy, and his conscience tormented him so much night and day, that he determined not to recant, but to make his escape. This he effected, but being soon missed and pursued, he was taken. The troops on the way did all they could to bring him back to his design of recantation; but finding their endeavours ineffectual, they beat him violently on the road, when coming near a precipice, he took an opportunity of leaping down it, and was dashed to pieces. A protestant gentleman, of considerable fortune, at Bobbio, being nightly provoked by the insolence of a priest, retorted with great severity; and among other things, said, that the pope was Antichrist, mass idolatry, purgatory a farce, and absolution a cheat. To be revenged, the priest hired five desperate ruffians, who, the same evening, broke into the gentleman's house, and seized upon him in a violent manner. The gentleman was terribly frightened, fell on his knees, and implored mercy; but the desperate ruffians despatched him without the least hesitation. _A Narrative of the Piedmontese War._ The massacres and murders already mentioned to have been committed in the valleys of Piedmont, nearly depopulated most of the towns and villages. One place only had not been assaulted, and that was owing to the difficulty of approaching it; this was the little commonalty of Roras, which was situated upon a rock. As the work of blood grew slack in other places, the earl of Christople, one of the duke of Savoy's officers, determined, if possible, to make himself master of it; and, with that view, detached three hundred men to surprise it secretly. The inhabitants of Roras, however, had intelligence of the approach of these troops, when captain Joshua Gianavel, a brave protestant officer, put himself at the head of a small body of the citizens, and waited in ambush to attack the enemy in a small defile. When the troops appeared, and had entered the defile, which was the only place by which the town could be approached, the protestants kept up a smart and well-directed fire against them, and still kept themselves concealed behind bushes from the sight of the enemy. A great number of the soldiers were killed, and the remainder receiving a continued fire, and not seeing any to whom they might return it, thought proper to retreat. The members of this little community then sent a memorial to the marquis of Pianessa, one of the duke's general officers, setting forth, "That they were sorry, upon any occasion, to be under the necessity of taking up arms; but that the secret approach of a body of troops, without any reason assigned, or any previous notice sent of the purpose of their coming, had greatly alarmed them; that as it was their custom never to suffer any of the military to enter their little community, they had repelled force by force, and should do so again; but in all other respects, they professed themselves dutiful, obedient, and loyal subjects to their sovereign, the duke of Savoy." The marquis of Pianessa, that he might have the better opportunity of deluding and surprising the protestants of Roras, sent them word in answer, "That he was perfectly satisfied with their behaviour, for they had done right, and even rendered a service to their country, as the men who had attempted to pass the defile were not his troops, or sent by him, but a band of desperate robbers, who had, for some time, infested those parts, and been a terror to the neighbouring country." To give a greater colour to his treachery, he then published an ambiguous proclamation seemingly favourable to the inhabitants. Yet, the very day after this plausible proclamation, and specious conduct, the marquis sent 500 men to possess themselves of Roras, while the people, as he thought, were lulled into perfect security by his specious behaviour. Captain Gianavel, however, was not to be deceived so easily: he, therefore, laid an ambuscade for this body of troops, as he had for the former, and compelled him to retire with very considerable loss. Though foiled in these, two attempts, the marquis Pianessa determined on a third, which should be still more formidable; but first he imprudently published another proclamation, disowning any knowledge of the second attempt. Soon after, 700 chosen men were sent upon the expedition, who, in spite of the fire from the protestants, forced the defile, entered Roras, and began to murder every person they met with, without distinction of age or sex. The protestant captain Gianavel, at the head of a small body, though he had lost the defile, determined to dispute their passage through a fortified pass that led to the richest and best part of the town. Here he was successful, by keeping up a continual fire, and by means of his men being all complete marksmen. The Roman catholic commander was greatly staggered at this opposition, as he imagined that he had surmounted all difficulties. He, however, did his endeavours to force the pass, but being able to bring up only twelve men in front at a time, and the protestants being secured by a breastwork, he found he should be baffled by the handful of men who opposed him. Enraged at the loss of so many of his troops, and fearful of disgrace if he persisted in attempting what appeared so impracticable, he thought it the wisest thing to retreat. Unwilling, however, to withdraw his men by the defile at which he had entered, on account of the difficulty and danger of the enterprise, he determined to retreat towards Villaro, by another pass called Piampra, which, though hard of access, was easy of descent. But in this he met with a disappointment, for captain Gianavel having posted his little band here, greatly annoyed the troops as they passed, and even pursued their rear till they entered the open country. The marquis of Pianessa, finding that all his attempts were frustrated, and that every artifice he used was only an alarm-signal to the inhabitants of Roras, determined to act openly, and therefore proclaimed, that ample rewards should be given to any one who would bear arms against the obstinate heretics of Roras, as he called them; and that any officer who would exterminate them should be rewarded in a princely manner. This engaged captain Mario, a bigoted Roman catholic, and a desperate ruffian, to undertake the enterprise. He, therefore, obtained leave to raise a regiment in the following six towns: Lucerne, Borges, Famolas, Bobbio, Begnal, and Cavos. Having completed his regiment, which consisted of 1000 men, he laid his plan not to go by the defiles or the passes, but to attempt gaining the summit of a rock, from whence he imagined he could pour his troops into the town without much difficulty or opposition. The protestants suffered the Roman catholic troops to gain almost the summit of the rock, without giving them any opposition, or ever appearing in their sight: but when they had almost reached the top they made a most furious attack upon them; one party keeping up a well-directed and constant fire, and another party rolling down huge stones. This stopped the career of the papist troops: many were killed by the musketry, and more by the stones, which beat them down the precipices. Several fell sacrifices to their hurry, for by attempting a precipitate retreat, they fell down, and were dashed to pieces; and captain Mario himself narrowly escaped with his life, for he fell from a craggy place into a river which washed the foot of the rock. He was taken up senseless, but afterwards recovered, though he was ill of the bruises for a long time; and, at length, he fell into a decline at Lucerne, where he died. Another body of troops was ordered from the camp at Villaro, to make an attempt upon Roras; but these were likewise defeated, by means of the protestants' ambush-fighting, and compelled to retreat again to the camp at Villaro. After each of these signal victories, captain Gianavel made a suitable discourse to his men, causing them to kneel down, and return thanks to the Almighty for his providential protection; and usually concluded with the eleventh psalm, where the subject is placing confidence in God. The marquis of Pianessa was greatly enraged at being so much baffled by the few inhabitants of Roras: he, therefore, determined to attempt their expulsion in such a manner as could hardly fail of success. With this view he ordered all the Roman catholic militia of Piedmont to be raised and disciplined. When these orders were completed, he joined to the militia eight thousand regular troops, and dividing the whole into three distinct bodies, he designed that three formidable attacks should be made at the same time, unless the people of Roras, to whom he sent an account of his great preparations, would comply with the following conditions: 1. To ask pardon for taking up arms. 2. To pay the expenses of all the expeditions sent against them. 3. To acknowledge the infallibility of the pope. 4. To go to mass. 5. To pray to the saints. 6. To wear beards. 7. To deliver up their ministers. 8. To deliver up their schoolmasters. 9. To go to confession. 10. To pay loans for the delivery of souls from purgatory. 11. To give up captain Gianavel at discretion. 12. To give up the elders of their church at discretion. The inhabitants of Roras, on being acquainted with these conditions, were filled with an honest indignation, and, in answer, sent word to the marquis, that sooner than comply with them they would suffer three things, which, of all others, were the most obnoxious to mankind, viz. 1. Their estates to be seized. 2. Their houses to be burnt. 3. Themselves to be murdered. Exasperated at this message, the marquis sent them this laconic epistle. _To the obstinate Heretics inhabiting Roras._ You shall have your request, for the troops sent against you have strict injunctions to plunder, burn, and kill. PIANESSA. The three armies were then put in motion, and the attacks ordered to be made thus: the first by the rocks of Villaro; the second by the pass of Bagnol; and the third by the defile of Lucerne. The troops forced their way by the superiority of numbers, and having gained the rocks, pass, and defile, began to make the most horrid depredations, and exercise the greatest cruelties. Men they hanged, burnt, racked to death, or cut to pieces; women they ripped open, crucified, drowned, or threw from the precipices; and children they tossed upon spears, minced, cut their throats, or dashed out their brains. One hundred and twenty-six suffered in this manner, on the first day of their gaining the town. Agreeable to the marquis of Pianessa's orders, they likewise plundered the estates, and burnt the houses of the people. Several protestants, however, made their escape, under the conduct of Captain Gianavel, whose wife and children were unfortunately made prisoners, and sent under a strong guard to Turin. The marquis of Pianessa wrote a letter to captain Gianavel, and released a protestant prisoner that he might carry it him. The contents were, that if the captain would embrace the Roman catholic religion, he should be indemnified for all his losses since the commencement of the war; his wife and children should be immediately released, and himself honourably promoted in the duke of Savoy's army; but if he refused to accede to the proposals made him, his wife and children should be to put to death; and so large a reward should be given to take him, dead or alive, that even some of his own confidential friends should be tempted to betray him, from the greatness of the sum. To this epistle, the brave Gianavel sent the following answer. My Lord Marquis, There is no torment so great or death so cruel, but what I would prefer to the abjuration of my religion: so that promises lose their effects, and menaces only strengthen me in my faith. With respect to my wife and children, my lord, nothing can be more afflicting to me than the thoughts of their confinement, or more dreadful to my imagination, than their suffering a violent and cruel death. I keenly feel all the tender sensations of husband and parent; my heart is replete with every sentiment of humanity; I would suffer any torment to rescue them from danger; I would die to preserve them. But having said thus much, my lord, I assure you that the purchase of their lives must not be the price of my salvation. You have them in your power it is true; but my consolation is, that your power is only a temporary authority over their bodies: you may destroy the mortal part, but their immortal souls are out of your reach, and will live hereafter to bear testimony against you for your cruelties. I therefore recommend them and myself to God, and pray for a reformation in your heart. JOSHUA GIANAVEL. This brave protestant officer, after writing the above letter, retired to the Alps, with his followers; and being joined by a great number of other fugitive protestants, he harassed the enemy by continual skirmishes. Meeting one day with a body of papist troops near Bibiana, he, though inferior in numbers, attacked them with great fury, and put them to the rout without the loss of a man, though himself was shot through the leg in the engagement, by a soldier who had hid himself behind a tree; but Gianavel perceiving from whence the shot came, pointed his gun to the place, and despatched the person who had wounded him. Captain Gianavel hearing that a captain Jahier had collected together a considerable body of protestants, wrote him a letter, proposing a junction of their forces. Captain Jahier immediately agreed to the proposal, and marched directly to meet Gianavel. The junction being formed, it was proposed to attack a town, (inhabited by Roman catholics) called Garcigliana. The assault was given with great spirit, but a reinforcement of horse and foot having lately entered the town, which the protestants knew nothing of, they were repulsed; yet made a masterly retreat, and only lost one man in the action. The next attempt of the protestant forces was upon St. Secondo, which they attacked with great vigour, but met with a strong resistance from the Roman catholic troops, who had fortified the streets, and planted themselves in the houses, from whence they poured musket balls in prodigious numbers. The protestants, however, advanced, under cover of a great number of planks, which some held over their heads, to secure them from the shots of the enemy from the houses, while others kept up a well directed fire; so that the houses and entrenchments were soon forced, and the town taken. In the town they found a prodigious quantity of plunder, which had been taken from protestants at various times, and different places, and which were stored up in the warehouses, churches, dwelling houses, &c. This they removed to a place of safety, to be distributed, with as much justice as possible, among the sufferers. This successful attack was made with such skill and spirit, that it cost very little to the conquering party, the protestants having only 17 killed, and 26 wounded; while the papists suffered a loss of no less than 450 killed and 511 wounded. Five protestant officers, viz. Gianavel, Jahier, Laurentio, Genolet, and Benet, laid a plan to surprise Biqueras. To this end they marched in five respective bodies, and by agreement were to make the attack at the same time. The captains Jahier and Laurentio passed through two defiles in the woods, and came to the place in safety, under covert; but the other three bodies made their approaches through an open country, and, consequently, were more exposed to an attack. The Roman catholics taking the alarm, a great number of troops were sent to relieve Biqueras from Cavors, Bibiana, Fenile, Campiglione, and some other neighbouring places. When these were united, they determined to attack the three protestant parties, that were marching through the open country. The protestant officers perceiving the intent of the enemy, and not being at a great distance from each other, joined their forces with the utmost expedition, and formed themselves in order of battle. In the mean time, the captains Jahier and Laurentio had assaulted the town of Biqueras, and burnt all the out houses, to make their approaches with the greater ease; but not being supported as they expected by the other three protestant captains, they sent a messenger, on a swift horse, towards the open country, to inquire the reason. The messenger soon returned and informed them that it was not in the power of the three protestant captains to support their proceedings, as they were themselves attacked by a very superior force in the plain, and could scarce sustain the unequal conflict. The captains Jahier and Laurentio, on receiving this intelligence, determined to discontinue the assault on Biqueras, and to proceed, with all possible expedition, to the relief of their friends on the plain. This design proved to be of the most essential service, for just as they arrived at the spot where the two armies were engaged, the papist troops began to prevail, and were on the point of flanking the left wing, commanded by captain Gianavel. The arrival of these troops turned the scale in favour of the protestants; and the papist forces, though they fought with the most obstinate intrepidity, were totally defeated. A great number were killed and wounded on both sides, and the baggage, military stores, &c. taken by the protestants were very considerable. Captain Gianavel, having information that three hundred of the enemy were to convoy a great quantity of stores, provisions, &c. from La Torre to the castle of Mirabac, determined to attack them on the way. He, accordingly, began the assault at Malbec, though with a very inadequate force. The contest was long and bloody, but the protestants, at length, were obliged to yield to the superiority of numbers, and compelled to make a retreat, which they did with great regularity, and but little loss. Captain Gianavel advanced to an advantageous post, situated near the town of Villaro, and then sent the following information and commands to the inhabitants. 1. That he should attack the town in twenty-four hours. 2. That with respect to the Roman catholics who had borne arms, whether they belonged to the army or not, he should act by the law of retaliation, and put them to death, for the numerous depredations, and many cruel murders, they had committed. 3. That all women and children, whatever their religion might be, should be safe. 4. That he commanded all male protestants to leave the town and join him. 5. That all apostates, who had, through weakness, abjured their religion, should be deemed enemies, unless they renounced their abjuration. 6. That all who returned to their duty to God, and themselves, should be received as friends. The protestants, in general, immediately left the town, and joined captain Gianavel with great satisfaction, and the few, who through weakness or fear, had abjured their faith, recanted their abjuration, and were received into the bosom of the church. As the marquis of Pianessa had removed the army, and encamped in quite a different part of the country, the Roman catholics of Villaro thought it would be folly to attempt to defend the place with the small force they had. They, therefore, fled with the utmost precipitation, leaving the town and most of their property, to the discretion of the protestants. The protestant commanders having called a council of war, resolved to make an attempt upon the town of La Torre. The papists being apprized of the design, detached some troops to defend a defile, through which the protestants must make their approach; but these were defeated, compelled to abandon the pass, and forced to retreat to La Torre. The protestants proceeded on their march, and the troops of La Torre, on their approach, made a furious sally, were repulsed with great loss, and compelled to seek shelter in the town. The governor now only thought of defending the place, which the protestants began to attack in form; but after many brave attempts, and furious assaults, the commanders determined to abandon the enterprise for several reasons, particularly, because they found the place itself too strong, their own number too weak, and their cannon not adequate to the task of battering down the walls. This resolution taken, the protestant commanders began a masterly retreat, and conducted it with such regularity, that the enemy did not choose to pursue them, or molest their rear, which they might have done, as they passed the defiles. The next day they mustered, reviewed the army, and found the whole to amount to four hundred and ninety-five men. They then held a council of war, and planned an easier enterprise: this was to make an attack on the commonalty of Crusol, a place, inhabited by a number of the most bigoted Roman catholics, and who had exercised, during the persecutions, the most unheard-of cruelties on the protestants. The people of Crusol, hearing of the design against them, fled to a neighbouring fortress, situated on a rock, where the protestants could not come to them, for a very few men could render it inaccessible to a numerous army. Thus they secured their persons, but were in too much hurry to secure their property, the principal part of which, indeed, had been plundered from the protestants, and now luckily fell again to the possession of the right owners. It consisted of many rich and valuable articles, and what, at that time, was of much more consequence, viz. a great quantity of military stores. The day after the protestants were gone with their booty, eight hundred troops arrived to the assistance of the people of Crusol, having been despatched from Lucerne, Biqueras, Cavors, &c. But finding themselves too late, and that pursuit would be vain, not to return empty handed, they began to plunder the neighbouring villages, though what they took was from their friends. After collecting a tolerable booty, they began to divide it, but disagreeing about the different shares, they fell from words to blows, did a great deal of mischief, and then plundered each other. On the very same day in which the protestants were so successful at Crusol, some papists marched with a design to plunder and burn the little protestant village of Rocappiatta, but by the way they met with the protestant forces belonging to the captains Jahier and Laurentio, who were posted on the hill of Angrognia. A trivial engagement ensued, for the Roman catholics, on the very first attack, retreated in great confusion, and were pursued with much slaughter. After the pursuit was over, some straggling papist troops meeting with a poor peasant, who was a protestant, tied a cord round his head, and strained it till his skull was quite crushed. Captain Gianavel and captain Jahier concerted a design together to make an attack upon Lucerne; but captain Jahier not bringing up his forces at the time appointed, captain Gianavel determined to attempt the enterprise himself. He, therefore, by a forced march, proceeded towards that place during the whole night, and was close to it by break of day. His first care was to cut the pipes that conveyed water into the town, and then to break down the bridge, by which alone provisions from the country could enter. He then assaulted the places and speedily possessed himself of two of the out posts; but finding he could not make himself master of the place, he prudently retreated with very little loss, blaming, however captain Jahier, for the failure of the enterprise. The papists being informed that captain Gianavel was at Angrognia with only his own company, determined if possible to surprise him. With this view, a great number of troops were detached from La Torre and other places: one party of these got on top of a mountain, beneath which he was posted; and the other party intended to possess themselves of the gate of St. Bartholomew. The papists thought themselves sure of taking captain Gianavel and every one of his men, as they consisted but of three hundred, and their own force was two thousand five hundred. Their design, however, was providentially frustrated, for one of the popish soldiers imprudently blowing a trumpet before the signal for attack was given, captain Gianavel took the alarm, and posted his little company so advantageously at the gate of St. Bartholomew, and at the defile by which the enemy must descend from the mountains, that the Roman catholic troops failed in both attacks, and were repulsed with very considerable loss. Soon after, captain Jahier came to Angrognia, and joined his forces to those of captain Gianavel, giving sufficient reasons to excuse his before-mentioned failure. Captain Jahier now made several secret excursions with great success, always selecting the most active troops, belonging both to Gianavel and himself. One day he had put himself at the head of forty-four men, to proceed upon an expedition, when entering a plain near Ossac, he was suddenly surrounded by a large body of horse. Captain Jahier and his men fought desperately, though oppressed by odds, and killed the commander-in-chief, three captains, and fifty-seven private men, of the enemy. But captain Jahier himself being killed, with thirty-five of his men, the rest surrendered. One of the soldiers cut off captain Jahier's head, and carrying it to Turin, presented it to the duke of Savoy, who rewarded him with six hundred ducatoons. The death of this gentleman was a signal loss to the protestants, as he was a real friend to, and companion of, the reformed church. He possessed a most undaunted spirit, so that no difficulties could deter him from undertaking an enterprise, or dangers terrify him in its execution. He was pious without affectation, and humane without weakness; bold in a field, meek in a domestic life, of a penetrating genius, active in spirit, and resolute in all his undertakings. To add to the affliction of the protestants, captain Gianavel was, soon after, wounded in such a manner that he was obliged to keep his bed. They, however, took new courage from misfortunes, and determining not to let their spirits droop, attacked a body of popish troops with great intrepidity; the protestants were much inferior in numbers, but fought with more resolution than the papists, and at length routed them with considerable slaughter. During the action, a sergeant named Michael Bertino was killed; when his son, who was close behind him, leaped into his place, and said, I have lost my father; but courage, fellow soldiers, God is a father to us all. Several skirmishes likewise happened between the troops of La Torre and Tagliaretto, and the protestant forces, which in general terminated in favour of the latter. A Protestant gentleman, named Andrion, raised a regiment of horse, and took the command of it himself. The sieur John Leger persuaded a great number of protestants to form themselves into volunteer companies; and an excellent officer, named Michelin, instituted several bands of light troops. These being all joined to the remains of the veteran protestant troops, (for great numbers had been lost in the various battles, skirmishes, sieges, &c.) composed a respectable army, which the officers thought proper to encamp near St. Giovanni. The Roman catholic commanders, alarmed at the formidable appearance, and increased strength of the protestant forces, determined, if possible, to dislodge them from their encampment. With this view, they collected together a large force, consisting of the principal part of the garrisons of the Roman catholic towns, the draft from the Irish brigades, a great number of regulars sent by the marquis of Pianessa, the auxiliary troops, and the independent companies. These, having formed a junction, encamped near the protestants, and spent several days in calling councils of war, and disputing on the most proper mode of proceeding. Some were for plundering the country, in order to draw the protestants from their camp; others were for patiently waiting till they were attacked; and a third party were for assaulting the protestant camp, and trying to make themselves masters of every thing in it. The last of them prevailed, and the morning after the resolution had been taken was appointed to put it into execution. The Roman catholic troops were accordingly separated into four divisions, three of which were to make an attack in different places; and the fourth to remain as a body of reserve to act as occasion might require. One of the Roman catholic officers, previous to the attack, thus harangued his men: "Fellow-soldiers, you are now going to enter upon a great action, which will bring you fame and riches. The motives of your acting with spirit are likewise of the most important nature; namely, the honour of showing your loyalty to your sovereign, the pleasure of spilling heretic blood, and the prospect of plundering the protestant camp. So, my brave fellows, fall on, give no quarter, kill all you meet, and take all you come near." After this inhuman speech the engagement began, and the protestant camp was attacked in three places with inconceivable fury. The fight was maintained with great obstinacy and perseverance on both sides, continuing without intermission for the space of four hours; for the several companies on both sides relieved each other alternately, and by that means kept up a continual fire during the whole action. During the engagement of the main armies, a detachment was sent from the body of reserve to attack the post of Castelas, which, if the papists had carried, it would have given them the command of the valleys of Perosa, St. Martino, and Lucerne; but they were repulsed with great loss, and compelled to return to the body of reserve, from whence they had been detached. Soon after the return of this detachment, the Roman catholic troops, being hard pressed in the main battle, sent for the body of reserve to come to their support. These immediately marched to their assistance, and for some time longer held the event doubtful, but at length the valour of the protestants prevailed, and the papists were totally defeated, with the loss of upwards of three hundred men killed, and many more wounded. When the cyndic of Lucerne, who was indeed a papist, but not a bigoted one, saw the great number of wounded men brought into that city, he exclaimed, ah! I thought the wolves used to devour the heretics, but now I see the heretics eat the wolves. This expression being reported to M. Marolles, the Roman catholic commander in chief at Lucerne, he sent a very severe and threatening letter to the cyndic, who was so terrified, that the fright threw him into a fever, and he died in a few days. This great battle was fought just before the harvest was got in, when the papists, exasperated at their disgrace, and resolved on any kind of revenge, spread themselves by night in detached parties over the finest corn-fields of the protestants, and set them on fire in sundry places. Some of these straggling parties, however, suffered for their conduct; for the protestants, being alarmed in the night by the blazing of the fire among the corn, pursued the fugitives early in the morning, and overtaking many, put them to death. The protestant captain Bellin, likewise, by way of retaliation, went with a body of light troops, and burnt the suburbs of La Torre, making his retreat afterward with very little loss. A few days after, captain Bellin, with a much stronger body of troops, attacked the town of La Torre itself, and making a breach in the wall of the convent, his men entered, driving the garrison into the citadel, and burning both town and convent. After having effected this, they made a regular retreat, as they could not reduce the citadel for want of cannon. _An Account of the Persecutions of Michael de Molinos, a Native of Spain._ Michael de Molinos, a Spaniard of a rich and honourable family, entered, when young, into priest's orders, but would not accept of any preferment in the church. He possessed great natural abilities, which he dedicated to the service of his fellow-creatures, without any view of emolument to himself. His course of life was pious and uniform; nor did he exercise those austerities which are common among the religious orders of the church of Rome. Being of a contemplative turn of mind, he pursued the track of the mystical divines, and having acquired great reputation in Spain, and being desirous of propagating his sublime mode of devotion, he left his own country, and settled at Rome. Here he soon connected himself with some of the most distinguished among the literati, who so approved of his religious maxims, that they concurred in assisting him to propagate them; and, in a short time, he obtained a great number of followers, who, from the sublime mode of their religion, were distinguished by the name of Quietists. In 1675, Molinos published a book entitled "Il Guida Spirituale," to which were subjoined recommendatory letters from several great personages. One of these was by the archbishop of Reggio; a second by the general of the Franciscans; and a third by father Martin de Esparsa, a Jesuit, who had been divinity-professor both at Salamanca and Rome. No sooner was the book published, than it was greatly read, and highly esteemed, both in Italy and Spain; and this so raised the reputation of the author, that his acquaintance was coveted by the most respectable characters. Letters were written to him from numbers of people, so that a correspondence was settled between him, and those who approved of his method, in different parts of Europe. Some secular priests, both at Rome and Naples, declared themselves openly for it, and consulted him, as a sort of oracle, on many occasions. But those who attached themselves to him with the greatest sincerity, were some of the fathers of the Oratory; in particular three of the most eminent, namely, Caloredi, Ciceri, and Petrucci. Many of the cardinals also courted his acquaintance, and thought themselves happy in being reckoned among the number of his friends. The most distinguished of them was the cardinal d'Estrees, a man of very great learning, who so highly approved of Molinos' maxims, that he entered into a close connexion with him. They conversed together daily, and notwithstanding the distrust a Spaniard has naturally of a Frenchman, yet Molinos, who was sincere in his principles, opened his mind without reserve to the cardinal; and by this means a correspondence was settled between Molinos and some distinguished characters in France. Whilst Molinos was thus labouring to propagate his religious mode, father Petrucci wrote several treatises relative to a contemplative life; but he mixed in them so many rules for the devotions of the Romish church, as mitigated that censure he might have otherwise incurred. They were written chiefly for the use of the nuns, and therefore the sense was expressed in the most easy and familiar style. Molinos had now acquired such reputation, that the Jesuits and Dominicans began to be greatly alarmed, and determined to put a stop to the progress of this method. To do this, it was necessary to decry the author of it; and as heresy is an imputation that makes the strongest impression at Rome, Molinos and his followers were given out to be heretics. Books were also written by some of the Jesuits against Molinos and his method; but they were all answered with spirit by Molinos. These disputes occasioned such disturbance in Rome, that the whole affair was taken notice of by the inquisition. Molinos and his book, and father Petrucci, with his treatises and letters, were brought under a severe examination; and the Jesuits were considered as the accusers. One of the society had, indeed, approved of Molinos' book but the rest took care he should not be again seen at Rome. In the course of the examination both Molinos and Petrucci acquitted themselves so well, that their books were again approved, and the answers which the Jesuits had written were censured as scandalous. Petrucci's conduct on this occasion was so highly approved, that it not only raised the credit of the cause, but his own emolument; for he was soon after made bishop of Jesis, which was a new declaration made by the pope in their favour. Their books were now esteemed more than ever, their method was more followed, and the novelty of it, with the new approbation given after so vigorous an accusation by the Jesuits, all contributed to raise the credit, and increase the number of the party. The behaviour of father Petrucci in his new dignity greatly contributed to increase his reputation, so that his enemies were unwilling to give him any further disturbance; and, indeed, there was less occasion given for censure by his writings than those of Molinos. Some passages in the latter were not so cautiously expressed, but there was room to make exceptions to them; while, on the other hand, Petrucci so fully explained himself, as easily to remove the objections made to some parts of his letter. The great reputation acquired by Molinos and Petrucci, occasioned a daily increase of the Quietists. All who were thought sincerely devout, or at least affected the reputation of it, were reckoned among the number. If these persons were observed to become more strict in their lives and mental devotions, yet there appeared less zeal in their whole deportment as to the exterior parts of the church ceremonies. They were not so assiduous at mass, nor so earnest to procure masses to be said for their friends; nor were they so frequently either at confession, or in processions. Though the new approbation given to Molinos' book by the inquisition had checked the proceedings of his enemies; yet they were still inveterate against him in their hearts, and determined if possible to ruin him. They insinuated that he had ill designs, and was, in his heart, an enemy to the Christian religion: that under pretence of raising men to a sublime strain of devotion, he intended to erase from their minds a sense of the mysteries of christianity. And because he was a Spaniard, they gave out that he was descended from a Jewish or Mahometan race, and that he might carry in his blood, or in his first education, some seeds of those religions which he had since cultivated with no less art than zeal. This last calumny gained but little credit at Rome, though it was said an order was sent to examine the registers of the place where Molinos was baptised. Molinos finding himself attacked with great vigour, and the most unrelenting malice, took every necessary precaution to prevent these imputations being credited. He wrote a treatise, entitled Frequent and Daily Communion, which was likewise approved by some of the most learned of the Romish clergy. This was printed with his Spiritual Guide, in the year 1675; and in the preface to it he declared, that he had not written it with any design to engage himself in matters of controversy, but that it was drawn from him by the earnest solicitations of many pious people. The Jesuits, failing, in their attempts of crushing Molinos' power in Rome, applied to the court of France, when, in a short time, they so far succeeded, that an order was sent to cardinal d'Estrees, commanding him to prosecute Molinos with all possible rigour. The cardinal, though so strongly attached to Molinos, resolved to sacrifice all that is sacred in friendship to the will of his master. Finding, however, there was not sufficient matter for an accusation against him, he determined to supply that defect himself. He, therefore, went to the inquisitors, and informed them of several particulars, not only relative to Molinos, but also Petrucci, both of whom, together with several of their friends, were put into the inquisition. When they were brought before the inquisitors, (which was the beginning of the year 1684) Petrucci answered the respective questions put to him with so much judgment and temper, that he was soon dismissed; and though Molinos' examination was much longer, it was generally expected he would have been likewise discharged: but this was not the case. Though the inquisitors had not any just accusation against him, yet they strained every nerve to find him guilty of heresy. They first objected to his holding a correspondence in different parts of Europe; but of this he was acquitted, as the matter of that correspondence could not be made criminal. They then directed their attention to some suspicious papers found in his chamber; but Molinos so clearly explained their meaning, that nothing could be made of them to his prejudice. At length, cardinal d'Estrees, after producing the order sent him by the king of France for prosecuting Molinos, said, he could prove against him more than was necessary to convince them he was guilty of heresy. To do this he perverted the meaning of some passages in Molinos' books and papers, and related many false and aggravating circumstances relative to the prisoner. He acknowledged he had lived with him under the appearance of friendship, but that it was only to discover his principles and intentions: that he had found them to be of a bad nature, and that dangerous consequences were likely to ensue; but in order to make a full discovery, he had assented to several things, which, in his heart, he detested; and that, by these means, he saw into the secrets of Molinos, but determined not to take any notice, till a proper opportunity should offer of crushing him and his followers. In consequence of d'Estrees' evidence, Molinos was closely confined by the inquisition, where he continued for some time, during which period all was quiet, and his followers prosecuted their mode without interruption. But on a sudden the Jesuits determined to extirpate them, and the storm broke out with the most inveterate vehemence. The count Vespiniani and his lady, Don Paulo Rocchi, confessor to the prince Borghese, and some of his family, with several others, (in all seventy persons) were put into the inquisition, among whom many were highly esteemed both for their learning and piety. The accusation laid against the clergy was, their neglecting to say the breviary; and the rest were accused of going to the communion without first attending confession. In a word, it was said, they neglected all the exterior parts of religion, and gave themselves up wholly to solitude and inward prayer. The countess Vespiniani exerted herself in a very particular manner on her examination before the inquisitors. She said, she had never revealed her method of devotion to any mortal but her confessor, and that it was impossible they should know it without his discovering the secret; that, therefore it was time to give over going to confession, if priests made this use of it, to discover the most secret thoughts intrusted to them; and that, for the future, she would only make her confession to God. From this spirited speech, and the great noise made in consequence of the countess's situation, the inquisitors thought it most prudent to dismiss both her and her husband, lest the people might be incensed, and what she said might lessen the credit of confession. They were, therefore, both discharged, but bound to appear whenever they should be called upon. Besides those already mentioned, such was the inveteracy of the Jesuits against the Quietists, that within the space of a month upwards of two hundred persons were put into the inquisition; and that method of devotion which had passed in Italy as the most elevated to which mortals could aspire, was deemed heretical, and the chief promoters of it confined in a wretched dungeon. In order, if possible, to extirpate Quietism, the inquisitors sent a circular letter to cardinal Cibo, as the chief minister, to disperse it through Italy. It was addressed to all prelates, informing them, that whereas many schools and fraternities were established in several parts of Italy, in which some persons, under a pretence of leading people into the ways of the Spirit, and to the prayer of quietness, instilled into them many abominable heresies, therefore a strict charge was given to dissolve all those societies, and to oblige the spiritual guide to tread in the known paths; and, in particular, to take care none of that sort should be suffered to have the direction of the nunneries. Orders were likewise given to proceed, in the way of justice, against those who should be found guilty of these abominable errors. After this a strict inquiry was made into all the nunneries in Rome; when most of their directors and confessors were discovered to be engaged in this new method. It was found that the Carmelites, the nuns of the Conception, and those of several other convents, were wholly given up to prayer and contemplation, and that, instead of their beads, and the other devotions to saints, or images, they were much alone, and often in the exercise of mental prayer; that when they were asked why they had laid aside the use of their beads, and their ancient forms, their answer was, their directors had advised them so to do. Information of this being given to the inquisition, they sent orders that all books written in the same strain with those of Molinos and Petrucci, should be taken from them, and that they should be compelled to return to their original form of devotion. The circular letter sent to cardinal Cibo, produced but little effect, for most of the Italian bishops were inclined to Molinos' method. It was intended that this, as well as all other orders from the inquisitors, should be kept secret; but notwithstanding all their care, copies of it were printed, and dispersed in most of the principal towns in Italy. This gave great uneasiness to the inquisitors, who use every method they can to conceal their proceedings from the knowledge of the world. They blamed the cardinal, and accused him of being the cause of it; but he retorted on them, and his secretary laid the fault on both. During these transactions, Molinos suffered great indignities from the officers of the inquisition; and the only comfort he received was, from being sometimes visited by father Petrucci. Though he had lived in the highest reputation in Rome for some years, he was now as much despised, as he had been admired, being generally considered as one of the worst of heretics. The greater part of Molinos' followers, who had been placed in the inquisition, having abjured his mode, were dismissed; but a harder fate awaited Molinos, their leader. After lying a considerable time in prison, he was at length brought again before the inquisitors to answer to a number of articles exhibited against him from his writings. As soon as he appeared in court, a chain was put round his body, and a wax-light in his hand, when two friars read aloud the articles of accusation. Molinos answered each with great steadiness and resolution; and notwithstanding his arguments totally defeated the force of all, yet he was found guilty of heresy, and condemned to imprisonment for life. When he left the court he was attended by a priest, who had borne him the greatest respect. On his arrival at the prison he entered the cell allotted for his confinement with great tranquility; and on taking leave of the priest, thus addressed him: Adieu, father, we shall meet again at the day of judgment, and then it will appear on which side the truth is, whether on my side, or on yours. During his confinement, he was several times tortured in the most cruel manner, till, at length, the severity of the punishments overpowered his strength, and finished his existence. The death of Molinos struck such an impression on his followers, that the greater part of them soon abjured his mode; and by the assiduity of the Jesuits, Quietism was totally extirpated throughout the country. CHAPTER VII. _An Account of the Persecutions in Bohemia under the Papacy._ The Roman pontiffs having usurped a power over several churches were particularly severe on the Bohemians, which occasioned them to send two ministers and four lay-brothers to Rome, in the year 977, to obtain redress of the pope. After some delay, their request was granted, and their grievances redressed. Two things in particular they were permitted to do, viz. to have divine service performed in their own language, and to give the cup to the laity in the sacrament. The disputes, however, soon broke out again, the succeeding popes exerting their whole power to impose on the minds of the Bohemians; and the latter, with great spirit, aiming to preserve their religious liberties. A. D. 1375, some zealous friends of the gospel applied to Charles, king of Bohemia, to call an economical council, for an inquiry into the abuses that had crept into the church, and to make a full and thorough reformation. The king, not knowing how to proceed, sent to the pope for directions how to act; but the pontiff was so incensed at this affair, that his only reply was, severely punish those rash and profane heretics. The monarch, accordingly banished every one who had been concerned in the application, and, to oblige the pope, laid a great number of additional restraints upon the religious liberties of the people. The victims of persecution, however, were not so numerous in Bohemia, until after the burning of John Huss and Jerom of Prague. These two eminent reformers were condemned and executed at the instigation of the pope and his emissaries, as the reader will perceive by the following short sketch of their lives. _John Huss._ John Huss was born at Hussenitz, a village in Bohemia, about the year 1380. His parents gave him the best education their circumstances would admit; and having acquired a tolerable knowledge of the classics at a private school, he was removed to the university of Prague, where he soon gave strong proofs of his mental powers, and was remarkable for his diligence and application to study. In 1398, Huss commenced bachelor of divinity, and was after successively chosen pastor of the church of Bethlehem, in Prague, and dean and rector of the university. In these stations he discharged his duties with great fidelity; and became, at length, so conspicuous for his preaching, which was in conformity with the doctrines of Wickliffe, that it was not likely he could long escape the notice of the pope and his adherents, against whom he inveighed with no small degree of asperity. The English reformist Wickliffe, had so kindled the light of reformation, that it began to illumine the darkest corners of popery and ignorance. His doctrines spread into Bohemia, and were well received by great numbers of people, but by none so particularly as John Huss, and his zealous friend and fellow-martyr, Jerom of Prague. The archbishop of Prague, finding the reformists daily increasing, issued a decree to suppress the farther spreading of Wickliffe's writings: but this had an effect quite different to what he expected, for it stimulated the friends of those doctrines to greater zeal, and almost the whole university united to propagate them. Being strongly attached to the doctrines of Wickliffe, Huss opposed the decree of the archbishop, who, however, at length, obtained a bull from the pope, giving him commission to prevent the publishing of Wickliffe's doctrines in his province. By virtue of this bull, the archbishop condemned the writings of Wickliffe: he also proceeded against four doctors, who had not delivered up the copies of that divine, and prohibited them, notwithstanding their privileges, to preach to any congregation. Dr. Huss, with some other members of the university, protested against these proceedings, and entered an appeal from the sentence of the archbishop. The affair being made known to the pope, he granted a commission to cardinal Colonna, to cite John Huss to appear personally at the court of Rome, to answer the accusations laid against him, of preaching both errors and heresies. Dr. Huss desired to be excused from a personal appearance, and was so greatly favoured in Bohemia, that king Winceslaus, the queen, the nobility, and the university, desired the pope to dispense with such an appearance; as also that he would not suffer the kingdom of Bohemia to lie under the accusation of heresy, but permit them to preach the gospel with freedom in their places of worship. Three proctors appeared for Dr. Huss before cardinal Colonna. They endeavoured to excuse his absence, and said, they were ready to answer in his behalf. But, the cardinal declared Huss contumacious, and excommunicated him accordingly. The proctors appealed to the pope, and appointed four cardinals to examine the process: these commissioners confirmed the former sentence, and extended the excommunication not only to Huss but to all his friends and followers. From this unjust sentence Huss appealed to a future council, but without success; and, notwithstanding so severe a decree, and an expulsion in consequence from his church in Prague, he retired to Hussenitz, his native place, where he continued to promulgate his new doctrine, both from the pulpit and with the pen. The letters which he wrote at this time were very numerous; and he compiled a treatise in which he maintained, that reading the book of protestants could not be absolutely forbidden. He wrote in defence of Wickliffe's book on the Trinity; and boldly declared against the vices of the pope, the cardinals, and clergy, of those corrupt times. He wrote also many other books, all of which were penned with a strength of argument that greatly facilitated the spreading of his doctrines. In the month of November, 1414, a general council was assembled at Constance, in Germany, in order, as was pretended, for the sole purpose of determining a dispute then pending between three persons who contended for the papacy; but the real motive was, to crush the progress of the reformation. John Huss was summoned to appear at this council; and, to encourage him, the emperor sent him a safe-conduct: the civilities, and even reverence, which Huss met with on his journey, were beyond imagination. The streets, and, sometimes the very roads, were lined with people, whom respect, rather than curiosity, had brought together. He was ushered into the town with great acclamations and it may be said, that he passed through Germany in a kind of triumph. He could not help expressing his surprise at the treatment he received: "I thought (said he) I had been an outcast. I now see my worst friends are in Bohemia." As soon as Huss arrived at Constance, he immediately took lodgings in a remote part of the city. A short time after his arrival, came one Stephen Paletz, who was employed by the clergy at Prague to manage the intended prosecution against him. Paletz was afterward joined by Michael de Cassis, on the part of the court of Rome. These two declared themselves his accusers, and drew up a set of articles against him, which they presented to the pope and the prelates of the council. When it was known that he was in the city, he was immediately arrested, and committed prisoner to a chamber in the palace. This violation of common law and justice, was particularly noticed by one of Huss' friends, who urged the imperial safe-conduct; but the pope replied, he never granted any safe-conduct, nor was he bound by that of the emperor. While Huss was in confinement, the council acted the part of inquisitors. They condemned the doctrines of Wickliffe, and even ordered his remains to be dug up and burnt to ashes; which orders were strictly complied with. In the mean time, the nobility of Bohemia and Poland strongly interceded for Huss; and so far prevailed as to prevent his being condemned unheard, which had been resolved on by the commissioners appointed to try him. When he was brought before the council, the articles exhibited against him were read: they were upwards of forty in number, and chiefly extracted from his writings. After his examination, he was taken from the court, and a resolution was formed by the council to burn him as a heretic if he would not retract. He was then committed to a filthy prison, where, in the daytime, he was so laden with fetters on his legs, that he could hardly move, and every night he was fastened by his hand to a ring against the walls of the prison. After continuing some days in this situation, many noblemen of Bohemia interceded in his behalf. They drew up a petition for his release, which was presented to the council by several of the most distinguished nobles of Bohemia; a few days after the petition was presented, four bishops and two lords were sent by the emperor to the prison, in order to prevail on Huss to make a recantation. But he called God to witness, with tears in his eyes, that he was not conscious of having preached or written, against the truth of God, or the faith of his orthodox church. On the 4th of July, Dr. Huss was brought for the last time before the council. After a long examination he was desired to abjure, which he refused without the least hesitation. The bishop of Lodi then preached a sanguinary sermon, concerning the destruction of heretics, the prologue to his intended punishment. After the close of the sermon, his fate was determined, his vindication was disregarded, and judgment pronounced. Huss heard this sentence without the least emotion. At the close of it he knelt down, with his eyes lifted towards heaven, and with all the magnanimity of a primitive martyr, thus exclaimed: "May thy infinite mercy, O my God! pardon this injustice of mine enemies. Thou knowest the injustice of my accusations; how deformed with crimes I have been represented; how I have been oppressed with worthless witnesses, and a false condemnation; yet, O my God! let that mercy of thine, which no tongue can express, prevail with thee not to avenge my wrongs." These excellent sentences were esteemed as so many expressions of treason, and tended to inflame his adversaries. Accordingly, the bishops appointed by the council stripped him of his priestly garments, degraded him, put a paper mitre on his head, on which was painted devils, with this inscription, "A ringleader of heretics." Our heroic martyr received this mock mitre with an air of unconcern, which seemed to give him dignity rather than disgrace. A serenity, nay, even a joy appeared in his looks, which indicated that his soul had cut off many stages of a tedious journey in her way to the realms of everlasting peace. After the ceremony of degradation was over, the bishops delivered Dr. Huss to the emperor, who put him into the hands of the duke of Bavaria. His books were burnt at the gates of the church; and on the 6th of July, he was led to the suburbs of Constance, to be burnt alive. On his arrival at the place of execution, he fell on his knees, sung several portions of the Psalms, looked steadfastly towards heaven, and repeated these words: "Into thy hands, O Lord! do I commit my spirit: thou hast redeemed me, O most good and merciful God!" When the chain was put about him at the stake, he said, with a smiling countenance, "My Lord Jesus Christ was bound with a harder chain than this for my sake, and why then should I be ashamed of this rusty one?" When the fagots were piled up to his very neck, the duke of Bavaria was so officious as to desire him to abjure. "No, (said Huss;) I never preached any doctrine of an evil tendency; and what I taught with my lips I now seal with my blood." He then said to the executioner, "You are now going to burn a goose, (Huss signifying goose in the Bohemian language;) but in a century you will have a swan whom you can neither roast nor boil." If he were prophetic, he must have meant Martin Luther, who shone about a hundred years after, and who had a swan for his arms. The flames were now applied to the fagots, when our martyr sung a hymn with so loud and cheerful a voice, that he was heard through all the cracklings of the combustibles, and the noise of the multitude. At length his voice was interrupted by the severity of the flames, which soon closed his existence. _Jerom of Prague._ This reformer, who was the companion of Dr. Huss, and may be said to be a co-martyr with him, was born at Prague, and educated in that university, where he particularly distinguished himself for his great abilities and learning. He likewise visited several other learned seminaries in Europe, particularly the universities of Paris, Heidelburg, Cologn, and Oxford. At the latter place he became acquainted with the works of Wickliffe, and being a person of uncommon application, he translated many of them into his native language, having with great pains, made himself master of the English tongue. On his return to Prague, he professed himself an open favourer of Wickliffe, and finding that his doctrines had made considerable progress in Bohemia, and that Huss was the principal promoter of them, he became an assistant to him in the great work of reformation. On the 4th of April, 1415, Jerom arrived at Constance, about three months before the death of Huss. He entered the town privately, and consulting with some of the leaders of his party, whom he found there, was easily convinced he could not be of any service to his friends. Finding that his arrival in Constance was publicly known, and that the council intended to seize him, he thought it most prudent to retire. Accordingly, the next day he went to Iberling, an imperial town, about a mile from Constance. From this place he wrote to the emperor, and proposed his readiness to appear before the council, if he would give him a safe-conduct; but this was refused. He then applied to the council, but met with an answer no less unfavourable than that from the emperor. After this, he set out on his return to Bohemia. He had the precaution to take with him a certificate, signed by several of the Bohemian nobility, then at Constance, testifying that he had used all prudent means in his power to procure a hearing. Jerom, however, did not thus escape. He was seized at Hirsaw, by an officer belonging to the duke of Sultsbach, who, though unauthorized so to act, made little doubt of obtaining thanks from the council for so acceptable a service. The duke of Sultsbach, having Jerom now in his power, wrote to the council for directions how to proceed. The council, after expressing their obligations to the duke, desired him to send the prisoner immediately to Constance. The elector palatine met him on the way, and conducted him into the city, himself riding on horseback, with a numerous retinue, who led Jerom in fetters by a long chain; and immediately on his arrival he was committed to a loathsome dungeon. Jerom was treated nearly in the same manner as Huss had been, only that he was much longer confined, and shifted from one prison to another. At length, being brought before the council, he desired that he might plead his own cause, and exculpate himself: which being refused him, he broke out into the following elegant exclamation: "What barbarity is this! For three hundred and forty days have I been confined in a variety of prisons. There is not a misery, there is not a want, that I have not experienced. To my enemies you have allowed the fullest scope of accusation: to me, you deny, the least opportunity of defence. Not an hour will you now indulge me in preparing for my trial. You have swallowed the blackest calumnies against me. You have represented me as a heretic, without knowing my doctrine; as an enemy to the faith, before you knew what faith I professed; as a persecutor of priests before you could have an opportunity of understanding my sentiments on that head. You are a general council: in you centre all this world can communicate of gravity, wisdom, and sanctity: but still you are men, and men are seducible by appearances. The higher your character is for wisdom, the greater ought your care to be not to deviate into folly. The cause I now plead is not my own cause: it is the cause of men, it is the cause of christians; it is a cause which is to affect the rights of posterity, however the experiment is to be made in my person." This speech had not the least effect; Jerom was obliged to hear the charge read, which was reduced under the following heads:--1. That he was a derider of the papal dignity;--2. An opposer of the pope;--3. An enemy to the cardinals;--4. A persecutor of the prelates;--and 5. A hater of the christian religion. The trial of Jerom was brought on the third day after his accusation and witnesses were examined in support of the charge. The prisoner was prepared for his defence, which appears almost incredible, when we consider he had been three hundred and forty days shut up in loathsome prisons, deprived of daylight, and almost starved for want of common necessaries. But his spirit soared above these disadvantages, under which a man less animated would have sunk; nor was he more at a loss for quotations from the fathers and ancient authors than if he had been furnished with the finest library. The most bigoted of the assembly were unwilling he should be heard, knowing what effect eloquence is apt to have on the minds of the most prejudiced. At length, however, it was carried by the majority, that he should have liberty to proceed in his defence, which he began to such an exalted strain of moving elocution, that the heart of obdurate zeal was seen to melt, and the mind of superstition seemed to admit a ray of conviction. He made an admirable distinction between evidence as resting upon facts, and as supported by malice and calumny. He laid before the assembly the whole tenor of his life and conduct. He observed that the greatest and most holy men had been known to differ in points of speculation, with a view to distinguish truth, not to keep it concealed. He expressed a noble contempt of all his enemies, who would have induced him to retract the cause of virtue and truth. He entered upon a high encomium of Huss; and declared he was ready to follow him in the glorious track of martyrdom. He then touched upon the most defensible doctrines of Wickliffe; and concluded with observing that it was far from his intention to advance any thing against the state of the church of God; that it was only against the abuse of the clergy he complained; and that he could not help saying, it was certainly impious that the patrimony of the church, which was originally intended for the purpose of charity and universal benevolence, should be prostituted to the pride of the eye, in feasts, foppish vestments, and other reproaches to the name and profession of christianity. The trial being over, Jerom received the same sentence that had been passed upon his martyred countryman. In consequence of this he was, in the usual style of popish affectation, delivered over to the civil power: but as he was a layman, he had not to undergo the ceremony of degradation. They had prepared a cap of paper painted with red devils, which being put upon his head, he said, "Our Lord Jesus Christ, when he suffered death for me a most miserable sinner, did wear a crown of thorns upon his head, and for His sake will I wear this cap." Two days were allowed him in hopes that he would recant; in which time the cardinal of Florence used his utmost endeavours to bring him over. But they all proved ineffectual. Jerom was resolved to seal the doctrine with his blood; and he suffered death with the most distinguished magnanimity. In going to the place of execution he sung several hymns, and when he came to the spot, which was the same where Huss had been burnt, he knelt down, and prayed fervently. He embraced the stake with great cheerfulness, and when they went behind him to set fire to the fagots, he said, "Come here, and kindle it before my eyes; for if I had been afraid of it, I had not come to this place." The fire being kindled, he sung a hymn, but was soon interrupted by the flames; and the last words he was heard to say these:--"This soul in flames I offer." The elegant Pogge, a learned gentleman of Florence, secretary to two popes, and a zealous but liberal catholic, in a letter to Leonard Arotin, bore ample testimony of the extraordinary powers and virtues of Jerom whom he emphatically styles, A prodigious man! _Zisca._ The real name of this zealous servant of Christ was John de Trocznow, that of Zisca is a Bohemian word, signifying one-eyed, as he had lost an eye. He was a native of Bohemia, of a good family and left the court of Winceslaus, to enter into the service of the king of Poland against the Teutonic knights. Having obtained a badge of honour and a purse of ducats for his gallantry, at the close of the war he returned to the court of Winceslaus, to whom he boldly avowed the deep interest he took in the bloody affront offered to his majesty's subjects at Constance in the affair of Huss. Winceslaus lamented it was not in his power to revenge it; and from this moment Zisca is said to have formed the idea of asserting the religious liberties of his country. In the year 1418, the council was dissolved, having done more mischief than good, and in the summer of that year a general meeting was held of the friends of religious reformation, at the castle of Wilgrade, who, conducted by Zisca, repaired to the emperor with arms in their hands, and offered to defend him against his enemies. The king bid them use their arms properly, and this stroke of policy first insured to Zisca the confidence of his party. Winceslaus was succeeded by Sigismond, his brother, who rendered himself odious to the Reformers; and removed all such as were obnoxious to his government. Zisca and his friends, upon this, immediately flew to arms, declared war against the emperor and the pope, and laid siege to Pilsen with 40,000 men. They soon became masters of the fortress, and in a short time all the south-west part of Bohemia submitted, which greatly increased the army of the reformers. The latter having taken the pass of Muldaw, after a severe conflict of five days and nights, the emperor became alarmed, and withdrew his troops from the confines of Turkey, to march them into Bohemia. At Berne in Moravia, he halted, and sent despatches to treat of peace, as a preliminary to which, Zisca gave up Pilsen and all the fortresses he had taken. Sigismond proceeding in a manner that clearly manifested he acted on the Roman doctrine, that no faith was to be kept with heretics, and treating some of the authors of the late disturbances with severity, the alarm-bell of revolt was sounded from one end of Bohemia to the other. Zisca took the castle of Prague by the power of money, and on the 19th of August, 1420, defeated the small army the emperor had hastily got together to oppose him. He next took Ausea by assault, and destroyed the town with a barbarity that disgraced the cause in which he fought. Winter approaching, Zisca fortified his camp on a strong hill about forty miles from Prague, which he called Mount Tabor, from whence he surprised a body of horse at midnight, and made a thousand men prisoners. Shortly after, the emperor obtained possession of the strong fortress of Prague, by the same means that Zisca had before done: it was soon blockaded by the latter, and want began to threaten the emperor, who saw the necessity of a retreat. Determined to make a desperate effort, Sigismond attacked the fortified camp of Zisca on Mount Tabor, and carried it with great slaughter. Many other fortresses also fell, and Zisca withdrew to a craggy hill, which he strongly fortified, and whence he so annoyed the emperor in his approaches against the town of Prague, that he found he must either abandon the siege or defeat his enemy. The marquis of Misnia was deputed to effect this with a large body of troops, but the event was fatal to the imperialists; they were defeated, and the emperor having lost nearly one third of his army, retreated from the siege of Prague, harassed in his rear by the enemy. In the spring of 1421, Zisca commenced the campaign, as before, by destroying all the monasteries in his way. He laid siege to the castle of Wisgrade, and the emperor coming to relieve it, fell into a snare, was defeated with dreadful slaughter, and this important fortress was taken. Our general had now leisure to attend to the work of reformation, but he was much disgusted with the gross ignorance and superstition of the Bohemian clergy, who rendered themselves contemptible in the eyes of the whole army. When he saw any symptoms of uneasiness in his camp, he would spread alarm in order to divert them, and draw his men into action. In one of these expeditions, he encamped before the town of Rubi, and while pointing out the place for an assault, an arrow shot from the wall struck him in the eye. At Prague it was extracted, but, being barbed, it tore the eye out with it. A fever succeeded, and his life was with difficulty preserved. He was now totally blind, but still desirous of attending the army. The emperor having summoned the states of the empire to assist him, it was resolved, with their assistance, to attack Zisca in the winter, when many of his troops departed till the return of spring. The confederate princes undertook the siege of Soisin, but at the approach merely of the Bohemian general, they retreated. Sigismond nevertheless advanced with his formidable army, consisting of 15,000 Hungarian horse and 25,000 infantry, well equipped for a winter campaign. This army spread terror through all the east of Bohemia. Wherever Sigismond marched, the magistrates laid their keys at his feet, and were treated with severity or favour, according to their merits in his cause. Zisca, however, with speedy marches, approached, and the emperor resolved to try his fortune once more with that invincible chief. On the 13th of January, 1422, the two armies met on a spacious plain near Kamnitz. Zisca appeared in the centre of his front line, guarded, or rather conducted, by a horseman on each side, armed with a pole-axe. His troops having sung a hymn with a determined coolness drew their swords, and waited for a signal. When his officers had informed him that the ranks were all well closed, he waved his sabre round his head, which was the sign of battle. This battle is described as a most awful sight. The extent of the plain was one continued scene of disorder. The imperial army fled towards the confines of Moravia, the Taborites, without intermission, galling their rear. The river Igla, then frozen, opposed their flight. The enemy pressing furiously, many of the infantry, and in a manner the whole body of the cavalry attempted the river. The ice gave way and not fewer than 2000 were swalled up in the water. Zisca now returned to Tabor, laden with all the spoils and trophies which the most complete victory could give. Zisca now began again to pay attention to the reformation; he forbid all the prayers for the dead, images, sacerdotal vestments, fasts, and festivals. Priests were to be preferred according to their merits, and no one to be persecuted for religious opinions. In every thing Zisca consulted the liberal minded, and did nothing without general concurrence. An alarming disagreement now arose at Prague between the magistrates who were Calixtans, or receivers of the sacraments in both kinds, and the Taborites, nine of the chiefs of whom were privately arraigned, and put to death. The populace, enraged, sacrificed the magistrates, and the affair terminated without any particular consequence. The Calixtans having sunk into contempt, Zisca was solicited to assume the crown of Bohemia; but this he nobly refused, and prepared for the next campaign, in which Sigismond resolved to make his last effort. While the marquis of Misnia penetrated into Upper Saxony, the emperor proposed to enter Moravia, on the side of Hungary. Before the marquis had taken the field, Zisca sat down before the strong town of Ausig, situate on the Elbe. The marquis flew to its relief with a superior army, and, after an obstinate engagement, was totally defeated and Ausig capitulated. Zisca then went to the assistance of Procop, a young general whom he had appointed to keep Sigismond in check, and whom he compelled to abandon the siege of Pernitz, after laying eight weeks before it. Zisca, willing to give his troops some respite from fatigue, now entered Prague, hoping his presence would quell any uneasiness that might remain after the late disturbance: but he was suddenly attacked by the people; and he and his troop having beaten off the citizens effected a retreat to his army, whom he acquainted with the treacherous conduct of the Calixtans. Every effort of address was necessary to appease their vengeful animosity, and at night, in a private interview between Roquesan, an ecclesiastic of great eminence in Prague, and Zisca, the latter became reconciled, and the intended hostilities were done away. Mutually tired of the war, Sigismond sent to Zisca, requesting him to sheath his sword, and name his conditions. A place of congress being appointed, Zisca, with his chief officers, set out to meet the emperor. Compelled to pass through a part of the country where the plague raged, he was seized with it at the castle of Briscaw and departed this life, October 6, 1424. Like Moses, he died in view of the completion of his labours, and was buried in the great church of Czaslow, in Bohemia, where a monument is erected to his memory, with this inscription on it--"Here lies John Zisca, who, having defended his country against the encroachments of papal tyranny, rests in this hallowed place in despite of the pope." After the death of Zisca, Procop was defeated, and fell with the liberties of his country. After the death of Huss and Jerom, the pope, in conjunction with the council of Constance, ordered the Roman clergy every where, to excommunicate such as adopted their opinions, or commisserated their fate. These orders occasioned great contentions between the papists and reformed Bohemians, which was the cause of a violent persecution against the latter. At Prague, the persecution was extremely severe, till, at length, the reformed being driven to desperation, armed themselves, attacked the senate-house, and threw twelve senators, with the speaker, out of the senate-house windows, whose bodies fell upon spears, which were held up by others of the reformed in the street, to receive them. Being informed of these proceedings, the pope came to Florence, and publicly excommunicated the reformed Bohemians, exciting the emperor of Germany, and all kings, princes, dukes, &c. to take up arms, in order to extirpate the whole race; and promising, by way of encouragement, full remission of all sins whatever, to the most wicked person, if he did but kill one Bohemian protestant. This occasioned a bloody war; for several popish princes undertook the extirpation, or at least expulsion, of the proscribed people; and the Bohemians, arming themselves, prepared to repel force by force, in the most vigorous and effectual manner. The popish army prevailing against the protestant forces at the battle of Cuttenburgh, the prisoners of the reformed were taken to three deep mines near that town and several hundreds were cruelly thrown into each, where they miserably perished. A merchant of Prague, going to Breslaw, in Silesia, happened to lodge in the same inn with several priests. Entering into conversation upon the subject of religious controversy, he passed many encomiums upon the martyred John Huss, and his doctrines. The priests taking umbrage at this, laid an information against him the next morning, and he was committed to prison as a heretic. Many endeavours were used to persuade him to embrace the Roman catholic faith, but he remained steadfast to the pure doctrines of the reformed church. Soon after his imprisonment, a student of the university was committed to the same jail; when, being permitted to converse with the merchant, they mutually comforted each other. On the day appointed for execution, when the jailer began to fasten ropes to their feet, by which they were to be dragged through the streets, the student appeared quite terrified, and offered to abjure his faith, and turn Roman catholic if he might be saved. The offer was accepted, his abjuration was taken by a priest, and he was set at liberty. A priest applying to the merchant to follow the example of the student, he nobly said, "Lose no time in hopes of my recantation, your expectations will be vain; I sincerely pity that poor wretch, who has miserably sacrificed his soul for a few more uncertain years of a troublesome life; and, so far from having the least idea of following his example, I glory in the very thoughts of dying for the sake of Christ." On hearing these words, the priest ordered the executioner to proceed, and the merchant being drawn through the city was brought to the place of execution, and there burnt. Pichel, a bigoted popish magistrate, apprehended 24 protestants, among whom was his daughter's husband. As they all owned they were of the reformed religion, he indiscriminately condemned them to be drowned in the river Abbis. On the day appointed for the execution, a great concourse of people attended, among whom was Pichel's daughter. This worthy wife threw herself at her father's feet, bedewed them with tears, and in the most pathetic manner, implored him to commisserate her sorrow, and pardon her husband. The obdurate magistrate sternly replied, "Intercede not for him, child, he is a heretic, a vile heretic." To which she nobly answered, "Whatever his faults may be, or however his opinions may differ from yours, he is still my husband, a name which, at a time like this, should alone employ my whole consideration." Pichel flew into a violent passion and said, "You are mad! cannot you, after the death of this, have a much worthier husband?" "No, sir, (replied she) my affections are fixed upon this, and death itself shall not dissolve my marriage vow." Pichel, however, continued inflexible, and ordered the prisoners to be tied with their hands and feet behind them, and in that manner be thrown into the river. As soon as this was put into execution, the young lady watched her opportunity, leaped into the waves, and embracing the body of her husband, both sunk together into one watery grave. An uncommon instance of conjugal love in a wife, and of an inviolable attachment to, and personal affection for, her husband. The emperor Ferdinand, whose hatred to the Bohemian protestants was without bounds, not thinking he had sufficiently oppressed them, instituted a high court of reformers, upon the plan of the inquisition, with this difference, that the reformers were to remove from place to place, and always to be attended by a body of troops. These reformers consisted chiefly of Jesuits, and from their decision, there was no appeal, by which it may be easily conjectured, that it was a dreadful tribunal indeed. This bloody court, attended by a body of troops, made the tour of Bohemia, to which they seldom examined or saw a prisoner, suffering the soldiers to murder the protestants as they pleased, and then to make a report of the matter to them afterward. The first victim of their cruelty was an aged minister whom they killed as he lay sick in his bed, the next day they robbed, and murdered another, and soon after shot a third, as he was preaching in his pulpit. A nobleman and clergyman, who resided in a protestant village, hearing of the approach of the high court of reformers and the troops, fled from the place, and secreted themselves. The soldiers, however, on their arrival, seized upon a schoolmaster, asked him where the lord of that place and the minister were concealed, and where they had hid their treasures. The schoolmaster replied, he could not answer either of the questions. They then stripped him naked, bound him with cords, and beat him most unmercifully with cudgels. This cruelty not extorting any confession from him, they scorched him in various parts of his body; when, to gain a respite from his torments, he promised to show them where the treasures were hid. The soldiers gave ear to this with pleasure, and the schoolmaster led them to a ditch full of stones, saying, Beneath these stones are the treasures ye seek for. Eager after money, they went to work, and soon removed those stones, but not finding what they sought after, beat the schoolmaster to death, buried him in the ditch, and covered him with the very stones he had made them remove. Some of the soldiers ravished the daughters of a worthy protestant before his face, and then tortured him to death. A minister and his wife they tied back to back and burnt. Another minister they hung upon a cross beam, and making a fire under him, broiled him to death. A gentleman they hacked into small pieces, and they filled a young man's mouth with gunpowder, and setting fire to it, blew his head to pieces. As their principal rage was directed against the clergy, they took a pious protestant minister, and tormented him daily for a month together, in the following manner, making their cruelty regular, systematic, and progressive. They placed him amidst them, and made him the subject of their derision and mockery, during a whole day's entertainment, trying to exhaust his patience, but in vain, for he bore the whole with true christian fortitude. They spit in his face, pulled his nose, and pinched him in most parts of his body. He was hunted like a wild beast, till ready to expire with fatigue. They made him run the gauntlet between two ranks of them, each striking him with a twig. He was beat with their fists. He was beat with ropes. They scourged him with wires. He was beat with cudgels. They tied him up by the heels with his head downwards, till the blood started out of his nose, mouth, &c. They hung him by the right arm till it was dislocated, and then had it set again. The same was repeated with his left arm. Burning papers dipped in oil, were placed between his fingers and toes. His flesh was torn with red-hot pincers. He was put to the rack. They pulled off the nails of his right hand. The same repeated with his left hand. He was bastinadoed on his feet. A slit was made in his right ear. The same repeated on his left ear. His nose was slit. They whipped him through the town upon an ass. They made several incisions in his flesh. They pulled off the toe nails of his right foot. The same repeated with his left foot. He was tied up by the loins, and suspended for a considerable time. The teeth of his upper jaw were pulled out. The same was repeated with his lower jaw. Boiling lead was poured upon his fingers. The same repeated with his toes. A knotted cord was twisted about his forehead in such a manner as to force out his eyes. During the whole of these horrid cruelties, particular care was taken that his wounds should not mortify, and not to injure him mortally till the last day, when the forcing out of his eyes proved his death. Innumerable were the other murders and depredations committed by those unfeeling brutes, and shocking to humanity were the cruelties which they inflicted on the poor Bohemian protestants. The winter being far advanced, however, the high court of reformers, with their infernal band of military ruffians, thought proper to return to Prague; but on their way, meeting with a protestant pastor, they could not resist the temptation of feasting their barbarous eyes with a new kind of cruelty, which had just suggested itself to the diabolical imagination of one of the soldiers. This was to strip the minister naked, and alternately to cover him with ice and burning coals. This novel mode of tormenting a fellow-creature was immediately put into practice, and the unhappy victim expired beneath the torments, which seemed to delight his inhuman persecutors. A secret order was soon after issued by the emperor, for apprehending all noblemen and gentlemen, who had been principally concerned in supporting the protestant cause, and in nominating Frederic elector Palatine of the Rhine, to be king of Bohemia. These, to the number of fifty, were apprehended in one night, and at one hour, and brought from the places where they were taken, to the castle of Prague, and the estates of those who were absent from the kingdom were confiscated, themselves were made outlaws, and their names fixed upon a gallows, as marks of public ignominy. The high court of reformers then proceeded to try the fifty, who had been apprehended, and two apostate protestants were appointed to examine them. These examinants asked a great number of unnecessary and impertinent questions, which so exasperated one of the noblemen, who was naturally of a warm temper, that he exclaimed opening his breast at the same time, "Cut here, search my heart, you shall find nothing but the love of religion and liberty; those were the motives for which I drew my sword, and for those I am willing to suffer death." As none of the prisoners would change their religion, or acknowledge they had been in error, they were all pronounced guilty; but the sentence was referred to the emperor. When that monarch had read their names, and an account of the respective accusations against them, he passed judgment on all, but in a different manner, as his sentences were of four kinds, viz. death, banishment, imprisonment for life, and imprisonment during pleasure. Twenty being ordered for execution, were informed they might send for Jesuits, monks, or friars, to prepare for the awful change they were to undergo; but that no protestants should be permitted to come near them. This proposal they rejected, and strove all they could to comfort and cheer each other upon the solemn occasion. On the morning of the day appointed for the execution, a cannon was fired as a signal to bring the prisoners from the castle to the principal market-place, in which scaffolds were erected, and a body of troops were drawn up to attend the tragic scene. The prisoners left the castle with as much cheerfulness as if they had been going to an agreeable entertainment, instead of a violent death. Exclusive of soldiers, Jesuits, priests, executioners, attendants, &c. a prodigious concourse of people attended, to see the exit of these devoted martyrs, who were executed in the following order. Lord Schilik was about fifty years of age, and was possessed of great natural and acquired abilities. When he was told he was to be quartered, and his parts scattered in different places, he smiled with great serenity, saying, The loss of a sepulchre is but a trifling consideration. A gentleman who stood by, crying, courage, my lord; he replied, I have God's favour, which is sufficient to inspire any one with courage: the fear of death does not trouble me; formerly I have faced him in fields of battle to oppose Antichrist; and now dare face him on a scaffold, for the sake of Christ. Having said a short prayer, he told the executioner he was ready, who cut off his right hand and his head, and then quartered him. His hand and head were placed upon the high tower of Prague, and his quarters distributed in different parts of the city. Lord Viscount Winceslaus, who had attained the age of seventy years, was equally respectable for learning, piety, and hospitality. His temper was so remarkably patient, that when his house was broke open, his property seized, and his estates confiscated, he only said, with great composure, The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away. Being asked why he could engage in so dangerous a cause as that of attempting to support the elector Palatine Frederic against the power of the emperor, he replied, I acted strictly according to the dictates of my conscience, and, to this day, deem him my king. I am now full of years, and wish to lay down life, that I may not be a witness of the farther evils which are to attend my country. You have long thirsted for my blood, take it, for God will be my avenger. Then approaching the block, he stroked his long grey beard, and said, Venerable hairs, the greater honour now attends ye, a crown of martyrdom is your portion. Then laying down his head, it was severed from his body at one stroke, and placed upon a pole in a conspicuous part of the city. Lord Harant was a man of good sense, great piety, and much experience gained by travel, as he had visited the principal places in Europe, Asia, and Africa. Hence he was free from national prejudices and had collected much knowledge. The accusations against this nobleman, were, his being a protestant and having taken an oath of allegiance to Frederic, elector Palatine of the Rhine, as king of Bohemia. When he came upon the scaffold he said, "I have travelled through many countries, and traversed various barbarous nations, yet never found so much cruelty as at home. I have escaped innumerable perils both by sea and land, and surmounted inconceivable difficulties, to suffer innocently in my native place. My blood is likewise sought by those for whom I, and my forefathers, have hazarded our estates; but, Almighty God! forgive them, for they know not what they do." He then went to the block, kneeled down, and exclaimed with great energy, into thy hands, O Lord! I commend my spirit; in thee have I always trusted; receive me, therefore, my blessed Redeemer. The fatal stroke was then given, and a period put to the temporary pains of this life. Lord Frederic de Bile suffered as a protestant, and a promoter of the late war; he met his fate with serenity, and only said, he wished well to the friends whom he left behind, forgave the enemies who caused his death, denied the authority of the emperor in that country, acknowledged Frederic to be the only true king of Bohemia, and hoped for salvation in the merits of his blessed Redeemer. Lord Henry Otto, when he first came upon the scaffold, seemed greatly confounded, and said, with some asperity, as if addressing himself to the emperor, "Thou tyrant Ferdinand, your throne is established in blood; but if you kill my body, and disperse my members, they shall still rise up in judgment against you." He then was silent, and having walked about for some time, seemed to recover his fortitude, and growing calm, said to a gentleman who stood near, I was, a few minutes since, greatly discomposed, but now I feel my spirits revive; God be praised for affording me such comfort; death no longer appears as the king of terrors, but seems to invite me to participate of some unknown joys. Kneeling before the block, he said, Almighty God! to thee I commend my soul, receive it for the sake of Christ, and admit it to the glory of thy presence. The executioner put this nobleman to considerable pain, by making several strokes before he severed the head from the body. The earl of Rugenia was distinguished for his superior abilities, and unaffected piety. On the scaffold he said, "We who drew our swords, fought only to preserve the liberties of the people, and to keep our consciences sacred: as we were overcome, I am better pleased at the sentence of death, than if the emperor had given me life; for I find that it pleases God to have his truth defended, not by our swords, but by our blood." He then went boldly to the block, saying, I shall now be speedily with Christ, and received the crown of martyrdom with great courage. Sir Gaspar Kaplitz was 86 years of age. When he came to the place of execution, he addressed the principal officer thus: "Behold a miserable ancient man, who hath often entreated God to take him out of this wicked world, but could not until now obtain his desire, for God reserved me till these years to be a spectacle to the world and a sacrifice to himself; therefore God's will be done." One of the officers told him, in consideration of his great age, that if he would only ask pardon, he would immediately receive it. "Ask pardon, (exclaimed he) I will ask pardon of God, whom I have frequently offended; but not of the emperor, to whom I never gave any offence should I sue for pardon, it might be justly suspected I had committed some crime for which I deserved this condemnation. No, no, as I die innocent, and with a clear conscience, I would not be separated from this noble company of martyrs:" so saying, he cheerfully resigned his neck to the block. Procopius Dorzecki on the scaffold said, "We are now under the emperor's judgment; but in time he shall be judged, and we shall appear as witnesses against him." Then taking a gold medal from his neck, which was struck when the elector Frederic was crowned king of Bohemia, he presented it to one of the officers, at the same time uttering these words, "As a dying man, I request, if ever king Frederic is restored to the throne of Bohemia, that you will give him this medal. Tell him, for his sake, I wore it till death, and that now I willingly lay down my life for God and my king." He then cheerfully laid down his head and submitted to the fatal blow. Dionysius Servius was brought up a Roman catholic, but had embraced the reformed religion for some years. When upon the scaffold the Jesuits used their utmost endeavours to make him recant, and return to his former faith, but he paid not the least attention to their exhortations. Kneeling down he said, they may destroy my body, but cannot injure my soul, that I commend to my Redeemer; and then patiently submitted to martyrdom, being at that time fifty-six years of age. Valentine Cockan, was a person of considerable fortune and eminence, perfectly pious and honest, but of trifling abilities; yet his imagination seemed to grow bright, and his faculties to improve on death's approach, as if the impending danger refined the understanding. Just before he was beheaded, he expressed himself with such eloquence, energy, and precision, as greatly amazed those who knew his former deficiency in point of capacity. Tobias Steffick was remarkable for his affability and serenity of temper. He was perfectly resigned to his fate, and a few minutes before his death spoke in this singular manner, "I have received, during the whole course of my life, many favours from God; ought I not therefore cheerfully to take one bitter cup, when he thinks proper to present it? Or rather, ought I not to rejoice, that it is his will I should give up a corrupted life for that of immortality!" Dr. Jessenius, an able student of physic, was accused of having spoken disrespectful words of the emperor, of treason in swearing allegiance to the elector Frederic, and of heresy in being a protestant: for the first accusation he had his tongue cut out; for the second he was beheaded; and for the third, and last, he was quartered, and the respective parts exposed on poles. Christopher Chober, as soon as he stepped upon the scaffold said, 'I come in the name of God, to die for his glory; I have fought the good fight, and finished my course; so, executioner, do your office.' The executioner obeyed, and he instantly received the crown of martyrdom. No person ever lived more respected, or died more lamented, than John Shultis. The only words he spoke, before receiving the fatal stroke, were, "The righteous seem to die in the eyes of fools, but they only go to rest. Lord Jesus! thou hast promised that those who come to thee shall not be cast off. Behold, I am come; look on me, pity me, pardon my sins, and receive my soul." Maximilian Hostialick was famed for his learning, piety, and humanity. When he first came on the scaffold, he seemed exceedingly terrified at the approach of death. The officer taking notice of his agitation, he said, "Ah! sir, now the sins of my youth crowd upon my mind; but I hope God will enlighten me, lest I sleep the sleep of death, and lest mine enemies say, we have prevailed." Soon after he said, "I hope my repentance is sincere, and will be accepted, in which case the blood of Christ will wash me from my crimes." He then told the officer he should repeat the song of Simeon; at the conclusion of which the executioner might do his duty. He, accordingly, said, Lord! now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation; at which words his head was struck off at one blow. When John Kutnaur came to the place of execution, a Jesuit said to him, "Embrace the Roman catholic faith, which alone can save and arm you against the terrors of death." To which he replied, "Your superstitious faith I abhor, it leads to perdition, and I wish for no other arms against the terrors of death, than a good conscience." The Jesuit turned away, saying, sarcastically, The protestants are impenetrable rocks. You are mistaken, said Kutnaur, it is Christ that is the rock, and we are firmly fixed upon him. This person not being born independent, but having acquired a fortune by a mechanical employment, was ordered to be hanged.--Just before he was turned off, he said, "I die, not for having committed any crime, but for following the dictates of my own conscience, and defending my country and religion." Simeon Sussickey was father-in-law to Kutnaur, and like him, was ordered to be executed on a gallows. He went cheerfully to death and appeared impatient to be executed, saying, "Every moment delays me from entering into the kingdom of Christ." Nathaniel Wodnianskey was hanged for having supported the protestant cause, and the election of Frederic to the crown of Bohemia. At the gallows, the Jesuits did all in their power to induce him to renounce his faith. Finding their endeavours ineffectual, one of them said, If you will not abjure your heresy, at least repent of your rebellion! To which Wodnianskey replied, "You take away our lives under a pretended charge of rebellion; and, not content with that, seek to destroy our souls; glut yourselves with blood, and be satisfied; but tamper not with our consciences." Wodnianskey's own son then approached the gallows, and said to his father, "Sir, if life should be offered to you on condition of apostacy, I entreat you to remember Christ, and reject such pernicious overtures." To this the father replied, "It is very acceptable, my son, to be exhorted to constancy by you; but suspect me not; rather endeavour to confirm in their faith your brothers, sisters, and children, and teach them to imitate that constancy of which I shall leave them an example." He had no sooner concluded these words than he was turned off, receiving the crown of martyrdom with great fortitude. Winceslaus Gisbitzkey, during his whole confinement, had great hopes of life given him, which made his friends fear for the safety of his soul. He, however, continued steadfast in his faith, prayed fervently at the gallows, and met his fate with singular resignation. Martin Foster was an ancient cripple; the accusations against whom were, being charitable to heretics, and lending money to the elector Frederic. His great wealth, however, seems to have been his principal crime; and that he might be plundered of his treasures, was the occasion of his being ranked in this illustrious list of martyrs. CHAPTER VIII. GENERAL PERSECUTIONS IN GERMANY. The general persecutions in Germany were principally occasioned by the doctrines and ministry of Martin Luther. Indeed, the pope was so terrified at the success of that courageous reformer, that he determined to engage the emperor, Charles the Fifth, at any rate, in the scheme to attempt their extirpation. To this end; 1. He gave the emperor two hundred thousand crowns in ready money. 2. He promised to maintain twelve thousand foot, and five thousand horse, for the space of six months, or during a campaign. 3. He allowed the emperor to receive one-half the revenues of the clergy of the empire during the war. 4. He permitted the emperor to pledge the abbey lands for five hundred thousand crowns, to assist in carrying on hostilities against the protestants. Thus prompted and supported, the emperor undertook the extirpation of the protestants, against whom, indeed, he was particularly enraged himself; and, for this purpose, a formidable army was raised in Germany, Spain and Italy. The protestant princes, in the mean time, formed a powerful confederacy, in order to repel the impending blow. A great army was raised, and the command given to the elector of Saxony, and the landgrave of Hesse. The imperial forces were commanded by the emperor of Germany in person, and the eyes of all Europe were turned on the event of the war. At length the armies met, and a desperate engagement ensued, in which the protestants were defeated, and the elector of Saxony, and landgrave of Hesse, both taken prisoners. This fatal blow was succeeded by a horrid persecution, the severities of which were such, that exile might be deemed a mild fate, and concealment in a dismal wood pass for happiness. In such times a cave is a palace, a rock a bed of down, and wild roots delicacies. Those who were taken experienced the most cruel tortures the infernal imaginations could invent; and, by their constancy evinced that a real christian can surmount every difficulty, and despise ever danger to acquire a crown of martyrdom. Henry Voes and John Esch, being apprehended as protestants, were brought to examination; when Voes, answering for himself and the other, gave the following answers to some questions asked by a priest, who examined them by order of the magistracy. _Priest._ Were you not both, some years ago, Augustine friars? _Voes._ Yes. _Priest._ How came you to quit the bosom of the church of Rome? _Voes._ On account of her abominations. _Priest._ In what do you believe? _Voes._ In the Old and New Testaments. _Priest._ Do you believe in the writings of the fathers, and the decrees of the councils? _Voes._ Yes, if they agree with Scripture. _Priest._ Did not Martin Luther seduce you both? _Voes._ He seduced us even in the very same manner as Christ seduced the apostles; that is, he made us sensible of the frailty of our bodies, and the value of our souls. This examination was sufficient; they were both condemned to the flames, and soon after, suffered with that manly fortitude which becomes christians, when they receive a crown of martyrdom. Henry Sutphen, an eloquent and pious preacher, was taken out of his bed in the middle of the night, and compelled to walk barefoot a considerable way, so that his feet were terribly cut. He desired a horse, but his conductors said, in derision, A horse for a heretic! no no, heretics may go barefoot. When he arrived at the place of his destination, he was condemned to be burnt; but, during the execution, many indignities were offered him, as those who attended not content with what he suffered in the flames, cut and slashed him in a most terrible manner. Many were murdered at Halle; Middleburg being taken by storm all the protestants were put to the sword, and great numbers were burned at Vienna. An officer being sent to put a minister to death, pretended, when he came to the clergyman's house, that his intentions were only to pay him a visit. The minister, not suspecting the intended cruelty, entertained his supposed guest in a very cordial manner. As soon as dinner was over, the officer said to some of his attendants, "Take this clergyman, and hang him." The attendants themselves were so shocked, after the civility they had seen, that they hesitated to perform the commands of their master; and the minister said, "Think what a sting will remain on your conscience, for thus violating the laws of hospitality." The officer, however, insisted upon being obeyed, and the attendants, with reluctance, performed the execrable office of executioners. Peter Spengler, a pious divine, of the town of Schalet, was thrown into the river, and drowned. Before he was taken to the banks of the stream which was to become his grave, they led him to the market-place, that his crimes might be proclaimed; which were, not going to mass, not making confession, and not believing in transubstantiation. After this ceremony was over, he made a most excellent discourse to the people, and concluded with a kind of hymn, of a very edifying nature. A protestant gentleman being ordered to lose his head for not renouncing his religion, went cheerfully to the place of execution. A friar came to him, and said these words in a low tone of voice, "As you have a great reluctance publicly to abjure your faith, whisper your confession in my ear, and I will absolve your sins." To this the gentleman loudly replied, "Trouble me not, friar, I have confessed my sins to God, and obtained absolution through the merits of Jesus Christ." Then turning to the executioner, he said, "Let me not be pestered with these men, but perform your duty." On which his head was struck off at a single blow. Wolfgang Scuch, and John Huglin, two worthy ministers, were burned, as was Leonard Keyser, a student of the university of Wertembergh; and George Carpenter, a Bavarian, was hanged for refusing to recant protestantism. The persecutions in Germany having subsided many years, again broke out in 1630, on account of the war between the emperor and the king of Sweden, for the latter was a protestant prince, and consequently the protestants of Germany espoused his cause, which greatly exasperated the emperor against them. The imperialists having laid siege to the town of Passewalk, (which was defended by the Swedes) took it by storm, and committed the most horrid cruelties on the occasion. They pulled down the churches, burnt the houses, pillaged the properties, massacred the ministers, put the garrison to the sword, hanged the townsmen, ravished the women, smothered the children, &c. &c. A most bloody tragedy was transacted at Magdeburg, in the year 1631. The generals Tilly and Pappenheim, having taken that protestant city by storm, upwards of 20,000 persons, without distinction of rank, sex, or age, were slain during the carnage, and 6,000 were drowned in attempting to escape over the river Elbe. After this fury had subsided, the remaining inhabitants were stripped naked, severely scourged, had their ears cropped, and being yoked together like oxen were turned adrift. The town of Hoxter was taken by the popish army, and all the inhabitants as well as the garrison, were put to the sword; when the houses being set on fire, the bodies were consumed in the flames. At Griphenburg, when the imperial forces prevailed, they shut up the senators in the senate-chamber, and surrounding it by lighted straw suffocated them. Franhendal surrendered upon articles of capitulation, yet the inhabitants were as cruelly used as at other places, and at Heidelburg, many were shut up in prison and starved. The cruelties used by the imperial troops, under count Tilly in Saxony, are thus enumerated. Half strangling, and recovering the persons again repeatedly. Rolling sharp wheels over the fingers and toes. Pinching the thumbs in a vice. Forcing the most filthy things down the throat, by which many were choked. Tying cords round the head so tight that the blood gushed out of the eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. Fastening burning matches to the fingers, toes, ears, arms, legs, and even tongue. Putting powder in the mouth and setting fire to it, by which the head was shattered to pieces. Tying bags of powder to all parts of the body, by which the person was blown up. Drawing cords backwards and forwards through the fleshy parts. Making incisions with bodkins and knives in the skin. Running wires through the nose, ears, lips, &c. Hanging protestants up by the legs, with their heads over a fire, by which they were smoked dried. Hanging up by one arm till it was dislocated. Hanging upon hooks by the ribs. Forcing people to drink till they burst. Baking many in hot ovens. Fixing weights to the feet, and drawing up several with pulleys. Hanging, stifling, roasting, stabbing, frying, racking, ravishing, ripping open, breaking the bones, rasping off the flesh, tearing with wild horses, drowning, strangling, burning, broiling, crucifying, immuring, poisoning, cutting off tongues, nose, ears, &c. sawing off the limbs, hacking to pieces, and drawing by the heels through the streets. The enormous cruelties will be a perpetual stain on the memory of count Tilly, who not only permitted, but even commanded the troops to put them in practice. Wherever he came, the most horrid barbarities, and cruel depredations ensued: famine and conflagration marked his progress: for he destroyed all the provisions he could not take with him, and burnt all the towns before he left them; so that the full result of his conquests were murder, poverty, and desolation. An aged and pious divine they stripped naked, tied him on his back upon a table, and fastened a large fierce cat upon his belly. They then pricked and tormented the cat in such a manner, that the creature with rage tore his belly open, and knawed his bowels. Another minister, and his family, were seized by these inhuman monsters; when they ravished his wife and daughter before his face; stuck his infant son upon the point of a lance, and then surrounding him with his whole library of books, they set fire to them, and he was consumed in the midst of the flames. In Hesse-Cassel some of the troops entered an hospital, in which were principally mad women, when stripping all the poor wretches naked, they made them run about the streets for their diversion, and then put them all to death. In Pomerania, some of the imperial troops entering a small town, seized upon all the young women, and girls of upwards of ten years, and then placing their parents in a circle, they ordered them to sing psalms, while they ravished their children, or else they swore they would cut them to pieces afterward. They then took all the married women who had young children, and threatened, if they did not consent to the gratification of their lusts, to burn their children before their faces in a large fire, which they had kindled for that purpose. A band of count Tilly's soldiers meeting a company of merchants belonging to Basil, who were returning from the great market of Strasburg, they attempted to surround them: all escaped, however, but ten, leaving their properties behind. The ten who were taken begged hard for their lives; but the soldiers murdered them saying, You must die because you are heretics, and have got no money. The same soldiers met with two countesses, who, together with some young ladies, the daughters of one of them, were taking an airing in a landau. The soldiers spared their lives, but treated them with the greatest indecency, and having stripped them all stark naked, bade the coachman drive on. By means and mediation of Great Britain, peace was at length restored to Germany, and the protestants remained unmolested for several years, till some new disturbances broke out in the Palatinate which were thus occasioned. The great church of the Holy Ghost, at Heidelburg, had, for many years, been shared equally by the protestants and Roman catholics in this manner: the protestants performed divine service in the nave or body of the church; and the Roman catholics celebrated mass in the choir. Though this had been the custom time immemorial, the elector Palatinate, at length, took it into his head not to suffer it any longer, declaring, that as Heidelburg was the place of his residence, and the church of the Holy Ghost the cathedral of his principal city, divine service ought to be performed only according to the rites of the church of which he was a member. He then forbade the protestants to enter the church, and put the papists in possession of the whole. The aggrieved people applied to the protestant powers for redress, which so much exasperated the elector, that he suppressed the Heidelburg catechism. The protestant powers, however, unanimously agreed to demand satisfaction, as the elector, by this conduct, had broke an article of the treaty of Westphalia; and the courts of Great Britain, Prussia, Holland, &c., sent deputies to the elector, to represent the injustice of his proceedings, and to threaten, unless he changed his behaviour to the protestants in the Palatinate, that they would treat their Roman catholic subjects with the greatest severity. Many violent disputes took place between the Protestant powers and those of the elector, and these were greatly augmented by the following incident; the coach of the Dutch minister standing before the door of the resident sent by the prince of Hesse, the host was by chance carrying to a sick person; the coachman took not the least notice, which those who attended the host observing, pulled him from his box, and compelled him to kneel: this violence to the domestic of a public minister, was highly resented by all the protestant deputies; and still more to heighten these differences, the protestants presented to the deputies three additional articles of complaint. 1. That military executions were ordered against all protestant shoemakers who should refuse to contribute to the masses of St. Crispin. 2. That the protestants were forbid to work on popish holydays even in harvest time, under very heavy penalties, which occasioned great inconveniences, and considerably prejudiced public business. 3. That several protestant ministers had been dispossessed of their churches, under pretence of their having been originally founded and built by Roman Catholics. The protestant deputies, at length became so serious, as to intimate to the elector, that force of arms should compel him to do the justice he denied to their representations. This menace brought him to reason, as he well knew the impossibility of carrying on a war against the powerful states who threatened him. He, therefore, agreed, that the body of the church of the Holy Ghost should be restored to the protestants. He restored the Heidelburg catechism, put the protestant ministers again in possession of the churches of which they had been dispossessed, allowed the protestants to work on popish holydays, and, ordered, that no person should be molested for not kneeling when the host passed by. These things he did through fear; but to show his resentment to his protestant subjects, in other circumstances where protestant states had no right to interfere, he totally abandoned Heidelburg, removing all the courts of justice to Manheim, which was entirely inhabited by Roman catholics. He likewise built a new palace there, making it his place of residence; and, being followed by the Roman catholics of Heidelburg, Manheim became a flourishing place. In the mean time the protestants of Heidelburg sunk into poverty and many of them became so distressed, as to quit their native country, and seek an asylum in protestant states. A great number of these coming into England, in the time of queen Anne, were cordially received there, and met with a most humane assistance, both by public and private donations. In 1732, above 30,000 protestants were, contrary to the treaty of Westphalia, driven from the archbishopric of Saltzburg. They went away to the depth of winter, with scarce clothes to cover them, and without provisions, not having permission to take any thing with them. The cause of these poor people not being publicly espoused by such states as could obtain them redress, they emigrated to various protestant countries, and settled in places where they could enjoy the free exercise of their religion, without hurting their consciences, and live free from the trammels of popish superstition, and the chains of papal tyranny. _An Account of the Persecutions in the Netherlands._ The light of the gospel having successfully spread over the Netherlands, the pope instigated the emperor to commence a persecution against the protestants; when many thousand fell martyrs to superstitious malice and barbarous bigotry, among whom the most remarkable were the following: Wendelinuta, a pious protestant widow, was apprehended on account of her religion, when several monks, unsuccessfully, endeavoured to persuade her to recant. As they could not prevail, a Roman catholic lady of her acquaintance desired to be admitted to the dungeon in which she was confined, and promised to exert herself strenuously towards inducing the prisoner to abjure the reformed religion. When she was admitted to the dungeon, she did her utmost to perform the task she had undertaken; but finding her endeavours ineffectual, she said, Dear Wendelinuta, if you will not embrace our faith, at least keep the things which you profess secret within your own bosom, and strive to prolong your life. To which the widow replied, Madam you know not what you say; for with the heart we believe to righteousness, but with the tongue confession is made unto salvation. As she positively refused to recant, her goods were confiscated, and she was condemned to be burnt. At the place of execution a monk held a cross to her, and bade her kiss and worship God. To which she answered, "I worship no wooden god, but the eternal God who is in heaven." She was then executed, but through the before-mentioned Roman catholic lady, the favour was granted, that she should be strangled before fire was put to the fagots. Two protestant clergymen were burnt at Colen; a tradesman of Antwerp, named Nicholas, was tied up in a sack, thrown into the river, and drowned; and Pistorius, a learned student, was carried to the market of a Dutch village in a fool's coat, and committed to the flames. Sixteen protestants having received sentence to be beheaded, a protestant minister was ordered to attend the execution. This gentleman performed the function of his office with great propriety, exhorted them to repentance, and gave them comfort in the mercies of their Redeemer. As soon as the sixteen were beheaded, the magistrate cried out to the executioner, "There is another stroke remaining yet; you must behead the minister; he can never die at a better time than with such excellent precepts in his mouth, and such laudable examples before him." He was accordingly beheaded, though even many of the Roman catholics themselves reprobated this piece of treacherous and unnecessary cruelty. George Scherter, a minister of Saltzburg, was apprehended and committed to prison for instructing his flock in the knowledge of the gospel. While he was in confinement he wrote a confession of his faith; soon after which he was condemned, first to be beheaded, and afterward to be burnt to ashes. In his way to the place of execution he said to the spectators, "That you may know I die a true christian, I will give you a sign." This was indeed verified in a most singular manner; for after his head was cut off, the body lying a short space of time with the belly to the ground, it suddenly turned upon the back, when the right foot crossed over the left, as did also the right arm over the left: and in this manner it remained till it was committed to the flames. In Louviana, a learned man, named Percinal, was murdered in prison; and Justus Insparg was beheaded, for having Luther's sermons in his possession. Giles Tilleman, a cutler of Brussels, was a man of great humanity and piety. Among others he was apprehended as a protestant, and many endeavours were made by the monks to persuade him to recant. He had once, by accident, a fair opportunity of escaping from prison and being asked why he did not avail himself of it, he replied, "I would not do the keepers so much injury, as they must have answered for my absence, had I gone away." When he was sentenced to be burnt, he fervently thanked God for granting him an opportunity, by martyrdom, to glorify his name. Perceiving, at the place of execution, a great quantity of fagots, he desired the principal part of them might be given to the poor, saying, a small quantity will suffice to consume me. The executioner offered to strangle him before the fire was lighted, but he would not consent, telling him that he defied the flames and, indeed, he gave up the ghost with such composure amidst them that he hardly seemed sensible of their effects. In the year 1543 and 1544, the persecution was carried on throughout all Flanders, in a most violent and cruel manner. Some were condemned to perpetual imprisonment, others to perpetual banishment but most were put to death either by hanging, drowning, immuring, burning, the rack, or burying alive. John de Boscane, a zealous protestant, was apprehended on account of his faith, in the city of Antwerp. On his trial, he steadfastly professed himself to be of the reformed religion, which occasioned his immediate condemnation. The magistrate, however, was afraid to put him to death publicly, as he was popular through his great generosity, and almost universally beloved for his inoffensive life, and exemplary piety. A private execution being determined on, an order was given to drown him in prison. The executioner, accordingly, put him in a large tub; but Boscane struggling, and getting his head above the water, the executioner stabbed him with a dagger in several places, till he expired. John de Buisons, another protestant, was, about the same time, secretly apprehended, and privately executed at Antwerp. The number of protestants being great in that city, and the prisoner much respected, the magistrates feared an insurrection, and for that reason ordered him to be beheaded in prison. A. D. 1568, three persons were apprehended in Antwerp, named Scoblant, Hues, and Coomans. During their confinement they behaved with great fortitude and cheerfulness, confessing that the hand of God appeared in what had befallen them, and bowing down before the throne of his providence. In an epistle to some worthy protestants, they express themselves in the following words; Since it is the will of the Almighty that we should suffer for his name, and be persecuted for the sake of his gospel, we patiently submit, and are joyful upon the occasion; though the flesh may rebel against the spirit, and hearken to the council of the old serpent, yet the truths of the gospel shall prevent such advice from being taken, and Christ shall bruise the serpent's head. We are not comfortless to confinement, for we have faith; we fear not affliction, for we have hope; and we forgive our enemies, for we have charity. Be not under apprehensions for us, we are happy in confinement through the promises of God, glory in our bonds, and exult in being thought worthy to suffer for the sake of Christ. We desire not to be released, but to be blessed with fortitude, we ask not liberty, but the power of perseverance; and wish for no change in our condition, but that which places a crown of martyrdom upon our heads. Scoblant was first brought to his trial; when, persisting in the profession of his faith, he received sentence of death. On his return to prison, he earnestly requested the jailer not to permit any friar to come near him; saying, "They can do me no good, but may greatly disturb me. I hope my salvation is already sealed in heaven, and that the blood of Christ, in which I firmly put my trust, hath washed me from my iniquities. I am now going to throw off this mantle of clay, to be clad in robes of eternal glory, by whose celestial brightness I shall be freed from all errors. I hope I may be the last martyr to papal tyranny, and the blood already spilt found sufficient to quench the thirst of popish cruelty; that the church of Christ may have rest here, as his servants will hereafter." On the day of execution, he took a pathetic leave of his fellow-prisoners. At the stake he fervently said the Lord's Prayer, and sung the fortieth psalm; then commending his soul to God, he was burnt alive. Hues, soon after, died in prison; upon which occasion Coomans wrote thus to his friends, "I am now deprived of my friends and companions; Scoblant is martyred, and Hues dead, by the visitation of the Lord; yet I am not alone, I have with me the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob; he is my comfort, and shall be my reward. Pray unto God to strengthen me to the end, as I expect every hour to be freed from this tenement of clay." On his trial he freely confessed himself of the reformed religion, answered with a manly fortitude to every charge against him, and proved the scriptural part of his answers from the gospel. The judge told him the only alternatives were, recantation or death; and concluded by saying, "Will you die for the faith you profess?" To which Coomans replied, "I am not only willing to die, but to suffer the most excruciating torments for it; after which my soul shall receive its confirmation from God himself, in the midst of eternal glory." Being condemned, he went cheerfully to the place of execution, and died with the most manly fortitude, and christian resignation. William Nassau fell a sacrifice to treachery, being assassinated in the fifty-first year of his age, by Beltazar Gerard, a native of Franche Compte, in the province of Burgundy. This murderer, in hopes of a reward here and hereafter, for killing an enemy to the king of Spain and an enemy to the catholic religion, undertook to destroy the prince of Orange. Having procured fire arms, he watched him as he passed through the great hall of his palace to dinner, and demanded a passport. The princess of Orange, observing that the assassin spoke with a hollow and confused voice, asked who he was? saying, she did not like his countenance. The prince answered, it was one that demanded a passport, which he should presently have. Nothing farther passed before dinner, but on the return of the prince and princess through the same hall, after dinner was over, the assassin, standing concealed as much as possible by one of the pillars, fired at the prince, the balls entering at the left side, and passing through the right, wounding in their passage the stomach and vital parts. On receiving the wounds, the prince only said, Lord, have mercy upon my soul, and upon these poor people, and then expired immediately. The lamentations throughout the United Provinces were general, on account of the death of the prince of Orange; and the assassin who was immediately taken, received sentence to be put to death in the most exemplary manner, yet such was his enthusiasm, or folly that when his flesh was torn by red-hot pincers, he coolly said, If I was at liberty, I would commit such an action over again. The prince of Orange's funeral was the grandest ever seen in the Low Countries, and perhaps the sorrow for his death the most sincere, as he left behind him the character he honestly deserved, viz. that of Father of his people. To conclude, multitudes were murdered in different parts of Flanders; in the city of Valence, in particular, fifty-seven of the principal inhabitants were butchered in one day, for refusing to embrace the Romish superstition; and great numbers were suffered to languish in confinement, till they perished through the inclemency of their dungeons. CHAPTER IX. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN LITHUANIA AND POLAND. The persecutions in Lithuania began in 1648, and were carried on with great severity by the Cossacks and Tartars. The cruelty of the Cossacks was much, that even the Tartars, at last, grew ashamed of it, and rescued some of the intended victims from their hands. The barbarities exercised were these: skinning alive, cutting off hands, taking out the bowels, cutting the flesh open, putting out the eyes, beheading, scalping, cutting off feet, boring the shin bones, pouring melted lead into the flesh, hanging, stabbing, and sending to perpetual banishment. The Russians, taking advantage of the devastations which had been made in the country, and of its incapability of defence, entered it with a considerable army, and, like a flood, bore down all before them. Every thing they met with was an object of destruction; they razed cities, demolished castles, ruined fortresses, sacked towns, burnt villages, and murdered people. The ministers of the gospel were peculiarly marked out as the objects of their displeasure, though every worthy christian was liable to the effects of their cruelty. As Lithuania recovered itself after one persecution, succeeding enemies again destroyed it. The Swedes, the Prussians, and the Courlanders, carried fire and sword through it, and continual calamities, for some years, attended that unhappy district. It was then attacked by the prince of Transylvania, who had in his army, exclusive of his own Transylvanians, Hungarians, Moldavians, Servians, Walachians, &c. These, as far as they penetrated, wasted the country, destroyed the churches, rifled the nobility, burnt the houses, enslaved the healthy, and murdered the sick. A clergyman, who wrote an account of the misfortunes of Lithuania, in the seventeenth century, says, "In consideration of these extremities, we cannot but adore the judgment of God poured upon us for our sins, and deplore our sad condition. Let us hope for a deliverance from his mercy, and wish for restitution in his benevolence. Though we are brought low, though we are wasted, troubled, and terrified, yet his compassion is greater than our calamities, and his goodness superior to our afflictions. Our neighbours hate us at present, as much as our more distant enemies did before; they persecute the remnant of us still remaining, deprive us of our few churches left, banish our preachers, abuse our schoolmasters, treat us with contempt, and oppress us in the most opprobrious manner. In all our afflictions the truth of the gospel shone among us, and gave us comfort; and we only wished for the grace of Jesus Christ, (not only to ourselves, but to soften the hearts of our enemies) and the sympathy of our fellow christians." The protestants of Poland were persecuted in a dreadful manner. The ministers in particular were treated with the most unexampled barbarity; some having their tongues cut out, because they had preached the gospel truths; others being deprived of their sight on account of their having read the bible; and great numbers were cut to pieces for not recanting. Private persons were put to death by various methods; the most cruel being usually preferred. Women were murdered without the least regard to their sex; and the persecutors even went so far as to cut off the heads of sucking babes, and fasten them to the breasts of the mothers. Even the solemnity of the grave did not exempt the bodies of protestants from the malice of persecutors; for they sacrilegiously dug up the bodies of many eminent persons, and either cut them to pieces, and exposed them to be devoured by birds and beasts, or hung them up in conspicuous or public places. The city of Lesna particularly suffered in this persecution; for being besieged and taken, the inhabitants were all put to the sword. CHAPTER X. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN CHINA AND SEVERAL OTHER COUNTRIES. Christianity was first established in China by three Italian missionaries, called Roger the Neapolitan, Pasis of Bologne, and Matthew Ricci of Mazerata, in the marquisate of Ancona. These entered China about the beginning of the sixteenth century, being well circumstanced to perform their important commission with success, as they had previously studied the Chinese language. These three missionaries were very assiduous to the discharge of their duty; but Roger and Pasis returning to Europe in a few years, the whole labour fell upon Ricci, who aimed to establish christianity with a degree of zeal that was indefatigable. Ricci, though much disposed to indulge his converts as far as possible, made great hesitation at their ceremonies, which seemed to amount to idolatry. At length, after eighteen years consideration, he began to soften his opinion, and tolerated all the parts of those customs which were ordered by the laws of the empire, but strictly enjoined his Chinese christians to omit the rest. This was the condition of christianity in China, when the christian church established there was governed only by Ricci, who, by his moderation, made innumerable converts. In 1630, however, his tranquility was disturbed by the arrival of some new missionaries, these being unacquainted with the Chinese customs, manners, and language, and with the arguments on which Ricci's toleration was founded, were astonished when they saw christian converts prostrate before Confucius and the tables of their ancestors, and condemned the custom accordingly. A warm controversy now ensued between Ricci, seconded by his converts, and the new missionaries; and the latter wrote an account of the whole affair to the pope, and the society for the propagation of the christian faith. The society soon pronounced, that the ceremonies were idolatrous and intolerable, and the pope confirmed the sentence. In this both the society and the pope were excusable, as the matter had been misrepresented to them; for the enemies of Ricci had affirmed the halls, in which the ceremonies were performed, to be temples, and the ceremonies themselves idolatrous sacrifices. The sentence above mentioned was sent over to China, but treated with contempt, and matters remained as they were for some time. At length, a true representation of the matter was sent over, setting forth, that the Chinese customs and ceremonies alluded to were entirely free from idolatry, being merely political, and tending only to the peace and welfare of the empire. The pope, finding that he had made himself ridiculous, by confirming an absurd sentence upon a false report, wanted to get rid of the affair, and therefore referred the representation to the inquisition, which reversed the sentence immediately, at the private desire of the pope, as may be naturally supposed. The christian church, for all these divisions, flourished in China till the death of the first Tartar emperor, whose successor was a minor. During this minority of the young emperor Cang-hi, the regents and nobles conspired to extirpate the christian religion. The execution of this design was begun with expedition, and carried on with severity, so that every christian teacher in China, as well as those who professed the faith, were struck with amazement. John Adam Schall, a German ecclesiastic, and one of the principals of the mission, was thrown into a dungeon in the year 1664, being then in the seventy-fourth year of his age, and narrowly escaped with his life. The ensuing year, viz. 1665, the ministers of state publicly and unanimously resolved, and made a decree specifying, viz. 1. That the christian doctrines were false. 2. That they were dangerous to the interest of the empire. 3. That they should not be practised under pain of death. The publication of this decree occasioned a furious general persecution, in which some were put to death, many were ruined, and all were, in some manner, oppressed. This decree was general, and the persecution universal accordingly throughout the empire; for, previous to this, the christians had been partially persecuted at different times, and in different provinces. Four years after, viz. 1669, the young emperor was declared of age, and took the reins of government upon himself, when the persecution immediately ceased by his order. _An account of the Persecutions in Japan._ Christianity was first introduced into the idolatrous empire of Japan by some Portuguese missionaries in the year of our Lord 1552, and their endeavours in making converts to the light of the gospel met with a degree of success equal to their most sanguine wishes. This continued till the year 1616, when the missionaries being accused of having concerned themselves in politics, and formed a plan to subvert the government, and dethrone the emperor, great jealousies subsisted till 1622, when the court ordered a dreadful persecution to commence against both foreign and native christians. Such was the rage of this persecution, that, during the first four years, no less than 20,570 christians were massacred. The public profession of christianity was prohibited under pain of death, and the churches were shut up by an express edict. Many who were informed against, as privately professing christianity, suffered martyrdom with great heroism. The persecution continued many years, when the remnant of the innumerable christians, with which Japan abounded, to the number of 37,000 souls, retired to the town and castle of Siniabara, in the island of Xinio, where they determined to make a stand, to continue in their faith, and to defend themselves to the very last extremity. The Japanese army pursued the christians, and laid siege to the place. The christians defended themselves with great bravery, and held out against the besiegers for the space of three months, but were at length compelled to surrender, when men, women and children, were indiscriminately murdered; and christianity, in their martyrdoms, entirely extirpated from Japan. This event took place on the 12th of April, 1638, since which period no christians but the Dutch are allowed to land in the empire, and even they are obliged to conduct themselves with the greatest precaution, and to carry on their commerce with the utmost circumspection. _An account of the Persecutions against the Christians in Abyssinia, or Ethiopia._ Towards the conclusion of the fifteenth century, and soon after the discovery of the Cape of Good Hope, some Portuguese missionaries made a voyage to Abyssinia, and were indefatigable in propagating the Roman catholic doctrine among the Abyssinians, who professed christianity before the arrival of the missionaries. The priests, employed in this mission, gained such an influence at court, that the emperor consented to abolish the established rites of the Ethiopian church, and to admit those of Rome. He soon after consented to receive a patriarch from Rome, and to acknowledge the pope's supremacy. Many of the most powerful lords, and a majority of the people who professed the primitive christianity, as first established in Abyssinia, opposed these innovations, and took up arms against the emperor.--Thus, by the artifices of the court of Rome, and its emissaries, a most furious civil war was begun, and the whole empire thrown into commotion. This war was carried on through several reigns, its continuance being above 100 years, and the court constantly siding with the Roman catholics, the primitive christians of Abyssinia were severely persecuted, and multitudes perished by the most inhuman means. _An account of the Persecutions against the Christians in Turkey._ Mahomet, (the impostor) in the infancy of his new religion, tolerated christianity through a political motive, as he was sensible, that even in those early times it had several powerful espousers among the princes, who were his cotemporaries. As a proof that this was his sole view, as soon as he found his doctrine was established on a more permanent situation, he altered his forbearance to a system of the most rigid and barbarous persecution; which diabolical plan he has particularly recommended to his misguided followers, in that part of his Alcoran, entitled The Chapter of the Sword; and as proofs of the blind zeal his followers have adopted from his infernal tenets, the many bloody battles of the Turks with the whole of the professors of Christ's gospel, and their cruel massacres of them at various periods, sufficiently evince. Constantine was, in the year 1453, besieged in Constantinople, by Mahomet the Second, with an army of 300,000 men, when, after a bloody siege of about six week, on the 29th of May, 1453, it fell into the hands of the infidels, after being an imperial christian city for some centuries; and the Turks have, to this day, retained possession of it, as well as of the adjoining suburb of Pera. On entering Constantinople, the Turks exercised on the wretched christians the most unremitting barbarity, destroying them by every method the most hellish cruelty could invent, or the most unfeeling heart could practise: some they roasted alive on spits, others they flayed alive, and in that horrid manner left to expire with hunger; many were sawed asunder, and others torn to pieces by horses.--For full three days and nights the Turks were striving to exceed each other in the exercise of their shocking carnage, and savage barbarity; murdering, without distinction of age or sex, all they met, and brutishly violating the chastity of women, of every distinction and age. During the year 1529, Solyman the First retook Buda from the christians, and showed the most horrible persecution of the inhabitants; some had their eyes torn out, others their hands, ears, and noses cut off, and the children their privities, the virgins were deflowered, the matrons had their breasts cut off, and such as were pregnant had their wombs ripped open, and their unborn babes thrown into the flames. Not content with this, he repeated these horrid examples all the way on his march to Vienna, which he ineffectually besieged, during which, this diabolical barbarian, having made a body of christians prisoners, he sent three of them into the city to relate the great strength of his army, and the rest he ordered to be torn limb from limb by wild horses in sight of their christian brethren, who could only lament by their cries and tears their dreadful fate. In many places the tender children were in sight of their wretched parents torn to pieces by beasts, others dragged at horses' heels, some famished with hunger, and others buried up to their necks in earth, and in that manner left to perish. In short, were we to relate the innumerable massacres and deplorable tragedies acted by the infidels, the particulars would at least make a volume of themselves, and from their horrid similarity be not only shocking, but disgusting to the reader. _Persecutions and Oppressions in Georgia and Mingrelia._ The Georgians, are christians, and being very handsome people, the Turks and Persians persecute them by the most cruel mode of taxation ever invented, namely, in lieu of money, they compel them to deliver up their children for the following purposes. The females to increase the number of concubines in their seraglios, to serve as maids of honour to sultanas, the ladies of bashaws, &c., and to be sold to merchants of different nations, by whom the price is proportioned to the beauty of the purchased fair one. The males are used as mutes and eunuchs in the seraglio, as clerks in the offices of state, and as soldiers in the army. To the west of Georgia is Mingrelia, a country likewise inhabited by christians, who are persecuted and oppressed in the same manner as the Georgians by the Turks and Persians, their children being extorted from them, or they murdered for refusing to consent to the sale. _An Account of the Persecutions in the States of Barbary._ In Algiers the christians are treated with particular severity; as the Algerines are some of the most perfidious, as well as the most cruel of all the inhabitants of Barbary. By paying a most exorbitant fine, some christians are allowed the title of Free christians, and these are permitted to dress in the fashion of their respective countries, but the christian slaves are obliged to wear a coarse gray suit and a seaman's cap. The punishments among the Algerines are various, viz. 1. If they join any of the natives in open rebellion, they are strangled with a bowstring, or hanged on an iron hook. 2. If they speak against Mahomet, they must either turn Mahometan, or be impaled alive. 3. If they turn christians again, after having changed to the Mahometan persuasion, they are roasted alive, or thrown from the city walls, and caught upon large sharp hooks, where they hang in a miserable manner several days, and expire in the most exquisite tortures. 4. If they kill a Turk, they are burnt. 5. Those christians who attempt to escape from slavery, and are retaken, suffer death in the following manner, which is equally singular and brutal: the criminal is hung naked on a high gallows, by two hooks, the one fastened quite through the palm of one hand, and the other through the sole of the opposite foot, where he is left till death relieves him from his cruel sufferings. Other punishments, for trifling crimes committed by the christians, are left to the discretion of the respective judges, who being usually of malicious and vindictive dispositions, decree them in the most inhuman manner. In Tunis, if a christian slave is caught in attempting to escape, his limbs are all broken, and if he murders his master, he is fastened to the tail of a horse, and dragged about the streets till he expires. Morocco and Fez conjointly form an empire, and are together the most considerable of the Barbary states. In this empire christian slaves are treated with the greatest cruelty: the rich have exorbitant ransoms fixed upon them; the poor are hard worked, and half starved sometimes murdered by the emperor, or their masters, for mere amusement. _An Account of the Persecutions in Spanish America._ The bloody tenets of the Roman catholic persuasion, and the cruel disposition of the votaries of that church, cannot be more amply displayed or truly depicted, than by giving an authentic and simple narrative of the horrid barbarities exercised by the Spaniards on the innocent and unoffending natives of America. Indeed, the barbarities were such, that they would scarce seen credible from their enormity, and the victims so many, that they would startle belief by their numbers, if the facts were not indisputably ascertained, and the circumstances admitted by their own writers, some of whom have even gloried in their inhumanity, and, as Roman catholics, deemed these atrocious actions meritorious, which would make a protestant shudder to relate. The West Indies, and the vast continent of America, were discovered by that celebrated navigator, Christopher Columbus, in 1492. This distinguished commander landed first in the large island of St. Domingo, or Hispaniola, which was at that time exceedingly populous, but this population was of very little consequence, the inoffensive inhabitants being murdered by multitudes, as soon as the Spaniards gained a permanent footing on the island. Blind superstition, bloody bigotry, and craving avarice, rendered that, in the course of years, a dismal desert, which, at the arrival of the Spaniards, seemed to appear as an earthly paradise; so that at present there is scarce a remnant of the ancient natives remaining. The natives of Guatemala, a country of America, were used with great barbarity. They were formerly active and valiant, but from ill usage and oppression, grew slothful, and so dispirited, that they not only trembled at the sight of fire-arms, but even at the very looks of a Spaniard. Some were so plunged into despair, that after returning home from labouring hard for their cruel taskmasters, and receiving only contemptuous language and stripes for their pains, they have sunk down in their cabins, with a full resolution to prefer death to such slavery; and, in the bitterness of their anguish, have refused all sustenance till they perished. By repeated barbarities, and the most execrable cruelties, the vindictive and merciless Spaniards not only depopulated Hispaniola, Porto-Rico, Cuba, Jamaica, and the Bahama islands, but destroyed above 12,000,000 of souls upon the continent of America, in the space of forty years. The cruel methods by which they massacred and butchered the poor natives, were innumerable, and of the most diabolical nature. The Spaniards stripped a large and very populous town of all its inhabitants, whom they drove to the mines, leaving all the children behind them, without the least idea of providing for their subsistence, by which inhuman proceeding six thousand helpless infants perished. Whenever the people of any town had the reputation of being rich, an order was immediately sent that every person in it should turn Roman catholics: if this was not directly complied with, the town was instantly plundered, and the inhabitants murdered; and if it was complied with, a pretence was soon after made to strip the inhabitants of their wealth. One of the Spanish governors seized upon a very worthy and amiable Indian prince, and in order to extort from him where his treasures were concealed, caused his feet to be burnt till the marrow dropped from his bones, and he expired through the extremity of the torments he underwent. In the interval, between the years 1514 and 1522, the governor of Terra Firma put to death, and destroyed, 800,000 of the inhabitants of that country. Between the years 1523 and 1533, five hundred thousand natives of Nicaragua were transported to Peru, where they all perished by incessant labour in the mines. In the space of twelve years, from the first landing of Cortez on the continent of America, to the entire reduction of the populous empire of Mexico, the amazing number of 4,000,000 of Mexicans perished, through the unparalleled barbarity of the Spaniards. To come to particulars, the city of Cholula, consisted of 30,000 houses, by which its great population may be imagined. The Spaniards seized on all the inhabitants, who refusing to turn Roman catholics, as they did not know the meaning of the religion they were ordered to embrace, the Spaniards put them all to death, cutting to pieces the lower sort of people, and burning those of distinction. CHAPTER XI. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTIONS IN GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND PRIOR TO THE REIGN OF QUEEN MARY I. Gildas, the most ancient British writer extant, who lived about the time that the Saxons left the island of Great Britain, has drawn a most shocking instance of the barbarity of those people. The Saxons, on their arrival, being heathens like the Scots and Picts, destroyed the churches and murdered the clergy wherever they came: but they could not destroy christianity, for those who would not submit to the Saxon yoke, went and resided beyond the Severn. Neither have we the names of those christian sufferers transmitted to us, especially those of the clergy. The most dreadful instance of barbarity under the Saxon government, was the massacre of the monks of Bangor, A. D. 586. These monks were in all respects different from those men who bear the same name at present. In the eighth century, the Danes, a roving crew of barbarians, landed in different parts of Britain, both in England and Scotland. At first they were repulsed, but in A. D. 857, a party of them landed somewhere near Southampton, and not only robbed the people, but burnt down the churches, and murdered the clergy. In A. D. 868, these barbarians penetrated into the centre of England, and took up their quarters at Nottingham; but the English, under their king Ethelfrid, drove them from their posts, and obliged them to retire to Northumberland. In 870, another body of these barbarians landed at Norfolk, and engaged in battle with the English at Hertford. Victory declared in favour of the pagans, who took Edmund, king of the East Angles, prisoner, and after treating him with a thousand indignities, transfixed his body with arrows, and then beheaded him. In Fifeshire, in Scotland, they burnt many of the churches, and among the rest that belonging to the Culdees, at St. Andrews. The piety of these men made them objects of abhorrence to the Danes, who, wherever they went singled out the christian priests for destruction, of whom no less than 200 were massacred in Scotland. It was much the same in that part of Ireland now called Leinster, there the Danes murdered and burnt the priests alive in their own churches; they carried destruction along with them wherever they went, sparing neither age nor sex, but the clergy were the most obnoxious to them, because they ridiculed their idolatry, and persuaded their people to have nothing to do with them. In the reign of Edward III. the church of England was extremely corrupted with errors and superstition; and the light of the gospel of Christ was greatly eclipsed and darkened with human inventions, burthensome ceremonies, and gross idolatry. The followers of Wickliffe, then called Lollards, were become extremely numerous, and the clergy were so vexed to see them increase whatever power or influence they might have to molest them in an underhand manner, they had no authority by law to put them to death. However, the clergy embraced the favourable opportunity, and prevailed upon the king to suffer a bill to be brought into parliament, by which all Lollards who remained obstinate, should be delivered over to the secular power, and burnt as heretics. This act was the first in Britain for the burning of people for their religious sentiments; it passed in the year 1401, and was soon after put into execution. The first person who suffered in consequence of this cruel act was William Santree, or Sawtree, a priest, who was burnt to death in Smithfield. Soon after this, lord Cobham, in consequence of his attachment to the doctrines of Wickliffe, was accused of heresy, and being condemned to be hanged and burnt, was accordingly executed in Loncoln's-Inn Fields, A. D. 1419. The next man who suffered under this bloody statute was Thomas Bradley, a tailor, and a layman; and a letter having been tendered him, which he refused, he was declared an obstinate heretic, and tied to the stake in Smithfield; where he was burnt alive, rejoicing in the Lord his God. The next person we read of who was tried upon this abominable statute, was William Thorpe, a man of some knowledge, who adhered to all the doctrines taught by Wickliffe. He was brought many times before archbishop Arundel, and at last committed a close prisoner, where he died, but in what manner cannot now be ascertained. About this time 36 persons, denominated Lollards, suffered death in St. Giles', for no other reason than professing their attachment to the doctrines of Wickliffe. They were hung on gibbets, and fagots being placed under them, as soon as they were suspended, fire was set to them, so that they were burnt while hanging. Only one of their names has been transmitted to us, which is that of Sir Roger Archer whom they distinguished from the rest by stripping him stark naked, and executing him in that indecent manner. Much about the same time one Richard Turning was burnt alive in Smithfield, and suffered with all that constancy, fortitude, and resignation, which have so much distinguished the primitive christians. In 1428, Abraham, a monk of Colchester, Milburn White, a priest and John Wade, a priest, were all three apprehended on a charge of heresy. Soon after, father Abraham suffered at Colchester, and with him John Whaddon; both of whom died in a constant adherence to the truth of the gospel. Milburn White and John Wade suffered also about the same time in London. In the year 1431, Richard Ilvedon, a wool-comber, and a citizen of London, was brought before the archbishop, and being declared an obstinate heretic, was burnt alive on Tower-hill, for no other reason than that he embraced and professed the doctrines of Wickliffe. In the year 1431, Thomas Bagley, a priest, who had a living near Malden, in Essex, was brought before the bishop of London, and being declared an obstinate heretic, was condemned and burnt alive in Smithfield. In the year 1430, Richard Wick, a priest, was burnt alive on Tower-hill, for preaching the doctrines of Wickliffe. In 1440, some of the greatest persons in the kingdom were condemned to perpetual imprisonment for heresy, as being Lollards;--among whom was the dutchess of Gloucester, who had long been a follower of Wickliffe. It was otherwise, however, with Roger Only, a priest, who being condemned as an obstinate heretic, was burnt alive in Smithfield. In August, 1473, one Thomas Granter was apprehended to London; he was accused of professing the doctrines of Wickliffe, for which he was condemned as an obstinate heretic. This pious man being brought to the sheriff's house, on the morning of the day appointed for his execution, desired a little refreshment, and having ate some, he said to the people present, "I eat now a very good meal, for I have a strange conflict to engage with before I go to supper;" and having eaten, he returned thanks to God for the bounties of his all-gracious providence, requesting that he might be instantly led to the place of execution, to bear testimony to the truth of those principles which he had professed. Accordingly he was chained to a stake on Tower-hill, where he was burnt alive, professing the truth with his last breath. April 28th, 1494, Joan Boughton, a lady of considerable rank, was burnt in Smithfield for professing the doctrines of Wickliffe. This lady was a widow, and no less than 80 years of age. In 1498, the king being then at Canterbury, a priest was brought before him, accused of heresy, who was immediately ordered to be burnt alive. In the year 1499, one Badram, a pious man, was brought before the bishop of Norwich, having been accused by some of the priests, with holding the doctrines of Wickliffe. He confessed he did believe every thing that was objected against him. For this, he was condemned as an obstinate heretic, and a warrant was granted for his execution; accordingly he was brought to the stake at Norwich, where he suffered with great constancy. In 1506, one William Tilfrey, a pious man, was burnt alive at Amersham, in a close called Stoneyprat, and at the same time, his daughter, Joan Clarke, a married woman, was obliged to light the fagots that were to burn her father. This year also one father Roberts, a priest, was convicted of being a Lollard before the bishop of Lincoln, and burnt alive at Buckingham. In 1507, one Thomas Norris was burnt alive for the testimony of the truth of the gospel, at Norwich. This man was a poor, inoffensive, harmless person, but his parish priest conversing with him one day conjectured he was a Lollard. In consequence of this supposition he gave information to the bishop, and Norris was apprehended. In 1508, one Lawrence Guale, who had been kept in prison two years, was burnt alive at Salisbury, for denying the real presence in the sacrament. It appeared, that this man kept a shop in Salisbury and entertained some Lollards in his house; for which he was informed against to the bishop; but he abode by his first testimony, and was condemned to suffer as a heretic. A pious woman was burnt at Chippen Sudburne, by order of the chancellor, Dr. Whittenham. After she had been consumed in the flames, and the people were returning home, a bull broke loose from a butcher and singling out the chancellor from all the rest of the company, he gored him through the body, and on his horns carried his entrails. This was seen by all the people, and it is remarkable, that the animal did not meddle with any other person whatever. October 18, 1511, William Succling and John Bannister, who had formerly recanted, returned again to the profession of the faith, and were burnt alive in Smithfield. In the year 1517, one John Brown, (who had recanted before in the reign of Henry VII. and borne a fagot round St. Paul's,) was condemned by Dr. Wonhaman, archbishop of Canterbury, and burnt alive at Ashford. Before he was chained to the stake, the archbishop Wonhaman, and Yester, bishop of Rochester, caused his feet to be burnt in a fire till all the flesh came off, even to the bones. This was done in order to make him again recant, but he persisted in his attachment to the truth to the last. Much about this time one Richard Hunn, a merchant tailor of the city of London, was apprehended, having refused to pay the priest his fees for the funeral of a child; and being conveyed to the Lollards' Tower, in the palace of Lambeth, was there privately murdered by some of the servants of the archbishop. September 24, 1518, John Stilincen, who had before recanted, was apprehended, brought before Richard Fitz-James, bishop of London, and on the 25th of October was condemned as a heretic. He was chained to the stake in Smithfield amidst a vast crowd of spectators, and sealed his testimony to the truth with his blood. He declared that he was a Lollard, and that he had always believed the opinions of Wickliffe; and although he had been weak enough to recant his opinions, yet he was now willing to convince the world that he was ready to die for the truth. In the year 1519, Thomas Mann was burnt in London, as was one Robert Celin, a plain honest man for speaking against image worship and pilgrimages. Much about this time, was executed in Smithfield, in London, James Brewster, a native of Colchester. His sentiments were the same as the rest of the Lollards, or those who followed the doctrines of Wickliffe; but notwithstanding the innocence of his life, and the regularity of his manners, he was obliged to submit to papal revenge. During this year, one Christopher, a shoemaker, was burnt alive at Newbury, in Berkshire, for denying those popish articles which we have already mentioned. This man had got some books in English, which were sufficient to render him obnoxious to the Romish clergy. In 1521, Thomas Bernard was burnt alive at Norwich, for denying the real presence. About the beginning of the year 1522, Mr. Wrigsham, a glover; Mr Langdale, a hosier; Thomas Bond, Robert Harchets, and William Archer, shoemaker, with Mrs. Smith, a widow, were apprehended on Ash Wednesday and committed to prison. After examination, the bishop of Litchfield declared them to be heretics, and they were all condemned and burnt alive at Coventry. Robert Silks, who had been condemned in the bishop's court as a heretic, made his escape out of prison, but was taken two years afterward, and brought back to Coventry, where he was burnt alive.--The sheriffs always seized the goods of the martyrs for their own use, so that their wives and children were left to starve. In 1532, Thomas Harding, who with his wife, had been accused of heresy, was brought before the bishop of Lincoln, and condemned for denying the real presence in the sacrament. He was then chained to a stake, erected for the purpose, at Chesham in the Pell, near Botely; and when they had set fire to the fagots, one of the spectators dashed out his brains with a billet. The priests told the people, that whoever brought fagots to burn heretics would have an indulgence to commit sins for forty days. During the latter end of this year, Worham, archbishop of Canterbury, apprehended one Hitten, a priest at Maidstone; and after he had been long tortured in prison, and several times examined by the archbishop, and Fisher, bishop of Rochester, he was condemned as a heretic, and burnt alive before the door of his own parish church. Thomas Bilney, professor of civil law at Cambridge, was brought before the bishop of London, and several other bishops, in the Chapter house, Westminster, and being several times threatened with the stake and flames, he was weak enough to recant; but he repented severely afterward. For this he was brought before the bishop a second time, and condemned to death. Before he went to the stake he confessed his adherence to those opinions which Luther held; and, when at it, he smiled, and said, "I have had many storms in this world, but now my vessel will soon be on shore in heaven." He stood unmoved in the flames, crying out, "Jesus, I believe;" and these were the last words he was heard to utter. A few weeks after Bilney had suffered, Richard Byfield was cast into prison, and endured some whipping, for his adherence to the doctrines of Luther: this Mr. Byfield had been some time a monk, at Barnes, in Surry, but was converted by reading Tindal's version of the New Testament. The sufferings this man underwent for the truth were so great, that it would require a volume to contain them. Sometimes he was shut up in a dungeon, where he was almost suffocated, by the offensive and horrid smell of filth and stagnated water. At other times he was tied up by the arms, till almost all his joints were dislocated. He was whipped at the post several times, till scarce any flesh was left on his back; and all this was done to make him recant. He was then taken to the Lollard's Tower in Lambeth palace, where he was chained by the neck to the wall, and once every day beaten in the most cruel manner by the archbishop's servants. At last he was condemned, degraded, and burnt in Smithfield. The next person that suffered was John Tewkesbury. This was a plain simple man, who had been guilty of no other offence against what was called the holy mother church, than that of reading Tindal's translation of the New Testament. At first he was weak enough to abjure, but afterwards repented, and acknowledged the truth. For this he was brought before the bishop of London, who condemned him as an obstinate heretic. He suffered greatly during the time of his imprisonment, so that when they brought him out to execution he was almost dead. He was conducted to the stake in Smithfield, where he was burned, declaring his utter abhorrence of popery, and professing a firm belief that his cause was just in the sight of God. Much about this time Valentine Treest, and his wife, were apprehended in Yorkshire, and having been examined by the archbishop, were deemed as obstinate heretics, and burnt. The next person that suffered in this reign, was James Baynham, a reputable citizen in London, who had married the widow of a gentleman in the Temple. When chained to the stake he embraced the fagots, and said "Oh, ye papists, behold! ye look for miracles; here now may you see a miracle; for in this fire I feel no more pain than if I were in bed; for it is as sweet to me as a bed of roses." Thus he resigned his soul into the hands of his Redeemer. Soon after the death of this martyr, one Traxnal, an inoffensive countryman, was burned alive at Bradford in Wiltshire, because he would not acknowledge the real presence in the sacrament, nor own the papal supremacy over the consciences of men. In the year 1533, John Frith, a noted martyr, died for the truth. When brought to the stake in Smithfield, he embraced the fagots, and exhorted a young man named Andrew Hewit, who suffered with him, to trust his soul to that God who had redeemed it. Both these sufferers endured much torment, for the wind blew the flames away from them, so that they were above two hours in agony before they expired. At the latter end of this year, Mr. Thomas Bennet, a school-master, was apprehended at Exeter, and being brought before the bishop, refused to recant his opinions, for which he was delivered over to the secular power, and burned alive near that city. In the year 1538, one Collins, a madman, suffered death with his dog in Smithfield. The circumstances were as follow: Collins happened to be in church when the priest elevated the host; and Collins, in derision of the sacrifice of the Mass, lifted up his dog above his head. For this crime Collins, who ought to have been sent to a madhouse, or whipped at the cart's tail, was brought before the bishop of London; and although he was really mad, yet such was the force of popish power, such the corruption in church and state, that the poor madman, and his dog, were both carried to the stake in Smithfield, where they were burned to ashes, amidst a vast crowd of spectators. There were some other persons who suffered the same year, of whom we shall take notice in the order they lie before us. One Cowbridge suffered at Oxford; and although he was reputed to be a madman, yet he showed great signs of piety when he was fastened to the stake, and after the flames were kindled around him. About the same time one Purderve was put to death, for saying privately to a priest, after he had drunk the wine, "He blessed the hungry people with the empty chalice." At the same time was condemned William Letton, a monk of great age, in the county of Suffolk, who was burned at Norwich for speaking against an idol that was carried in procession; and for asserting, that the sacrament should be administered in both kinds. Some time before the burning of these men, Nicholas Peke was executed at Norwich; and when the fire was lighted, he was so scorched that he was as black as pitch. Dr. Reading standing before him, with Dr. Hearne and Dr. Spragwell, having a long white wand in his hand, struck him upon the right shoulder, and said, "Peke, recant, and believe in the Sacrament." To this he answered, "I despise thee and it also;" and with great violence he spit blood, occasioned by the anguish of his sufferings. Dr. Reading granted forty days indulgence for the sufferer, in order that he might recant his opinions. But he persisted in his adherence to the truth, without paying any regard to the malice of his enemies; and he was burned alive, rejoicing that Christ had counted him worthy to suffer for his name's sake. On July 28, 1540, or 1541, (for the chronology differs) Thomas Cromwell, earl of Essex, was brought to a scaffold on Tower-hill, where he was executed with some striking instances of cruelty. He made a short speech to the people, and then meekly resigned himself to the axe. It is, we think, with great propriety, that this nobleman is ranked among the martyrs; for although the accusations preferred against him did not relate to any thing in religion, yet had it not been for his zeal to demolish popery, he might have to the last retained the king's favour. To this may be added, that the papists plotted his destruction, for he did more towards promoting the reformation, than any man in that age, except the good Dr. Cranmer. Soon after the execution of Cromwell, Dr. Cuthbert Barnes, Thomas Garnet, and William Jerome, were brought before the ecclesiastical court of the bishop of London, and accused of heresy. Being before the bishop of London, Dr. Barnes was asked whether the saints prayed for us? To this he answered, that he would leave that to God; but (said he) I will pray for you. On the 13th of July, 1541, these men were brought from the Tower to Smithfield, where they were all chained to one stake; and there suffered death with a constancy that nothing less than a firm faith in Jesus Christ could inspire. One Thomas Sommers, an honest merchant, with three others, was thrown into prison, for reading some of Luther's books; and they were condemned to carry those books to a fire in Cheapside; there they were to throw them in the flames; but Sommers threw his over, for which he was sent back to the Tower, where he was stoned to death. Dreadful persecutions were at this time carried on at Lincoln, under Dr. Longland, the bishop of that diocess. At Buckingham, Thomas Bainard, and James Moreton, the one for reading the Lord's prayer in English, and the other for reading St. James' epistles in English, were both condemned and burnt alive. Anthony Parsons, a priest, together with two others, were sent to Windsor, to be examined concerning heresy; and several articles were tendered to them to subscribe, which they refused. This was carried on by the bishop of Salisbury, who was the most violent persecutor of any in that age, except Bonner. When they were brought to the stake, Parsons asked for some drink, which being brought him, he drank to his fellow-sufferers, saying, "Be merry, my brethren, and lift up your hearts to God; for after this sharp breakfast I trust we shall have a good dinner in the kingdom of Christ, our Lord and Redeemer." At these words Eastwood, one of the sufferers, lifted up his eyes and hands to heaven, desiring the Lord above to receive his spirit. Parsons pulled the straw near to him, and then said to the spectators, This is God's armour, and now I am a christian soldier prepared for battle: I look for no mercy but through the merits of Christ; he is my only Saviour, in him do I trust for salvation; and soon after the fires were lighted, which burned their bodies, but could not hurt their precious and immortal souls. Their constancy triumphed over cruelty, and their sufferings will be held in everlasting remembrance. In 1546, one Saitees, a priest, was, by order of bishop Gardiner, hanged in Southwark, without a council process; and all that was alleged against him was, that of reading Tindal's New Testament. This year one Kirby was burned in Ipswich, for the testimony of the truth, for denying the real presence in the sacrament. When this martyr was brought to the stake, he said to one Mr. Wingfield, who attended him, "Ah! Mr. Wingfield, be at my death, and you shall say, there standeth a christian sufferer in the fire." CHAPTER XII. AN ACCOUNT OF THE PERSECUTION IN SCOTLAND DURING THE REIGN OF KING HENRY VIII. The first person we meet with who suffered in Scotland on the score of religion, was one Patrick Hamilton, a gentleman of an independent fortune, and descended from a very ancient and honourable family. Having acquired a liberal education, and being desirous of farther improving himself in useful knowledge, he left Scotland, and went to the university of Wirtemberg, in Germany, in order to finish his studies. During his residence here, he became intimately acquainted with those eminent lights of the gospel, Martin Luther and Philip Melancthon; from whose writings and doctrines he strongly attached himself to the protestant religion. The archbishop of St. Andrews (who was a rigid papist) hearing of Mr. Hamilton's proceedings, caused him to be seized, and being brought before him, after a short examination relative to his religious principles, he committed him a prisoner to the castle, at the same time ordering him to be confined in the most loathsome part of the prison. The next morning Mr. Hamilton was brought before the bishop, and several others, for examination, when the principal articles exhibited against him were, his publicly disapproving of pilgrimages, purgatory, prayers to saints, for the dead, &c. These articles Mr. Hamilton acknowledged to be true, in consequence of which he was immediately condemned to be burnt; and that his condemnation might have the greater authority, they caused it to be subscribed by all those of any note who were present, and to make the number as considerable as possible, even admitted the subscription of boys who were sons of the nobility. So anxious was this bigoted and persecuting prelate for the destruction of Mr. Hamilton, that he ordered his sentence to be put in execution on the afternoon of the very day it was pronounced. He was accordingly led to the place appointed for the horrid tragedy, and was attended by a prodigious number of spectators. The greatest part of the multitude would not believe it was intended he should be put to death, but that it was only done to frighten him, and thereby bring him over to embrace the principles of the Romish religion. But they soon found themselves mistaken. When he arrived at the stake, he kneeled down, and, for some time, prayed with great fervency. After this he was fastened to the stake, and the fagots placed round him. A quantity of gunpowder having been placed under his arms was first set on fire which scorched his left hand and one side of his face, but did no material injury, neither did it communicate with the fagots. In consequence of this, more powder and combustible matter were brought, which being set on fire took effect, and the fagots being kindled, he called out, with an audible voice, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit! How long shall darkness overwhelm this realm? And how long wilt thou suffer the tyranny of these men?" The fire burning slow put him to great torment; but he bore it with christian magnanimity. What gave him the greatest pain was, the clamour of some wicked men set on by the friars, who frequently cried, "Turn, thou heretic; call upon our lady; say, Salve Regina, &c." To whom he replied, "Depart from me, and trouble me not, ye messengers of Satan." One Campbell, a friar, who was the ringleader, still continuing to interrupt him by opprobrious language; he said to him, "Wicked man, God forgive thee." After which, being prevented from farther speech by the violence of the smoke, and the rapidity of the flames, he resigned up his soul into the hands of Him who gave it. This steadfast believer in Christ suffered martyrdom in the year 1527. One Henry Forest, a young inoffensive Benedictine, being charged with speaking respectfully of the above Patrick Hamilton, was thrown into prison; and, in confessing himself to a friar, owned that he thought Hamilton a good man; and that the articles for which he was sentenced to die, might be defended. This being revealed by the friar, it was received as evidence; and the poor Benedictine was sentenced to be burnt. Whilst consultation was held, with regard to the manner of his execution, John Lindsay, one of the archbishop's gentlemen, offered his advice, to burn friar Forest in some cellar; for, said be, the smoke of Patrick Hamilton hath infected all those on whom it blew. This advice was taken, and the poor victim was rather suffocated than burnt. The next who fell victims for professing the truth of the gospel, were David Stratton and Norman Gourlay. When they arrived at the fatal spot, they both kneeled down, and prayed for some time with great fervency. They then arose, when Stratton, addressing himself to the spectators, exhorted them to lay aside their superstitious and idolatrous notions, and employ their time in seeking the true light of the gospel. He would have said more, but was prevented by the officers who attended. Their sentence was then put into execution, and they cheerfully resigned up their souls to that God who gave them, hoping, through the merits of the great Redeemer, for a glorious resurrection to life immortal. They suffered in the year 1534. The martyrdoms of the two before-mentioned persons, were soon followed by that of Mr. Thomas Forret, who, for a considerable time, had been dean of the Romish church; Killor and Beverage, two blacksmiths; Duncan Simson, a priest; and Robert Forrester, a gentleman. They were all burnt together, on the Castle-hill at Edinburgh, the last day of February, 1538. The year following the martyrdoms of the before-mentioned persons, viz. 1539, two others were apprehended on a suspicion of heresy; namely, Jerom Russel, and Alexander Kennedy, a youth about eighteen years of age. These two persons, after being some time confined in prison, were brought before the archbishop for examination. In the course of which, Russel, being a very sensible man, reasoned learnedly against his accusers; while they in return made use of very opprobrious language. The examination being over, and both of them deemed heretics, the archbishop pronounced the dreadful sentence of death, and they were immediately delivered over to the secular power in order for execution. The next day they were led to the place appointed for them to suffer; in their way to which, Russel, seeing his fellow-sufferer have the appearance of timidity in his countenance, thus addressed him: "Brother, fear not; greater is he that is in us, than he that is in the world. The pain that we are to suffer is short, and shall be light; but our joy and consolation shall never have an end. Let us, therefore, strive to enter into our Master and Saviour's joy, by the same straight way which he hath taken before us. Death cannot hurt us, for it is already destroyed by Him, for whose sake we are now going to suffer." When they arrived at the fatal spot, they both kneeled down and prayed for some time; after which being fastened to the stake, and the fagots lighted, they cheerfully resigned their souls into the hands of Him who gave them, in full hopes of an everlasting reward in the heavenly mansions. In 1543, the archbishop of St. Andrews made a visitation into various parts of his diocese, where several persons were informed against at Perth for heresy. Among these the following were condemned to die, viz. William Anderson, Robert Lamb, James Finlayson, James Hunter, James Raveleson, and Helen Stark. The accusations laid against these respective persons were as follow: The four first were accused of having hung up the image of St. Francis, nailing ram's horns on his head, and fastening a cow's tail to his rump; but the principal matter on which they were condemned was, having regaled themselves with a goose on fast day. James Raveleson was accused of having ornamented his house with the three crowned diadem of Peter, carved in wood, which the archbishop conceived to be done in mockery to his cardinal's cap. Helen Stark was accused of not having accustomed herself to pray to the Virgin Mary, more especially during the time she was in child bed. On these respective accusations they were all found guilty, and immediately received sentence of death; the four men for eating the goose to be hanged; James Raveleson to be burnt; and the woman, with her sucking infant, to be put into a sack and drowned. The four men, with the woman and child, suffered at the same time, but James Raveleson was not executed till some days after. Besides the above-mentioned persons, many others were cruelly persecuted, some being banished, and others confined in loathsome dungeons. Among whom were Mr. John Knox, the celebrated Scottish reformist; and John Rogers, a pious and learned man, who was murdered in prison, and his body thrown over the walls into the street; after which a report was spread, that he had met with his death in attempting to make his escape. _An Account of the Life, Sufferings, and death of Mr. George Wishart, who was strangled and afterward burned, in Scotland, for professing the Truth of the Gospel._ Mr. George Wishart was born in Scotland, and after receiving a grammatical education at a private school, he left that place, and finished his studies at the university of Cambridge. In order to improve himself as much as possible in the knowledge of literature, he travelled into various parts abroad, where he distinguished himself for his great learning and abilities, both in philosophy and divinity. After being some time abroad he returned to England, and took up his residence at Cambridge, where he was admitted a member of Bennet college. Having taken up his degrees, he entered into holy orders, and expounded the gospel in so clear and intelligible a manner, as highly to delight his numerous auditors. Being desirous of propagating the true gospel in his own country he left Cambridge in 1544, and on his arrival in Scotland he first preached at Montrose, and afterwards at Dundee. In this last place he made a public exposition of the epistle to the Romans, which he went through with such grace and freedom, as greatly alarmed the papists. In consequence of this, (at the instigation of cardinal Beaton, the archbishop of St. Andrews) one Robert Miln, a principal man at Dundee, went to the church where Wishart preached, and in the middle of his discourse publicly told him not to trouble the town any more, for he was determined not to suffer it. This sudden rebuff greatly surprised Wishart, who, after a short pause, looking sorrowfully on the speaker and the audience, said, "God is my witness, that I never minded your trouble but your comfort; yea, your trouble is more grievous to me than it is to yourselves: but I am assured, to refuse God's word, and to chase from you his messenger, shall not preserve you from trouble, but shall bring you into it: for God shall send you ministers that shall fear neither burning nor banishment. I have offered you the word of salvation. With the hazard of my life, I have remained among you; now you yourselves refuse me; and I must leave my innocence to be declared by my God. If it be long prosperous with you, I am not led by the spirit of truth: but if unlooked-for trouble come upon you, acknowledge the cause and turn to God, who is gracious and merciful. But if you turn not at the first warning, he will visit you with fire and sword." At the close of this speech he left the pulpit, and retired. After this he went into the west of Scotland, where he preached God's word, which was gladly received by many. A short time after this, Mr. Wishart received intelligence, that the plague was broke out in Dundee. It began four days after he was prohibited from preaching there, and raged so extremely, that it was almost beyond credit how many died in the space of twenty-four hours. This being related to him, he, notwithstanding the importunity of his friends to detain him, determined to go there, saying, "They are now in troubles, and need comfort. Perhaps this hand of God will make them now to magnify and reverence the word of God, which before they lightly esteemed." Here he was with joy received by the godly. He chose the eastgate for the place of his preaching; so that the healthy were within, and the sick without the gate. He took his text from these words, He sent his word and healed them, &c. In this sermon he chiefly dwelt upon the advantage and comfort of God's word, the judgments that ensue upon the contempt or rejection of it, the freedom of God's grace to all his people, and the happiness of those of his elect, whom he takes to himself out of this miserable world. The hearts of his hearers were so raised by the divine force of this discourse, as not to regard death, but to judge them the more happy who should then be called, not knowing whether he should have such comfort again with them. After this the plague abated; though, in the midst of it, Wishart constantly visited those that lay in the greatest extremity, and comforted them by his exhortations. When he took his leave of the people of Dundee, he said, "That God had almost put an end to that plague, and that he was now called to another place." He went from thence to Montrose; where he sometimes preached, but spent most of his time in private meditation and prayer. It is said, that before he left Dundee, and while he was engaged in the labours of love to the bodies, as well as to the souls, of those poor afflicted people, cardinal Beaton engaged a desperate popish priest, called John Weighton, to kill him; the attempt to execute which was as follows: one day, after Wishart had finished his sermon, and the people departed, a priest stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs, with a naked dagger in his hand under his gown.--But Mr. Wishart having a sharp, piercing eye, and seeing the priest as he came from the pulpit, said to him, "My friend, what would you have?" and immediately clapping his hand upon the dagger, took it from him. The priest being terrified, fell on his knees, confessed his intention, and craved pardon. A noise being hereupon raised, and it coming to the ears of those who were sick, they cried, "Deliver the traitor to us, we will take him by force;" and they burst in at the gate. But Wishart, taking the priest in his arms, said, "Whatsoever hurts him shall hurt me; for he hath done me no mischief, but much good, by teaching more heedfulness for the time to come." By this conduct he appeased the people and saved the life of the wicked priest. Soon after his return to Montrose, the cardinal again conspired his death, causing a letter to be sent to him as if it had been from his familiar friend, the Laird of Kennier, in which he was desired with all possible speed to come to him, as he was taken with a sudden sickness. In the mean time the cardinal had provided sixty men armed to lie in wait within a mile and a half of Montrose, in order to murder him as he passed that way. The letter coming to Wishart's hand by a boy, who also brought him a horse for the journey. Wishart, accompanied by some honest men, his friends, set forward; but something particular striking his mind by the way, he returned back, which they wondering at, asked him the cause; to whom he said, "I will not go; I am forbidden of God; I am assured there is treason. Let some of you go to yonder place, and tell me what you find." Which doing, they made the discovery; and hastily returning, they told Mr. Wishart; whereupon he said, "I know I shall end my life by that blood-thirsty man's hands, but it will not be in this manner." A short time after this he left Montrose, and proceeded to Edinburgh in order to propagate the gospel in that city. By the way he lodged with a faithful brother, called James Watson of Inner-Goury. In the middle of the night he got up, and went into the yard, which two men hearing they privately followed him. While in the yard, he fell on his knees, and prayed for some time with the greatest fervency, after which he arose, and returned to his bed. Those who attended him, appearing as though they were ignorant of all, came and asked him where he had been? But he would not answer them. The next day they importuned him to tell them, saying, "Be plain with us, for we heard your mourning, and saw your gestures." On this he, with a dejected countenance, said, "I had rather you had been in your beds." But they still pressing upon him to know something, he said, "I will tell you; I am assured that my warfare is near at an end, and therefore pray to God with me, that I shrink not when the battle waxeth most hot." Soon after, cardinal Beaton, archbishop of St. Andrews, being informed that Mr. Wishart was at the house of Mr. Cockburn, of Ormiston, in East Lothian, he applied to the regent to cause him to be apprehended; with which, after great persuasion, and much against his will, he complied. In consequence of this the cardinal immediately proceeded to the trial of Wishart, against whom no less than eighteen articles were exhibited. Mr. Wishart answered the respective articles with great composure of mind, and in so learned and clear a manner, as greatly surprised most of those who were present. After the examination was finished, the archbishop endeavoured to prevail on Mr. Wishart to recant; but he was too firmly fixed in his religious principles, and too much enlightened with the truth of the gospel, to be in the least moved. On the morning of his execution there came to him two friars from the cardinal; one of whom put on him a black linen coat, and the other brought several bags of gunpowder, which they tied about different parts of his body. As soon as he arrived at the stake, the executioner put a rope round his neck, and a chain about his middle; upon which he fell on his knees and thus exclaimed: "O thou Saviour of the world, have mercy upon me! Father of heaven, I commend my spirit into Thy holy hands." After this he prayed for his accusers, saying, "I beseech thee, Father of heaven, forgive them that have, from ignorance or an evil mind, forged lies of me: I forgive them with all my heart. I beseech Christ to forgive them, that have ignorantly condemned me." He was then fastened to the stake, and the fagots being lighted, immediately set fire to the powder that was tied about him, and which blew into a flame and smoke. The governor of the castle, who stood so near that he was singed with the flame, exhorted our martyr, in a few words, to be of good cheer, and to ask the pardon of God for his offences. To which he replied, "This flame occasions trouble to my body, indeed, but it hath in nowise broken my spirit. But he who now so proudly looks down upon me from yonder lofty place (pointing to the cardinal) shall, ere long, be as ignominiously thrown down, as now he proudly lolls at his ease." Which prediction was soon after fulfilled. The executioner then pulled the rope which was tied about his neck with great violence, so that he was soon strangled; and the fire getting strength, burnt with such rapidity that in less than an hour his body was totally consumed. The next person who fell a martyr to popish bigotry, was one Adam Wallace, of Winton, in East-Lothian, who having obtained a true knowledge of the gospel of Christ, spent the greater part of his time in endeavouring to propagate it among his fellow-creatures. His conduct being noticed by some bigoted papists, an information was laid against him for heresy, on which he was apprehended, and committed to prison. After examination, sentence of death was passed upon him as heretic; and he was immediately delivered over to the secular power, in order for execution. In the evening of the same day, Wallace was visited by several Romish priests, who endeavoured to prevail on him to recant; but he stood so steadfast in the faith he professed, and used such forcible arguments in vindication of the gospel, that they left him with some wrath, saying, "He was too abandoned to receive any impression." The next morning he was conducted to the Castle-hill at Edinburgh, when, being chained to the stake, and the fagots lighted, he cheerfully resigned up his soul into the hands of him who gave it, in full assurance of receiving a crown of glory in the heavenly mansions. The last who suffered martyrdom in Scotland, for the cause of Christ, was one Walter Mill, who was burnt at Edinburgh in the year 1558. This person, in his younger years, had travelled into Germany, and on his return was installed a priest of the church of Lunan in Angus, but, on an information of heresy, in the time of cardinal Beaton, he was forced to abandon his charge and abscond. But he was soon apprehended, and committed to prison. Being interrogated by Sir Andrew Oliphant, whether he would recant his opinions, he answered in the negative, saying, He would sooner forfeit ten thousand lives, than relinquish a particle of those heavenly principles he had received from the suffrages of his blessed Redeemer. In consequence of this, sentence of condemnation was immediately passed on him, and he was conducted to prison in order for execution the following day. This steadfast believer in Christ was eighty-two years of age, and exceedingly infirm; from whence it was supposed, that he could scarcely be heard. However, when he was taken to the place of execution, he expressed his religious sentiments with such courage, and at the same time composure of mind, as astonished even his enemies. As soon as he was fastened to the stake, and the fagots lighted, he addressed the spectators as follows: The cause why I suffer this day is not for any crime, (though I acknowledge myself a miserable sinner) but only for the defence of the truth as it is in Jesus Christ; and I praise God who hath called me, by his mercy, to seal the truth with my life; which, as I received it from him, so I willingly and joyfully offer it up to his glory. Therefore, as you would escape eternal death, be no longer seduced by the lies of the seat of Antichrist: but depend solely on Jesus Christ, and his mercy, that you may be delivered from condemnation. And then added, "That he trusted he should be the last who would suffer death in Scotland upon a religious account." Thus did this pious christian cheerfully give up his life, in defence of the truth of Christ's gospel, not doubting but he should be made a partaker of his heavenly kingdom. CHAPTER XII. PERSECUTIONS IN ENGLAND DURING THE REIGN OF QUEEN MARY. The premature death of that celebrated young monarch, Edward the Sixth, occasioned the most extraordinary and wonderful occurrences, which had ever existed from the times of our blessed Lord and Saviour's incarnation in human shape. This melancholy event became speedily a subject of general regret. The succession to the British throne was soon made a matter of contention; and the scenes which ensued were a demonstration of the serious affliction which the kingdom was involved in. As his loss to the nation was more and more unfolded, the remembrance of his government was more and more the basis of grateful recollection. The very awful prospect, which was soon presented to the friends of Edward's administration, under the direction of his counsellors and servants, was a contemplation which the reflecting mind was compelled to regard with most alarming apprehensions. The rapid approaches which were made towards a total reversion of the proceedings of the young king's reign, denoted the advances which were thereby represented to an entire revolution in the management of public affairs both in church and state. Alarmed for the condition in which the kingdom was likely to be involved by the king's death, an endeavour to prevent the consequences, which were but too plainly foreseen, was productive of the most serious and fatal effects. The king, in his long and lingering affliction, was induced to make a will, by which he bequeathed the English crown to lady Jane, the daughter of the duke of Suffolk, who had been married to the lord Guilford, the son of the duke of Northumberland, and was the grand-daughter of the second sister of king Henry, by Charles, duke of Suffolk. By this will, the succession of Mary and Elizabeth, his two sisters, was entirely superseded, from an apprehension of the returning system of popery; and the king's council, with the chief of the nobility, the lord-mayor of the city of London, and almost all the judges and the principal lawyers of the realm, subscribed their names to this regulation, as a sanction to the measure. Lord chief justice Hale, though a true protestant and an upright judge, alone declined to unite his name in favour of the lady Jane, because he had already signified his opinion, that Mary was entitled to assume the reins of government. Others objected to Mary's being placed on the throne, on account of their fears that she might marry a foreigner, and thereby bring the crown into considerable danger. Her partiality to popery also left little doubt on the minds of any, that she would be induced to revive the dormant interests of the pope, and change the religion which had been used both in the days of her father, king Henry, and in those of her brother Edward: for in all his time she had manifested the greatest stubbornness and inflexibility of temper, as must be obvious from her letter to the lords of the council, whereby she put in her claim to the crown, on her brother's decease. When this happened, the nobles, who had associated to prevent Mary's succession, and had been instrumental in promoting, and, perhaps, advising the measures of Edward, speedily proceeded to proclaim lady Jane Gray, to be queen of England, in the city of London and various other populous cities of the realm. Though young, she possessed talents of a very superior nature, and her improvements under a most excellent tutor had given her many very great advantages. Her reign was of only five days continuance, for Mary, having succeeded by false promises in obtaining the crown, speedily commenced the execution of her avowed intention of extirpating and burning every protestant. She was crowned at Westminister in the usual form, and her elevation was the signal for the commencement of the bloody persecution which followed. Having obtained the sword of authority, she was not sparing in its exercise. The supporters of Lady Jane Gray were destined to feel its force. The duke of Northumberland was the first who experienced her savage resentment. Within a month after his confinement in the Tower, he was condemned, and brought to the scaffold, to suffer as a traitor. From his various crimes, resulting out of a sordid and inordinate ambition, he died unpitied and unlamented. The changes, which followed with rapidity, unequivocally declared, that the queen was disaffected to the present state of religion.--Dr. Poynet was displaced to make room for Gardiner to be bishop of Winchester, to whom she also gave the important office of lord-chancellor. Dr. Ridley was dismissed from the see of London, and Bonne introduced. J. Story was put out of the bishopric of Chichester, to admit Dr. Day. J. Hooper was sent prisoner to the Fleet, and Dr. Heath put into the see of Worcester. Miles Coverdale was also excluded from Exeter, and Dr. Vesie placed in that diocess. Dr. Tonstall was also promoted to the see of Durham. "These things being marked and perceived, great heaviness and discomfort grew more and more to all good men's hearts; but to the wicked great rejoicing. They that could dissemble took no great care how the matter went; but such, whose consciences were joined with the truth, perceived already coals to be kindled, which after should be the destruction of many a true christian." _The words and behaviour of the lady Jane upon the Scaffold._ The next victim was the amiable lady Jane Gray, who, by her acceptance of the crown at the earnest solicitations of her friends, incurred the implacable resentment of the bloody Mary. When she first mounted the scaffold, she spake to the spectators in this manner: Good people, I am come hither to die, and by a law I am condemned to the same. The fact against the queen's highness was unlawful, and the consenting thereunto by me: but, touching the procurement and desire thereof by me, or on my behalf, I do wash my hands thereof in innocency before God, and the face of you, good christian people, this day: and therewith she wrung her hands, wherein she had her book. Then said she, I pray you all, good christian people, to bear me witness, that I die a good christian woman, and that I do look to be saved by no other mean, but only by the mercy of God in the blood of his only Son Jesus Christ: and I confess, that when I did know the word of God, I neglected the same, loved myself and the world, and therefore this plague and punishment is happily and worthily happened unto me for my sins; and yet I thank God, that of his goodness he hath thus given me a time and a respite to repent and now, good people, while I am alive, I pray you assist me with your prayers. And then, kneeling down, she turned to Feckenham, saying, Shall I say this psalm? and he said, Yea. Then she said the psalm of Miserere mei Deus, in English, in a most devout manner throughout to the end; and then she stood up, and gave her maid, Mrs. Ellen, her gloves and handkerchief, and her book to Mr. Bruges; and then she untied her gown, and the executioner pressed upon her to help her off with it: but she, desiring him to let her alone, turned towards her two gentlewomen, who helped her off therewith, and also with her frowes, paaft, and neckerchief, giving to her a fair handkerchief to put about her eyes. Then the executioner kneeled down, and asked her forgiveness whom she forgave most willingly. Then he desired her to stand upon the straw, which doing, she saw the block. Then she said, I pray you despatch me quickly. Then she kneeled down, saying, Will you take it off before I lay me down? And the executioner said, No madam. Then she tied a handkerchief about her eyes, and feeling for the block, she said, What shall I do? Where is it? Where is it? One of the standers-by guiding her thereunto, she laid her head upon the block, and then stretched forth her body, and said, Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit; and so finished her life, in the year of our Lord 1554, the 12th day of February, about the 17th year of her age. Thus died the Lady Jane; and on the same day the lord Guilford, her husband, one of the duke of Northumberland's sons, was likewise beheaded, two innocents in comparison of them that sat upon them. For they were both very young, and ignorantly accepted that which others had contrived, and by open proclamation consented to take from others, and give to them. Touching the condemnation of this pious lady, it is to be noted, that Judge Morgan, who gave sentence against her, soon after he had condemned her, fell mad, and in his raving cried out continually, to have the lady Jane taken away from him, and so he ended his life. On the 21st day of the same month, Henry, duke of Suffolk, was beheaded on Tower-hill, the fourth day after his condemnation: about which time many gentlemen and yeomen were condemned, whereof some were executed at London, and some in the country. In the number of whom was the lord Thomas Gray, brother to the said duke, being apprehended not long after in North-Wales, and executed for the same. Sir Nicholas Throgmorton, also, very narrowly escaped. _John Rogers, Vicar of St. Sepulchre's, and Reader of St. Paul's, London._ John Rogers was educated at Cambridge, and was afterward many years chaplain to the merchants adventurers at Antwerp in Brabant. Here he met with the celebrated martyr William Tindal, and Miles Coverdale, both voluntary exiles from their country for their aversion to popish superstition and idolatry. They were the instruments of his conversion; and he united with them in that translation of the Bible into English, entitled "The Translation of Thomas Matthew." From the scriptures he knew that unlawful vows may be lawfully broken; hence he married, and removed to Wittenberg in Saxony, for the improvement of learning; and he there learned the Dutch language, and received the charge of a congregation, which he faithfully executed for many years. On king Edward's accession, he left Saxony, to promote the work of reformation in England; and, after some time, Nicholas Ridley, then bishop of London, gave him a prebend in St. Paul's Cathedral, and the dean and chapter appointed him reader of the divinity lesson there. Here he continued until queen Mary's succession to the throne, when the gospel and true religion were banished, and the Antichrist of Rome, with his superstition and idolatry, introduced. The circumstance of Mr. Rogers having preached at Paul's cross, after queen Mary arrived at the Tower, has been already stated. He confirmed in his sermon the true doctrine taught in King Edward's time, and exhorted the people to beware of the pestilence of popery, idolatry, and superstition. For this he was called to account, but so ably defended himself, that, for that time, he was dismissed. The proclamation of the queen, however, to prohibit true preaching, gave his enemies a new handle against him. Hence he was again summoned before the council, and commanded to keep his house. He did so, though he might have escaped; and though he perceived the state of the true religion to be desperate. "He knew he could not want a living in Germany; and he could not forget a wife and ten children, and to seek means to succour them." But all these things were insufficient to induce him to depart and, when once called to answer in Christ's cause, he stoutly defended it, and hazarded his life for that purpose. After long imprisonment in his own house, the restless Bonner, bishop of London, caused him to be committed to Newgate, there to be lodged among thieves and murderers. After Mr. Rogers had been long and straitly imprisoned, and lodged in Newgate among thieves, often examined, and very uncharitably entreated, and at length unjustly and most cruelly condemned by Stephen Gardiner, bishop of Winchester: the 4th of February, in the year of our Lord 1555, being Monday in the morning, he was suddenly warned by the keeper of Newgates's wife, to prepare himself for the fire; who, being then sound asleep, could scarce be awaked. At length being raised and awaked, and bid to make haste, Then said he, if it be so, I need not tie my points. And so was had down, first to bishop Bonner to be degraded: which being done, he craved of Bonner but one petition; and Bonner asking what that should be? Mr. Rogers replied, that he might speak a few words with his wife before his burning. But that could not be obtained of him. When the time came, that he should be brought out of Newgate to Smithfield, the place of his execution, Mr. Woodroofe, one of the sheriffs, first came to Mr. Rogers, and asked him, if he would revoke his abominable doctrine, and the evil opinion of the sacrament of the altar. Mr. Rogers answered that which I have preached I will seal with my blood. Then Mr. Woodroofe said, Thou art an heretic. That shall be known, quoth Mr. Rogers, at the day of judgment.--"Well, said Mr. Woodroofe, I will never pray for thee. But I will pray for you, said Mr. Rogers; and so was brought the same day, the 4th of February, by the sheriffs, towards Smithfield, saying the psalm Miserere by the way, all the people wonderfully rejoicing at his constancy with great praises and thanks to God for the same. And here, in the presence of Mr. Rochester, comptroller of the queen's household, sir Richard Southwell, both the sheriffs, and a great number of people he was burnt to ashes, washing his hands in the flame as he was burning. A little before his burning, his pardon was brought if he would have recanted; but he utterly refused it. He was the first martyr of all the blessed company that suffered in Queen Mary's time that gave the first adventure upon the fire. His wife and children, being eleven in number, ten able to go, and one sucking at her breast, met him by the way, as he went towards Smithfield: this sorrowful sight of his own flesh and blood could nothing move him but that he constantly and cheerfully took his death with wonderful patience, in the defence and quarrel of the gospel of Christ." _The Rev. Mr. Lawrence Saunders._ Mr. Saunders after passing some time in the school of Eaton, was chosen to go to King's college in Cambridge, where he continued three years, and profited in knowledge and learning very much for that time shortly after he quitted the university, and went to his parents, but soon returned to Cambridge again to his study, where he began to add to the knowledge of the Latin, the study of the Greek and Hebrew tongues, and gave himself up to the study of the holy scriptures, the better to qualify himself for the office of preacher. In the beginning of king Edward's reign, when God's true religion was introduced, after license obtained, he began to preach, and was so well liked of them who then had authority, that they appointed him to read a divinity lecture in the college of Fothringham. The college of Fothringham being dissolved, he was placed to be a reader in the minster at Litchfield. After a certain space, he departed from Litchfield to a benefice in Leicestershire, called Church-langton, where he held a residence, taught diligently, and kept a liberal house. Thence he was orderly called to take a benefice in the city of London, namely, All-hallows in Bread-street.--After this he preached at Northampton, nothing meddling with the state, but boldly uttering his conscience against the popish doctrines which were likely to spring up again in England, as a just plague for the little love which the English nation then bore to the blessed word of God, which had been so plentifully offered unto them. The queen's party, who were there, and heard him, were highly displeased with him for his sermon, and for it kept him among them as a prisoner. But partly for love of his brethren and friends, who were chief actors for the queen among them, partly because there was no law broken by his preaching, they dismissed him. Some of his friends, perceiving such fearful menacing, counselled him to fly out of the realm, which he refused to do. But seeing he was with violence kept from doing good in that place, he returned towards London, to visit his flock. In the afternoon of Sunday, Oct. 15, 1554, as he was reading in his church to exhort his people, the bishop of London interrupted him, by sending an officer for him. His treason and sedition the bishop's charity was content to let slip until another time, but a heretic he meant to prove him, and all those, he said, who taught and believed that the administration of the sacraments, and all orders of the church, are the most pure, which come the nearest to the order of the primitive church. After much talk concerning this matter, the bishop desired him to write what he believed of transubstantiation. Laurence Saunders did so, saying, "My Lord, you seek my blood, and you shall have it: I pray God that you may be so baptised in it that you may ever after loathe blood-sucking, and become a better man." Upon being closely charged with contumacy, the severe replies of Mr. Saunders to the bishop, (who had before, to get the favour of Henry VIII. written and set forth in print, a book of true obedience, wherein he had openly declared queen Mary to be a bastard) so irritated him, that he exclaimed, Carry away this frenzied fool to prison. After this good and faithful martyr had been kept in prison one year and a quarter, the bishops at length called him, as they did his fellow-prisoners, openly to be examined before the queen's council. His examination being ended, the officers led him out of the place, and staid until the rest of his fellow-prisoners were likewise examined, that they might lead them all together to prison. After his excommunication and delivery over to the secular power, he was brought by the sheriff of London to the Compter, a prison in his own parish of Bread-street, at which he rejoiced greatly, both because he found there a fellow-prisoner, Mr. Cardmaker, with whom he had much christian and comfortable discourse; and because out of prison, as before in his pulpit, he might have an opportunity of preaching to his parishioners. The 4th of February, Bonner, bishop of London, came to the prison to degrade him; the day following, in the morning the sheriff of London delivered him to certain of the queen's guard, who were appointed to carry him to the city of Coventry, there to be burnt. When they had arrived at Coventry, a poor shoemaker, who used to serve him with shoes, came to him, and said, O my good master, God strengthen and comfort you. Good shoemaker, Mr. Saunders replied, I desire thee to pray for me, for I am the most unfit man for this high office, that ever was appointed to it; but my gracious God and dear Father is able to make me strong enough. The next day, being the 8th of February, 1555, he was led to the place of execution, in the park, without the city; he went in an old gown and a shirt, bare-footed, and oftentimes fell flat on the ground, and prayed. When he was come nigh to the place, the officer, appointed to see the execution done, said to Mr. Saunders, that he was one of them who married the queen's realm, but if he would recant, there was pardon for him. "Not I," replied the holy martyr, "but such as you have injured the realm. The blessed gospel of Christ is what I hold; that do I believe, that have I taught, and that will I never revoke!" Mr. Saunders then slowly moved towards the fire, sank to the earth and prayed; he then rose up, embraced the stake, and frequently said, "Welcome, thou cross of Christ! welcome everlasting life!" Fire was then put to the fagots, and, he was overwhelmed by the dreadful flames, and sweetly slept in the Lord Jesus. _The history, imprisonment, and examinations, of Mr. John Hooper, Bishop of Worcester and Gloucester._ John Hooper, student and graduate in the university of Oxford, was stirred with such fervent desire to the love and knowledge of the scriptures, that he was compelled to remove from thence, and was retained in the house of Sir Thomas Arundel, as his steward, till Sir Thomas had intelligence of his opinions and religion, which he in no case did favour, though he exceedingly favoured his person and condition, and wished to be his friend. Mr. Hooper now prudently left Sir Thomas' house and arrived at Paris, but in a short time returned into England, and was retained by Mr. Sentlow, till the time that he was again molested and sought for, when he passed through France to the higher parts of Germany; where, commencing acquaintance with learned men, he was by them free and lovingly entertained, both at Basil, and especially at Zurich, by Mr. Bullinger, who was his singular friend; here also he married his wife, who was a Burgonian, and applied very studiously to the Hebrew tongue. At length, when God saw it good to stay the bloody time of the six articles, and to give us king Edward to reign over this realm, with some peace and rest unto the church, amongst many other English exiles, who then repaired homeward, Mr. Hooper also, moved in conscience, thought not to absent himself, but seeing such a time and occasion, offered to help forward the Lord's work, to the uttermost of his ability. When Mr. Hooper had taken his farewell of Mr. Bullinger, and his friends in Zurich, he repaired again into England in the reign of king Edward the Sixth, and coming to London, used continually to preach, most times twice, or at least once a day. In his sermons, according to his accustomed manner, he corrected sin, and sharply inveighed against the iniquity of the world and the corrupt abuses of the church. The people in great flocks and companies daily came to hear his voice, as the most melodious sound and tune of Orpheus' harp, insomuch, that oftentimes when he was preaching, the church would be so full, that none could enter further than the doors thereof. In his doctrine, he was earnest, in tongue eloquent, in the scriptures, perfect, in pains indefatigable, in his life exemplary. Having preached before the king's majesty, he was soon after made bishop of Gloucester. In that office he continued two years, and behaved himself so well, that his very enemies could find no fault with him, and after that he was made bishop of Worcester. Dr. Hooper executed the office of a most careful and vigilant pastor for the space of two years and more, so long as the state of religion in king Edward's time was sound and flourishing. After he had been cited to appear before Bonner and Dr. Heath, he was led to the Council, accused falsely of owing the queen money, and in the next year, 1554, he wrote an account of his severe treatment during near eighteen months' confinement to the Fleet, and after his third examination, January 28, 1555, at St. Mary Overy's, he, with the Rev. Mr. Rogers, was conducted to the Compter in Southwark, there to remain till the next day at nine o'clock, to see whether they would recant. Come, brother Rogers, said Dr. Hooper, must we two take this matter first in hand, and begin to fry in these fagots? Yes, Doctor, said Mr. Rogers, by God's grace. Doubt not, said Dr. Hooper, but God will give us strength; and the people so applauded their constancy, that they had much ado to pass. January 29, bishop Hooper was degraded and condemned, and the Rev. Mr. Rogers was treated in like manner. At dark, Dr. Hooper was led through the city to Newgate; notwithstanding this secrecy, many people came forth to their doors with lights, and saluted him, praising God for his constancy. During the few days he was in Newgate, he was frequently visited by Bonner and others, but without avail. As Christ was tempted, so they tempted him, and then maliciously reported that he had recanted. The place of his martyrdom being fixed at Gloucester, he rejoiced very much, lifting up his eyes and hands to heaven, and praising God that he saw it good to send him among the people over whom he was pastor, there to confirm with his death the truth which he had before taught them. On Feb. 7th, he came to Gloucester, about five o'clock, and lodged at one Ingram's house. After his first sleep, he continued in prayer until morning; and all the day, except a little time at his meals, and when conversing with such as the guard kindly permitted to speak to him, he spent in prayer. Sir Anthony Kingston, at one time Doctor Hooper's good friend, was appointed by the queen's letters to attend at his execution. As soon as he saw the bishop he burst into tears. With tender entreaties he exhorted him to live. "True it is," said the bishop, "that death is bitter, and life is sweet: but alas! consider that the death to come is more bitter, and the life to come is more sweet." The same day a blind boy obtained leave to be brought into Dr. Hooper's presence. The same boy, not long before, had suffered imprisonment at Gloucester for confessing the truth. "Ah! poor boy," said the bishop, "though God hath taken from thee thy outward sight, for what reason he best knoweth, yet he hath endued thy soul with the eye of knowledge and of faith. God give thee grace continually to pray unto him, that thou lose not that sight, for then wouldst thou indeed be blind both in body and soul." When the mayor waited upon him preparatory to his execution, he expressed his perfect obedience, and only requested that a quick fire might terminate his torments. After he had got up in the morning, he desired that no man should be suffered to come into the chamber, that he might be solitary till the hour of execution. About eight o'clock, on February 9, 1555, he was led forth, and many thousand persons were collected, as it was market-day. All the way, being straitly charged not to speak, and beholding the people who mourned bitterly for him, he would sometimes lift up his eyes towards heaven, and look very cheerfully upon such as he knew: and he was never known, during the time of his being among them, to look with so cheerful and ruddy a countenance as he did at that time. When he came to the place appointed where he should die, he smilingly beheld the stake and preparation made for him, which was near unto the great elm-tree over against the college of priests, where he used to preach. Now, after he had entered into prayer, a box was brought and laid before him upon a stool, with his pardon from the queen, if he would turn. At the sight whereof he cried, If you love my soul away with it. The box being taken away, lord Chandois said, Seeing there is no remedy, despatch him quickly. Command was now given that the fire should be kindled. But because there were not more green fagots than two horses could carry, it kindled not speedily, and was a pretty while also before it took the reeds upon the fagots. At length it burned about him, but the wind having full strength at that place, and being a lowering cold morning, it blew the flame from him, so that he was in a manner little more than touched by the fire. Within a space after, a few dry fagots were brought, and a new fire kindled with fagots, (for there were no more reeds) and those burned at the nether parts, but had small power above, because of the wind, saving that it burnt his hair, and scorched his skin a little. In the time of which fire, even as at the first flame, he prayed, saying mildly, and not very loud, but as one without pain, O Jesus, Son of David, have mercy upon me, and receive my soul! After the second fire was spent, he wiped both his eyes with his hands, and beholding the people, he said with an indifferent loud voice, For God's love, good people, let me have more fire! and all this while his nether parts did burn; but the fagots were so few, that the flame only singed his upper parts. The third fire was kindled within a while after, which was more extreme than the other two. In this fire he prayed with a loud voice, Lord Jesus, have mercy upon me! Lord Jesus receive my spirit! And these were the last words he was heard to utter. But when he was black in the mouth, and his tongue so swollen that he could not speak, yet his lips went till they were shrunk to the gums: and he knocked his breast with his hands until one of his arms fell off, and then knocked still with the other, while the fat, water, and blood dropped out at his fingers' ends, until by renewing the fire, his strength was gone, and his hand clave fast in knocking to the iron upon his breast. Then immediately bowing forwards, he yielded up his spirit. _The life and conduct of Dr. Rowland Taylor of Hadley._ Dr. Rowland Taylor, vicar of Hadley, in Suffolk, was a man of eminent learning, and had been admitted to the degree of doctor of the civil and canon law. His attachment to the pure and uncorrupted principles of christianity recommended him to the favour and friendship of Dr. Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, with whom he lived a considerable time, till through his interest he obtained the living of Hadley. Dr. Taylor promoted the interest of the great Redeemer, and the souls of mankind, both by his preaching and example, during the time of king Edward VI. but on his demise, and the succession of queen Mary to the throne, he escaped not the cloud that burst on so many beside; for two of his parishioners, Foster, an attorney, and Clark, a tradesman, out of blind zeal, resolved that mass should be celebrated, in all its superstitious forms, in the parish church of Hadley, on Monday before Easter; this Dr. Taylor, entering the church, strictly forbade; but Clark forced the Doctor out of the church, celebrated mass, and immediately informed the lord-chancellor, bishop of Winchester of his behaviour, who summoned him to appear, and answer the complaints that were alleged against him. The doctor upon the receipt of the summons, cheerfully prepared to obey the same; and rejected the advice of his friends to fly beyond sea. When Gardiner saw Dr. Taylor, he, according to his common custom, reviled him. Dr. Taylor heard his abuse patiently, and when the bishop said, How darest thou look me in the face! knowest thou not who I am? Dr. Taylor replied, You are Dr. Stephen Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, and lord-chancellor, and yet but a mortal man. But if I should be afraid of your lordly looks, why fear ye not God, the Lord of us all? With what countenance will you appear before the judgment-seat of Christ, and answer to your oath made first unto king Henry the Eighth, and afterward unto king Edward the Sixth, his son? A long conversation ensued, in which Dr. Taylor was so piously collected and severe upon his antagonist, that he exclaimed, Thou art a blasphemous heretic! Thou indeed blasphemist the blessed sacrament, (here he put off his cap) and speakest against the holy mass, which is made a sacrifice for the quick and the dead. The bishop afterward committed him into the king's bench. When Dr. Taylor came there, he found the virtuous and vigilant preacher of God's word, Mr. Bradford; who equally thanked God that he had provided him with such a comfortable fellow-prisoner; and they both together praised God, and continued in prayer, reading and exhorting one another. After that Dr. Taylor had lain some time in prison, he was cited to appear in the arches of Bow-church. Dr. Taylor being condemned, was committed to the Clink, and the keepers were charged to treat him roughly; at night he was removed to the Poultry Compter. When Dr. Taylor had lain in the Compter about a week, on the 4th of February, Bonner came to degrade him, bringing with him such ornaments as appertained to the massing mummery; but the Doctor refused these trappings till they were forced upon him. The night after he was degraded, his wife came with John Hull, his servant, and his son Thomas, and were by the gentleness of the keepers permitted to sup with him. After supper, walking up and down, he gave God thanks for his grace, that had so called him and given him strength to abide by his holy word and turning to his son Thomas, he exhorted him to piety and filial obedience in the most earnest manner. Dr. Taylor, about two o'clock in the morning, was conveyed to the Woolpack, Aldgate, and had an affecting interview with his wife and daughter, and a female orphan he had brought up who had waited all night in St. Botolph's porch, to see him pass, before being delivered to the sheriff of Essex. On coming out of the gates, John Hull, his good servant, stood at the rails with Thomas, (Dr. Taylor's son.) This, said he, is my own son. Then he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and prayed for his son and blessed him. At Chelmsford the sheriff of Suffolk met them, there to receive him, and to carry him into Suffolk. Being at supper, the sheriff of Essex very earnestly besought him to return to the popish religion, thinking with fair words to persuade him. When they had all drunk to him, and the cup was come to him, he said, Mr. Sheriff, and my masters all, I heartily thank you for your good will. I have hearkened to your words, and marked well your counsels. And to be plain with you, I perceive that I have been deceived myself, and am like to deceive a great many in Hadley of their expectations. At these words they all rejoiced, but the Doctor had a meaning very remote from theirs. He alluded to the disappointment that the worms would have in not being able to feast upon his portly and goodly body, which they would have done if, instead of being burnt, he had been buried. When the sheriff and his company heard him speak thus, they were amazed, marvelling at the constant mind that could thus without fear make a jest of the cruel torments and death now at hand, prepared for him. At Chelmsford he was delivered to the sheriff of Suffolk, and by him conducted to Hadley. When Dr. Taylor had arrived at Aldham-Common, the place where he should suffer, seeing a great multitude of people, he asked, What place is this, and what meaneth it that so much people are gathered hither? It was answered, It is Aldham-Common, the place where you must suffer; and the people are come to look upon you. Then he said, Thanked be God, I am even at home; and he alighted from his horse and with both hands rent the hood from his head. His head had been notched and clipped like as a man would clip a fool's; which cost the good bishop Bonner had bestowed upon him. But when the people saw his reverend and ancient face, with a long white beard, they burst out with weeping tears, and cried, saying, God save thee, good Dr. Taylor! Jesus Christ strengthen thee, and help thee! the Holy Ghost comfort thee! with such other like good wishes. When he had prayed, he went to the stake and kissed it, and set himself into a pitch barrel, which they had put for him to stand in, and stood with his back upright against the stake, with his hands folded together, and his eyes towards heaven, and continually prayed. They then bound him with the chains, and having set up the fagots, one Warwick cruelly cast a fagot at him which struck him on his head, and cut his face, so that the blood ran down. Then said Dr. Taylor, O friend, I have harm enough, what needed that? Sir John Shelton standing by, as Dr. Taylor was speaking, and saying the psalm Miserere in English, struck him on the lips: You knave, said he, speak Latin: I will make thee. At last they kindled the fire; and Dr. Taylor holding up both his hands, calling upon God, and said, Merciful Father of heaven! for Jesus Christ, my Saviour's sake, receive my soul into thy hands! So he stood still without either crying or moving, with his hands folded together, till Soyce, with a halberd struck him on the head till his brains fell out, and the corpse fell down into the fire. Thus rendered up this man of God his blessed soul into the hands of his merciful Father, and to his most dear Saviour Jesus Christ, whom he most entirely loved, faithfully and earnestly preached, obediently followed in living, and constantly glorified in death. _Martyrdom of Tomkins, Pygot, Knight, Lawrence, Hunter, and Higbed._ Thomas Tomkins was by trade a weaver in Shoreditch, till he was summoned before the inhuman Bonner, and confined with many others, who renounced the errors of popery, in a prison in that tyrant's house at Fulham. Under his confinement, he was treated by the bishop not only unbecoming a prelate, but even a man; for the savage, because Tomkins would not assent to the doctrine of transubstantiation, bruised him in the face, and plucked off the greatest part of the hair of his beard. On another occasion, this scandal to humanity, in the presence of many who came to visit at Fulham, took this poor honest man by the fingers, and held his hand directly over the flame of a wax candle having three or four wicks, supposing that, being terrified by the smart and pain of the fire, he would leave off the defence of the doctrine which he had received. Tomkins thinking no otherwise, but there presently to die, began to commend himself unto the Lord, saying, O Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit, &c. All the time that his hand was burning the same Tomkins afterward reported to one James Hinse, that his spirit was so rapt, that he felt no pain. In which burning he never shrank till the veins shrank, and the sinews burst and the water spurted into Mr. Harpsfield's face: insomuch that Mr. Harpsfield, moved with pity, desired the bishop to stay, saying, that he had tried him enough. After undergoing two examinations, and refusing to swerve from his duty and belief, he was commanded to appear before the bishop. Agreeably to this mandate, being brought before the bloody tribunal of bishops, and pressed to recant his errors and return to the mother church, he maintained his fidelity, nor would swerve in the least from the articles he had signed with his own hand. Having therefore declared him an obstinate heretic, they delivered him up to the secular power, and he was burned in Smithfield, March 16th, 1555, triumphant in the midst of the flames, and adding to the noble company of martyrs, who had preceded him through the path of the fiery trial to the realms of immortal glory. William Hunter had been trained to the doctrines of the reformation from his earliest youth, being descended from religious parents, who carefully instructed him in the principles of the true religion. Hunter, then nineteen years of age, refusing to receive the communion at mass, was threatened to be brought before the bishop; to whom this valiant young martyr was conducted by a constable. Bonner caused William to be brought into a chamber, where he began to reason with him, promising him security and pardon if he would recant. Nay, he would have been content if he would have gone only to receive and to confession, but William would not do so for all the world. Upon this the bishop commanded his men to put William in the stocks in his gate-house, where he sat two days and nights, with a crust of brown bread and a cup of water only, which he did not touch. At the two days' end, the bishop came to him, and finding him steadfast in the faith, sent him to the convict prison, and commanded the keeper to lay irons upon him as many as he could bear. He continued in prison three quarters of a year, during which time he had been before the bishop five times, besides the time when he was condemned in the consistory in St. Paul's, February 9th, at which time his brother, Robert Hunter, was present. Then the bishop, calling William, asked him if he would recant, and finding he was unchangeable, he pronounced sentence upon him, that he should go from that place to Newgate for a time, and thence to Brentwood, there to be burned. About a month afterward, William was sent down to Brentwood, where he was to be executed. On coming to the stake, he knelt down and read the 51st psalm, till he came to these words, "The sacrifice of God is a contrite spirit; a contrite and a broken heart, O God, thou wilt not despise." Steadfast in refusing the queen's pardon, if he would become an apostate, at length one Richard Ponde, a bailiff, came, and made the chain fast about him. William now cast his psalter into his brother's hand, who said William, think on the holy passion of Christ, and be not afraid of death. Behold, answered William, I am not afraid. Then he lifted up his hands to heaven, and said, Lord, Lord, Lord, receive my spirit and casting down his head again into the smothering smoke, he yielded up his life for the truth, sealing it with his blood to the praise of God. About the same time William Pygot, Stephen Knight, and Rev. John Lawrence, were burnt as heretics, by order of the infamous Bonner. Thomas Higbed and Thomas Causton shared the same fate. _Dr. Robert Farrar._ This worthy and learned prelate, the bishop of St. David's in Wales, having in the former reign, as well as since the accession of Mary, been remarkably zealous to promoting the reformed doctrines, and exploding the errors of popish idolatry, was summoned, among others, before the persecuting bishop of Winchester, and other commissioners set apart for the abominable work of devastation and massacre. His principal accusers and persecutors, on a charge of præmunire in the reign of Edward VI. were George Constantine Walter, his servant; Thomas Young, chanter of the cathedral, afterward bishop of Bangor, &c. Dr. Farrar ably replied to the copies of information laid against him, consisting of fifty-six articles. The whole process of this trial was long and tedious. Delay succeeded delay, and after that Dr. Farrar had been long unjustly detained in custody under sureties, in the reign of king Edward, because he had been promoted by the duke of Somerset, whence after his fall he found fewer friends to support him against such as wanted his bishopric by the coming in of queen Mary, he was accused and examined not for any matter of præmunire, but for his faith and doctrine; for which he was called before the Bishop of Winchester with bishop Hooper, Mr. Rogers, Mr. Bradford, Mr. Saunders and others, Feb. 4, 1555; on which day he would also with them have been condemned, but his condemnation was deferred, and he sent to prison again, where he continued till Feb. 14, and then was sent into Wales to receive sentence. He was six times brought up before Henry Morgan, bishop of St. David's, who demanded if he would abjure; from which he zealously dissented, and appealed to cardinal Pole; notwithstanding which, the bishop, proceeding in his rage, pronounced him a heretic excommunicate, and surrendered him to the secular power. Dr. Farrar, being condemned and degraded, was not long after brought to the place of execution in the town of Carmathen, in the market-place of which, on the south side of the market-cross, March 30, 1555, being Saturday next before Passion-Sunday, he most constantly sustained the torments of the fire. Concerning his constancy, it is said that one Richard Jones, a knight's son, coming to Dr. Farrar a little before his death, seemed to lament the painfulness of the death he had to suffer; to whom the bishop answered, That if he saw him once stir in the pains of his burning, he ought then give no credit to his doctrine; and as he said, so did he maintain his promise, patiently standing without emotion, till one Richard Gravell with a staff struck him down. _Rawlins White._ Rawlins White was by his calling and occupation a fisherman, living and continuing in the said trade for the space of twenty years at least, in the town of Cardiff, where he bore a very good name amongst his neighbours. Though the good man was altogether unlearned, and withal very simple, yet it pleased God to remove him from error and idolatry to a knowledge of the truth, through the blessed reformation in Edward's reign. He had his son taught to read English, and after the little boy could read pretty well, his father every night after supper, summer and winter, made the boy read a portion of the holy scriptures, and now and then a part of some other good book. When he had continued in his profession the space of five years, king Edward died, upon whose decease queen Mary succeeded and with her all kind of superstition crept in. White was taken by the officers of the town, as a man suspected of heresy, brought before the bishop Llandaff, and committed to prison in Chepstow, and at last removed to the castle of Cardiff, where he continued for the space of one whole year. Being brought before the bishop in his chapel, he counselled him by threats and promises. But as Rawlins would in nowise recant his opinions, the bishop told him plainly, that he must proceed against him by law, and condemn him as a heretic. Before they proceeded to this extremity, the bishop proposed that prayer should be said for his conversion. "This," said White, "is like a godly bishop, and if your request be godly and right, and you pray as you ought, no doubt God will hear you; pray you, therefore, to your God, and I will pray to my God." After the bishop and his party had done praying, he asked Rawlins if he would now revoke. "You find," said the latter, "your prayer is not granted, for I remain the same; and God will strengthen me in support of this truth." After this, the bishop tried what saying mass would do; but Rawlins called all the people to witness that he did not bow down to the host. Mass being ended Rawlins was called for again; to whom the bishop used many persuasions; but the blessed man continued so steadfast to his former profession, that the bishop's discourse was to no purpose.--The bishop now caused the definitive sentence to be read, which being ended, Rawlins was carried again to Cardiff, to a loathsome prison in the town, called Cockmarel, where he passed his time in prayer, and in singing of psalms. In about three weeks, the order came from town for his execution. When he came to the place, where his poor wife and children stood weeping, the sudden sight of them so pierced his heart, that the tears trickled down his face. Being come to the altar of his sacrifice, in going towards the stake, he fell down upon his knees, and kissed the ground; and in rising again, a little earth sticking on his face, he said these words, Earth unto earth, and dust unto dust; thou art my mother, and unto thee I shall return. When all things were ready, directly over against the stake, in the face of Rawlins White, there was a standing erected, whereon stept up a priest, addressing himself to the people, but, as he spoke of the Romish doctrines of the sacraments, Rawlins cried out, Ah, thou wicked hypocrite, dost thou presume to prove thy false doctrine by scripture? Look in the text that followeth; did not Christ say, "Do this in remembrance of me?" Then some that stood by cried out, put fire! set on fire! which being done, the straw and reeds cast up a great and sudden flame. In which flame this good man bathed his hands so long, until such time as the sinews shrank, and the fat dropped away, saving that once he did, as it were, wipe his face with one of them. All this while, which was somewhat long, he cried with a loud voice, O Lord, receive my spirit! until he could not open his mouth. At last the extremity of the fire was so vehement against his legs, that they were consumed almost before the rest of his body was hurt, which made the whole body fall over the chain into the fire sooner than it would have done. Thus died this good old man for his testimony of God's truth, and is now rewarded, no doubt, with the crown of eternal life. _The Rev. Mr. George Marsh._ George Marsh, born in the parish of Deane, in the county of Lancaster, received a good education and trade from his parents; about his 25th year he married, and lived, blessed with several children, on his farm till his wife died. He then went to study at Cambridge, and became the curate of the Rev. Mr. Lawrence Saunders, in which duty he constantly and zealously set forth the truth of God's word, and the false doctrines of the modern Antichrist. Being confined by Dr. Coles, the bishop of Chester, within the precincts of his own house, he was kept from any intercourse with his friends during four months: his friends and mother, earnestly wished him to have flown from "the wrath to come;" but Mr. Marsh thought that such a step would ill agree with that profession he had during nine years openly made. He, however, secreted himself, but he had much struggling, and in secret prayer begged that God would direct him, through the advice of his best friends, for his own glory and to what was best. At length, determined, by a letter he received, boldly to confess the faith of Christ, he took leave of his mother-in-law and other friends, recommending his children to their care and departed for Smethehills, whence he was, with others, conducted to Lathum, to undergo examination before the Earl of Derby, Sir William Nores Mr. Sherburn, the parson of Grapnal, and others. The various questions put to him he answered with a good conscience, but when Mr. Sherburn interrogated him upon his belief of the sacrament of the altar, Mr. Marsh answered like a true Protestant, that the essence of the bread and wine was not at all changed, hence, after receiving dreadful threats from some, and fair words from others, for his opinions, he was remanded to ward, where he lay two nights without any bed.--On Palm Sunday he underwent a second examination, and Mr. Marsh much lamented that his fear should at all have induced him to prevaricate, and to seek his safety, so long as he did not openly deny Christ; and he again cried more earnestly to God for strength that he might not be overcome by the subtleties of those who strove to overrule the purity of his faith. He underwent three examinations before Dr. Coles, who, finding him steadfast in the Protestant faith, began to read his sentence; but he was interrupted by the Chancellor, who prayed the bishop to stay before it was too late. The priest then prayed for Mr. Marsh, but the latter, upon being again solicited to recant, said he durst not deny his Saviour Christ, lest he lose his everlasting mercy, and so obtain eternal death. The bishop then proceeded in the sentence. He was committed to a dark dungeon, and lay deprived of the consolation of any one, (for all were afraid to relieve or communicate with him) till the day appointed came that he should suffer. The sheriffs of the city, Amry and Couper, with their officers, went to the north gate, and took out Mr. George Marsh, who walked all the way with the book in his hand, looking upon the same, whence the people said, This man does not go to his death as a thief, nor as one that deserveth to die. When he came to the place of execution without the city, near Spittal-Boughton, Mr. Cawdry, deputy Chamberlain of Chester, showed Mr. Marsh a writing under a great seal, saying, that it was a pardon for him if he would recant. He answered, That he would gladly accept the same did it not tend to pluck him from God. After that, he began to speak to the people, showing the cause of his death, and would have exhorted them to stick unto Christ, but one of the sheriffs prevented him. Kneeling down, he then said his prayers, put off his clothes unto his shirt, and was chained to the post, having a number of fagots under him, and a thing made like a firkin, with pitch and tar in it, over his head. The fire being unskilfully made, and the wind driving it in eddies, he suffered great extremity, which notwithstanding he bore with Christian fortitude. When he had been a long time tormented in the fire without moving, having his flesh so broiled and puffed up, that they who stood before him could not see the chain wherewith he was fastened, and therefore supposed that he had been dead, suddenly he spread abroad his arms, saying. Father of heaven have mercy upon me! and so yielded his spirit into the hands of the Lord. Upon this, many of the people said he was a martyr and died gloriously patient. This caused the bishop shortly after to make a sermon in the cathedral church, and therein he affirmed, that the said Marsh was a heretic, burnt as such, and was a firebrand in hell.--Mr. Marsh suffered April 24, 1555. _Mr. William Flower._ William Flower, otherwise Branch, was born at Snow-hill, in the county of Cambridge, where he went to school some years, and then came to the abbey of Ely. After he had remained a while he became a professed monk, was made a priest in the same house, and there celebrated and sang mass. After that, by reason of a visitation, and certain injunctions by the authority of Henry VIII he took upon him the habit of a secular priest, and returned to Snow-hill, where he was born, and taught children about half a year. He then went to Ludgate, in Suffolk, and served as a secular priest about a quarter of a year; from thence to Stoniland; at length to Tewksbury, where he married a wife, with whom he ever after faithfully and honestly continued: after marriage he resided at Tewksbury about two years, and from thence went to Brosley, where he practised physic and surgery; but departing from those parts, he came to London, and finally settled at Lambeth, where he and his wife dwelt together: however, he was generally abroad, excepting once or twice in a month, to visit and see his wife. Being at home upon Easter Sunday morning, he came over the water from Lambeth into St. Margaret's church at Westminster; when seeing a priest, named John Celtham, administering and giving the sacrament of the altar to the people, and being greatly offended in his conscience with the priest for the same, he struck and wounded him upon the head, and also upon the arm and hand, with his wood knife, the priest having at the same time in his hand a chalice with the consecrated host therein, which became sprinkled with blood. Mr. Flower, for this injudicious zeal, was heavily ironed, and put into the gatehouse at Westminster; and afterward summoned before bishop Bonner and his ordinary, where the bishop, after he had sworn him upon a book, ministered articles and interrogations to him. After examination, the bishop began to exhort him again to return to the unity of his mother the catholic church, with many fair promises. These Mr. Flower steadfastly rejecting, the bishop ordered him to appear in the same place in the afternoon, and in the mean time to consider well his former answer; but he, neither apologizing for having struck the priest, nor swerving from his faith, the bishop assigned him the next day, April 20th, to receive sentence, if he would not recant. The next morning, the bishop accordingly proceeded to the sentence, condemning and excommunicating him for a heretic, and after pronouncing him to be degraded, committed him to the secular power. April 24, St. Mark's eve, he was brought to the place of martyrdom, in St. Margaret's churchyard, Westminster, where the fact was committed: and there coming to the stake, he prayed to Almighty God, made a confession of his faith, and forgave all the world. This done, his hand was held up against the stake, and struck off, his left hand being fastened behind him. Fire was then set to him and he burning therein, cried with it loud voice, O thou Son of God, have mercy upon me! O thou Son of God, receive my soul! three times; his speech being now taken from him, he spoke no more, but notwithstanding he lifted up the stump with his other arm as long as he could. Thus he endured the extremity of the fire, and was cruelly tortured for the few fagots that were brought being insufficient to burn him, they were compelled to strike him down into the fire, where lying along upon the ground, his lower part was consumed in the fire, whilst his upper part was little injured, his tongue moving in his mouth for a considerable time. _The Rev. John Cardmaker and John Warne._ May 30, 1555, the Rev. John Cardmaker, otherwise called Taylor, prebendary of the church of Wells, and John Warne, upholsterer, of St. John's, Walbrook, suffered together in Smithfield. Mr. Cardmaker, who first was an observant friar before the dissolution of the abbeys, afterward was a married minister, and in King Edward's time appointed to be reader in St. Paul's; being apprehended in the beginning of Queen Mary's reign, with Dr. Barlow, bishop of Bath, he was brought to London, and put in the Fleet prison, King Edward's laws being yet in force. In Mary's reign, when brought before the bishop of Winchester, the latter offered them the queen's mercy, if they would recant. Articles having been preferred against Mr. John Warne, he was examined upon them by Bonner, who earnestly exhorted him to recant his opinions. To whom he answered, I am persuaded that I am in the right opinion, and I see no cause to recant; for all the filthiness and idolatry lies in the church of Rome. The bishop then, seeing that all his fair promises and terrible threatenings could not prevail, pronounced the definitive sentence of condemnation, and ordered the 30th of May, 1555, for the execution of John Cardmaker and John Warne, who were brought by the sheriffs to Smithfield. Being come to the stake, the sheriffs called Mr. Cardmaker aside, and talked with him secretly, during which Mr. Warne prayed, was chained to the stake, and had wood and reeds set about him. The people were greatly afflicted, thinking that Mr. Cardmaker would recant at the burning of Mr. Warne. At length Mr. Cardmaker departed from the sheriffs, and came towards the stake, knelt down, and made a long prayer in silence to himself. He then arose up, put off his clothes to his shirt, and went with a bold courage unto the stake and kissed it; and taking Mr. Warne by the hand, he heartily comforted him, and was bound to the stake, rejoicing. The people seeing this so suddenly done, contrary to their previous expectation, cried out, God be praised! the Lord strengthen thee, Cardmaker! the Lord Jesus receive thy spirit! And this continued while the executioner put fire to them, and both had passed through the fire to the blessed rest and peace among God's holy saints and martyrs, to enjoy the crown of triumph and victory prepared for the elect soldiers and warriors of Christ Jesus in his blessed kingdom, to whom be glory and majesty for ever. Amen. _John Simpson and John Ardeley._ John Simpson and John Ardeley were condemned on the same day with Mr. Cardmaker and John Warne, which was the 25th of May. They were shortly after sent down from London to Essex, where they were burnt in one day, John Simpson at Rochford, and John Ardeley at Railey, glorifying God in his beloved Son, and rejoicing that they were accounted worthy to suffer. _Thomas Haukes, Thomas Watts, Thomas Osmond, William Bamford, and Nicholas Chamberlain._ Mr. Thomas Haukes, with six others, were condemned on the 9th of February, 1555. In education he was erudite; in person, comely and of good stature; in manners, a gentleman, and a sincere Christian. A little before death, several of Mr. H's. friends, terrified by the sharpness of the punishment he was going to suffer, privately desired that in the midst of the flames he would show them some token, whether the pains of burning were so great that a man might not collectedly endure it. This he promised to do; and it was agreed, that if the rage of the pain might he suffered, then he should lift up his hands above his head towards heaven, before he gave up the ghost. Not long after, Mr. Haukes was led away to the place appointed for slaughter, by lord Rich, and being come to the stake, mildly and patiently prepared himself for the fire, having a strong chain cast about his middle, with a multitude of people on every side compassing him about. Unto whom after he had spoken many things, and poured out his soul unto God, the fire was kindled. When he had continued long in it, and his speech was taken away by violence of the flame, his skin drawn together, and his fingers consumed with the fire, so that it was thought that he was gone, suddenly and contrary to all expectation, this good man being mindful of his promise, reached up his hands burning in flames over his head to the living God, and with great rejoicings as it seemed, struck or clapped them three times together. A great shout followed this wonderful circumstance, and then this blessed martyr of Christ, sinking down in the fire, gave up his spirit, June 10, 1555. Thomas Watts, of Billericay, in Essex, of the diocess of London, was a linen draper. He had daily expected to be taken by God's adversaries, and this came to pass on the 5th of April, 1555, when he was brought before lord Rich, and other commissioners at Chelmsford, and accused for not coming to the church. Being consigned over to the bloody bishop, who gave him several hearings, and, as usual, many arguments, with much entreaty, that he would be a disciple of antichrist, but his preaching availed not, and he resorted to his last revenge--that of condemnation. At the stake, after he had kissed it, he spake to lord Rich, charging him to repent, for the Lord would revenge his death. Thus did this good martyr offer his body to the fire, in defence of the true gospel of the Saviour. Thomas Osmond, William Bamford, and Nicholas Chamberlain, all of the town of Coxhall, being sent up to be examined, Bonner, after several hearings, pronounced them obstinate heretics, and delivered them to the sheriffs, in whose custody they remained till they were delivered to the sheriff of Essex county, and by him were executed. Chamberlain at Colchester, the 14th of June; Thomas Osmond at Maningtree, and William Bamford, alias Butler, at Harwich, the 15th of June, 1555; all dying full of the glorious hope of immortality. _Rev. John Bradford, and John Leaf an apprentice._ Rev. John Bradford was born at Manchester, in Lancashire; he was a good Latin scholar, and afterward became a servant of Sir John Harrington, knight. He continued several years in an honest and thriving way; but the Lord had elected him to a better function. Hence he departed from his master, quitting the Temple, at London, for the university of Cambridge, to learn, by God's law, how to further the building of the Lord's temple. In a few years after, the university gave him the degree of master of arts, and he became a fellow of Pembroke Hall. Martin Bucer first urged him to preach, and when he modestly doubted his ability, Bucer was wont to reply, If thou hast not fine wheat bread, yet give the poor people barley bread, or whatsoever else the Lord hath committed unto thee. Dr. Ridley, that worthy bishop of London, and glorious martyr of Christ, first called him to take the degree of a deacon and gave him a prebend in his cathedral church of St. Paul. In this preaching office Mr. Bradford diligently laboured for the space of three years. Sharply he reproved sin, sweetly he preached Christ crucified, ably he disproved heresies and errors, earnestly he persuaded to godly life. After the death of blessed king Edward VI. Mr. Bradford still continued diligent in preaching, till he was suppressed by queen Mary. An act now followed of the blackest ingratitude, and at which a Pagan would blush. It has been recited, that a tumult was occasioned by Mr. Bourne's (then bishop of Bath) preaching at St. Paul's Cross; the indignation of the people placed his life in imminent danger; indeed a dagger was thrown at him. In this situation he entreated Mr. Bradford, who stood behind him, to speak in his place, and assuage the tumult. The people welcomed Mr. Bradford, and the latter afterward kept close to him, that his presence might prevent the populace from renewing their assaults. The same Sunday in the afternoon, Mr. Bradford preached at Bow church in Cheapside, and reproved the people sharply for their seditious misdemeanor. Notwithstanding this conduct, within three days after, he was sent for to the tower of London, where the queen then was, to appear before the council. There he was charged with this act of saving Mr. Bourne, which was called seditious, and they also objected against him for preaching. Thus he was committed, first to the Tower, then to other prisons, and, after his condemnation, to the Poultry Compter, where he preached twice a day continually, unless sickness hindered him. Such was his credit with the keeper of the king's Bench, that he permitted him in an evening to visit a poor, sick person near the Steel-yard, upon his promise to return in time, and in this he never failed. The night before he was sent to Newgate, he was troubled in his sleep by foreboding dreams, that on Monday after he should be burned in Smithfield. In the afternoon the keeper's wife came up and announced this dreadful news to him, but in him it excited only thankfulness to God. At night, half a dozen friends came, with whom he spent all the evening in prayer and godly exercises. When he was removed to Newgate, a weeping crowd accompanied him, and a rumor having been spread that he was to suffer at four the next morning, an immense multitude attended. At nine o'clock Mr. Bradford was brought into Smithfield. The cruelty of the sheriff deserves notice; for his brother-in-law, Roger Beswick, having taken him by the hand as he passed, Mr. Woodroffe, with his staff, cut his head open. Mr. Bradford, being come to the place, fell flat on the ground, secretly making his prayers to Almighty God. Then, rising again, and putting off his clothes unto the shirt, he went to the stake, and there suffered with a young man of twenty years of age, whose name was John Leaf, an apprentice to Mr. Humphry Gaudy, tallow-chandler, of Christ-church, London. Upon Friday before Palm Sunday, he was committed to the Compter in Bread-street, and afterward examined and condemned by the bloody bishop. It is reported of him, that, when the bill of his confession was read unto him, instead of pen, he took a pin, and pricking his hand, sprinkled the blood upon the said bill, desiring the reader thereof to show the bishop that he had sealed the same bill with his blood already. They both ended this mortal life, July 12th, 1555, like two lambs, without any alteration of their countenances, hoping to obtain that prize they had long run for; to which may Almighty God conduct us all, through the merits of Christ our Saviour! We shall conclude this article with mentioning, that Mr. Sheriff Woodroffe, it is said, within half a year after, was struck on the right side with a palsy and for the space of eight years after, (till his dying day) he was unable to turn himself in his bed; thus he became at last a fearful object to behold. The day after Mr. Bradford and John Leaf suffered in Smithfield, William Minge, priest, died in prison at Maidstone. With as great constancy and boldness he yielded up his life in prison, as if it had pleased God to have called him to suffer by fire, as other godly men had done before at the stake, and as he himself was ready to do, had it pleased God to have called him to this trial. _Rev. John Bland, Rev. John Frankesh, Nicholas Shetterden, and Humphrey Middleton._ These Christian persons were all burnt at Canterbury for the same cause. Frankesh and Bland were ministers and preachers of the word of God, the one being parson of Adesham, and the other vicar of Rolvindon. Mr. Bland was cited to answer for his opposition to antichristianism, and underwent several examinations before Dr. Harpsfield, archdeacon of Canterbury, and finally on the 25th of June, 1555, again withstanding the power of the pope, he was condemned, and delivered to the secular arm. On the same day were condemned, John Frankesh, Nicholas Shetterden, Humphrey Middleton, Thacker, and Cocker, of whom Thacker only recanted. Being delivered to the secular power, Mr. Bland, with the three former, were all burnt together at Canterbury, July 12, 1555, at two several stakes, but in one fire, when they, in the sight of God and his angels, and before men, like true soldiers of Jesus Christ, gave a constant testimony to the truth of his holy gospel. _Nicholas Hall and Christopher Waid._ The same month of July, Nicholas Hall, bricklayer, and Christopher Waid, linendraper, of Dartford, suffered death, condemned by Maurice, bishop of Rochester, about the last day of June, 1555. At the same time three others were condemned, whose names were Joan Beach, widow, John Harpol, of Rochester, and Margery Polley. _Dirick Carver and John Launder._ The 22d of July, 1555, Dirick Carver, brewer, of Brighthelmstone, aged forty, was burnt at Lewes. And the day following John Launder, husbandman, aged twenty-five, of Godstone, Surry, was burnt at Stening. Dirick Carver was a man whom the Lord had blessed as well with temporal riches as with his spiritual treasures. At his coming into the town of Lewes to be burnt, the people called to him, beseeching God to strengthen him in the faith of Jesus Christ; and, as he came to the stake, he knelt down, and prayed earnestly. Then his book was thrown into the barrel, and when he had stripped himself, he went into it. As soon as he was in, he took the book, and threw it among the people, upon which the sheriff commanded, in the name of the king and queen, on pain of death, to throw in the book again.--And immediately the holy martyr began to address the people. After he had prayed awhile, he said, "O Lord my God, thou hast written, he that will not forsake wife, children, house, and every thing that he hath, and take up thy cross and follow thee, is not worthy of thee!--but thou, Lord, knowest that I have forsaken all to come unto thee Lord have mercy upon me, for unto thee I commend my spirit! and my soul doth rejoice in thee!" These were the last words of this faithful servant of Christ before enduring the fire. And when the fire came to him, he cried, "O Lord have mercy upon me!" and sprang up in the fire, calling upon the name of Jesus, till he gave up the ghost. Thomas Iveson, of Godstone, in the county of Surry, carpenter, was burnt about the same month at Chichester. John Aleworth, who died in prison at Reading, July, 1555, had been imprisoned for the sake of the truth of the gospel. James Abbes. This young man wandered about to escape apprehension, but was at last informed against, and brought before the bishop of Norwich, who influenced him to recant; to secure him further in apostasy, the bishop afterward gave him a piece of money; but the interference of Providence is here remarkable. This bribe lay so heavily upon his conscience, that he returned, threw back the money, and repented of his conduct. Like Peter, he was contrite, steadfast in the faith, and sealed it with his blood at Bury, August 2, 1555, praising and glorifying God. _John Denley, Gent., John Newman, and Patrick Packingham._ Mr. Denley and Newman were returning one day to Maidstone, the place of their abode, when they were met by E. Tyrrel, Esq. a bigoted justice of the peace in Essex, and a cruel persecutor of the protestants. He apprehended them merely on suspicion. On the 5th of July, 1555, they were condemned, and consigned to the sheriffs, who sent Mr. Denley to Uxbridge, where he perished, August the 8th, 1555. While suffering in agony, and singing a psalm, Dr. Story inhumanly ordered one of the tormentors to throw a fagot at him, which cut his face severely, caused him to cease singing, and to raise his hands to his face. Just as Dr. Story was remarking in jest that he had spoiled a good song, the pious martyr again chanted, spread his hands abroad in the flames, and through Christ Jesus resigned his soul into the hands of his Maker. Mr. Packingham suffered at the same town on the 28th of the same month. Mr. Newman, pewterer, was burnt at Saffron Waldon, in Essex, Aug. 31, for the same cause, and Richard Hook about the same time perished at Chichester. _W. Coker, W. Hooper, H. Laurence, R. Colliar, R. Wright and W. Stere._ These persons all of Kent, were examined at the same time with Mr. Bland and Shetterden, by Thornton, bishop of Dover, Dr. Harpsfield, and others. These six martyrs and witnesses of the truth were consigned to the flames in Canterbury, at the end of August, 1555. Elizabeth Warne, widow of John Warne, upholsterer, martyr, was burnt at Stratford-le-bow, near London, at the end of August, 1555. George Tankerfield, of London, cook, born at York, aged 27, in the reign of Edward VI. had been a papist; but the cruelty of bloody Mary made him suspect the truth of those doctrines which were enforced by fire and torture. Tankerfield was imprisoned in Newgate about the end of February, 1555, and on Aug. 26, at St. Alban's, he braved the excruciating fire, and joyfully died for the glory of his Redeemer. Rev. Robert Smith was first in the service of Sir T. Smith, provost of Eton; and was afterward removed to Windsor, where he had a clerkship of ten pounds a year. He was condemned, July 12, 1555, and suffered Aug. 8, at Uxbridge. He doubted not but that God would give the spectators some token in support of his own cause; this actually happened; for, when he was nearly half burnt, and supposed to be dead, he suddenly rose up, moved the remaining parts of his arms and praised God; then, hanging over the fire, he sweetly slept in the Lord Jesus. Mr. Stephen Harwood and Mr. Thomas Fust suffered about the same time with Smith and Tankerfield, with whom they were condemned. Mr. William Hale, also, of Thorp, in Essex, was sent to Barnet, where about the same time he joined the ever-blessed company of Martyrs. George King, Thomas Leyes, and John Wade, falling sick in Lollard's Tower, were removed to different houses, and died. Their bodies were thrown out in the common fields as unworthy of burial, and lay till the faithful conveyed them away by night. Joan Lashford, daughter-in-law of John and Elizabeth Warne, martyr, was the last of the ten condemned before alluded to; her martyrdom took place in 1556, of which we shall speak in its date. Mr. William Andrew of Horseley, Essex, was imprisoned in Newgate for heresy; but God chose to call him to himself by the severe treatment he endured in Newgate, and thus to mock the sanguinary expectations of his Catholic persecutors. His body was thrown into the open air, but his soul was received into the everlasting mansions of his heavenly Creator. _The Rev. Robert Samuel._ This gentleman was minister of Bradford, Suffolk, where he industriously taught the flock committed to his charge, while he was openly permitted to discharge his duty. He was first persecuted by Mr. Foster, of Copdock, near Ipswich, a severe and bigoted persecutor of the followers of Christ, according to the truth in the Gospel. Notwithstanding Mr. Samuel was ejected from his living, he continued to exhort and instruct privately; nor would he obey the order for putting away his wife, whom he had married in king Edward's reign; but kept her at Ipswich, where Foster, by warrant, surprised him by night with her. After being imprisoned in Ipswich jail, he was taken before Dr. Hopton, bishop of Norwich, and Dr. Dunnings, his chancellor, two of the most sanguinary among the bigots of those days. To intimidate the worthy pastor, he was in prison chained to a post in such a manner that the weight of his body was supported by the points of his toes: added to this his allowance of provision was reduced to a quantity so insufficient to sustain nature, that he was almost ready to devour his own flesh. From this dreadful extremity there was even a degree of mercy in ordering him to the fire. Mr. Samuel suffered August 31, 1555. William Allen, a labouring servant to Mr. Houghton of Somerton suffered not long after Mr. Samuel, at Walsingham. Roger Coo, was an aged man, and brought before the bishop of Norwich for contumacy, by whom he was condemned Aug. 12, 1555, and suffered in the following month at Yoxford, in Suffolk. Thomas Cobb, was a butcher at Haverhill, and condemned by Dunnings, the furious chancellor of Norwich. Mr. Cobb suffered at Thetford, Sept. 1555. _G. Catmer, R. Streater, A. Burward, G. Brodbridge, and J. Tutty._ These five worthies, denying the real presence in the eucharist, were brought before Dr. Thornton, bishop of Dover, and condemned as heretics. They suffered in one fire, Sept. 6, 1555, at Canterbury, enduring all things for their faith in Christ Jesus. About the same time William Glowd, Cornelius Bungey, William Wolsey, and Robert Pygot, suffered martyrdom. _Bishop Ridley and Bishop Latimer._ These reverend prelates suffered October 17, 1555, at Oxford, on the same day Wolsey and Pygot perished at Ely. Pillars of the church and accomplished ornaments of human nature, they were the admiration of the realm, amiably conspicuous in their lives, and glorious in their deaths. Dr. Ridley was born in Northumberland, was first taught grammar at Newcastle, and afterward removed to Cambridge, where his aptitude in education raised him gradually till he came to be the head of Pembroke college, where he received the title of Doctor of Divinity. Having returned from a trip to Paris, he was appointed Chaplain to Henry VIII. and Bishop of Rochester, and was afterwards translated to the see of London in the time of Edward VI. His tenacious memory, extensive erudition, impressive oratory, and indefatigable zeal in preaching, drew after him not only his own flock, but persons from all quarters, desirous of godly exhortation or reproof. His tender treatment of Dr. Heath, who was a prisoner with him during one year, in Edward's reign, evidently proves that he had no Catholic cruelty in his disposition. In person he was erect and well proportioned; in temper forgiving; in self-mortification severe. His first duty in the morning was private prayer: he remained in his study till 10 o'clock, and then attended the daily prayer used in his house. Dinner being done, he sat about an hour, conversing pleasantly, or playing at chess. His study next engaged his attention, unless business or visits occurred; about five o'clock prayers followed; and after he would recreate himself at chess for about an hour, then retire to his study till eleven o'clock, and pray on his knees as in the morning. In brief, he was a pattern of godliness and virtue, and such he endeavored to make men wherever he came. His attentive kindness was displayed particularly to old Mrs. Bonner, mother of Dr. Bonner, the cruel bishop of London. Dr. Ridley, when at his manor at Fulham, always invited her to his house, placed her at the head of his table, and treated her like his own mother; he did the same by Bonner's sister and other relatives; but when Dr. Ridley was under persecution, Bonner pursued a conduct diametrically opposite, and would have sacrificed Dr. Ridley's sister and her husband, Mr. George Shipside, had not Providence delivered him by the means of Dr. Heath, bishop of Worcester. Dr. Ridley was first in part converted by reading Bertram's book on the sacrament, and by his conferences with archbishop Cranmer and Peter Martyr. When Edward VI. was removed from the throne, and the bloody Mary succeeded, bishop Ridley was immediately marked as an object of slaughter. He was first sent to the Tower, and afterward, at Oxford, was consigned to the common prison of Bocardo, with archbishop Cranmer and Mr. Latimer. Being separated from them, he was placed in the house of one Irish, where he remained till the day of his martyrdom, from 1554, till October 16, 1555. It will easily be supposed that the conversations of these chiefs of the martyrs were elaborate, learned, and instructive. Such indeed they were, and equally beneficial to all their spiritual comforts. Bishop Ridley's letters to various Christian brethren in bonds in all parts, and his disputations with the mitred enemies of Christ, alike prove the clearness of his head and the integrity of his heart. In a letter to Mr. Grindal, (afterward archbishop of Canterbury,) he mentions with affection those who had preceded him in dying for the faith, and those who were expected to suffer; he regrets that popery is re-established in its full abomination, which he attributes to the wrath of God, made manifest in return for the lukewarmness of the clergy and the people in justly appreciating the blessed light of the reformation. Bishop Latimer was the son of Hugh Latimer, of Turkelson, in Leicestershire, a husbandman of repute, with whom he remained till he was four years old. His parents, finding him of acute parts, gave him a good education, and then sent him at fourteen to the university of Cambridge, where he entered into the study of the school divinity of that day, and was from principle a zealous observer of the Romish superstitions of the time. In his oration when he commenced bachelor of divinity, he inveighed against the reformer Melancthon, and openly declaimed against good Mr. Stafford, divinity lecturer in Cambridge. Mr. Thomas Bilney, moved by a brotherly pity towards Mr. Latimer, begged to wait upon him in his study, and to explain to him the groundwork of his (Mr. Bilney's) faith. This blessed interview effected his conversion: the persecutor of Christ became his zealous advocate, and before Dr. Stafford died he became reconciled to him. Once converted, he became eager for the conversion of others, and commenced public preacher, and private instructer in the university. His sermons were so pointed against the absurdity of praying in the Latin tongue, and withholding the oracles of salvation from the people who were to be saved by belief in them, that he drew upon himself the pulpit animadversions of several of the resident friars and heads of houses, whom he subsequently silenced by his severe criticisms and eloquent arguments. This was at Christmas, 1529. At length Dr. West preached against Mr. Latimer at Barwell Abbey, and prohibited him from preaching again in the churches of the university, notwithstanding which, he continued during three years to advocate openly the cause of Christ, and even his enemies confessed the power of those talents he possessed. Mr. Bilney remained here some time with Mr. Latimer, and thus the place where they frequently walked together obtained the name of Heretics' Hill. Mr. Latimer at this time traced out the innocence of a poor woman, accused by her husband of the murder of her child. Having preached before king Henry VIII. at Windsor, he obtained the unfortunate mother's pardon. This, with many other benevolent acts, served only to excite the spleen of his adversaries. He was summoned before Cardinal Wolsey for heresy, but being a strenuous supporter of the king's supremacy, in opposition to the pope's, by favour of lord Cromwell and Dr. Buts, (the king's physician,) he obtained the living of West Kingston, in Wiltshire. For his sermons here against purgatory, the immaculacy of the Virgin, and the worship of images, he was cited to appear before Warham, archbishop of Canterbury, and John, bishop of London. He was required to subscribe certain articles, expressive of his conformity to the accustomed usages; and there is reason to think, after repeated weekly examinations, that he did subscribe, as they did not seem to involve any important article of belief. Guided by Providence, he escaped the subtle nets of his persecutors, and at length, through the powerful friends before mentioned, became bishop of Worcester, in which function he qualified or explained away most of the papal ceremonies he was for form's sake under the necessity of complying with. He continued in this active and dignified employment some years, till the coming in of the Six Articles, when, to preserve an unsullied conscience, he, as well as Dr. Shaxton, bishop of Salisbury, resigned. He remained a prisoner in the Tower till the coronation of Edward VI. when he was again called to the Lord's harvest in Stamford, and many other places: he also preached at London in the convocation house, and before the young king; indeed he lectured twice every Sunday, regardless of his great age (then above sixty-seven years,) and his weakness through a bruise received from the fall of a tree. Indefatigable in his private studies, he rose to them in winter and in summer at two o'clock in the morning. By the strength of his own mind, or of some inward light from above, he had a prophetic view of what was to happen to the church in Mary's reign, asserting that he was doomed to suffer for the truth, and that Winchester, then in the Tower, was preserved for that purpose. Soon after queen Mary was proclaimed, a messenger was sent to summon Mr. Latimer to town, and there is reason to believe it was wished that he should make his escape. On entering Smithfield, he jocosely said, that the place had long groaned for him. After being examined by the council, he was committed to the Tower, where his cheerfulness is displayed in the following anecdote. Being kept without fire in severe frosty weather, his aged frame suffered so much, that he told the lieutenant's man, that if he did not look better after him he should deceive his master. The lieutenant, thinking he meant to effect his escape, came to him, to know what he meant by this speech; which Mr. Latimer replied to, by saying, "You, Mr. Lieutenant, doubtless suppose I shall _burn_; but, except you let me have some fire, I shall deceive your expectation, for here it is likely I shall be _starved with cold_." Mr. Latimer, after remaining a long time in the Tower, was transported to Oxford, with Cranmer and Ridley, the disputations at which place have been already mentioned in a former part of this work. He remained imprisoned till October, and the principal objects of all his prayers were three--that he might stand faithful to the doctrine he had professed, that God would restore his gospel to England once again, and preserve the Lady Elizabeth to be queen; all which happened. When he stood at the stake without the Bocardo-gate, Oxford, with Dr. Ridley, and fire was putting to the pile of fagots, he raised his eyes benignantly towards heaven, and said, "God is faithful, who doth not suffer us to be tempted above our strength." His body was forcibly penetrated by the fire, and the blood flowed abundantly from the heart; as if to verify his constant desire that his heart's blood might be shed in defence of the gospel. His polemical and friendly letters are lasting monuments of his integrity and talents. It has been before said, that public disputation took place in April, 1554, new examinations took place in Oct. 1555, previous to the degradation and condemnation of Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer. We now draw to the conclusion of the lives of the two last. Dr. Ridley, the night before execution, was very facetious, had himself shaved, and called his supper a marriage feast; he remarked upon seeing Mrs. Irish (the keeper's wife) weep, "though my breakfast will be somewhat sharp, my supper will be more pleasant and sweet." The place of death was on the north side of the town opposite Baliol College:--Dr. Ridley was dressed in a black gown furred, and Mr. Latimer had a long shroud on, hanging down to his feet. Dr. Ridley, as he passed Bocardo, looked up to see Dr. Cranmer, but the latter was then engaged in disputation with a friar.--When they came to the stake, Dr. Ridley embraced Latimer fervently, and bid him be of good heart. He then knelt by the stake, and after earnestly praying together, they had a short private conversation. Dr. Smith then preached a short sermon against the martyrs, who would have answered him, but were prevented by Dr. Marshal, the vice-chancellor. Dr. Ridley then took off his gown and tippet, and gave them to his brother-in-law, Mr. Shipside. He gave away also many trifles to his weeping friends, and the populace were anxious to get even a fragment of his garments. Mr. Latimer gave nothing, and from the poverty of his garb, was soon stripped to his shroud, and stood venerable and erect, fearless of death. Dr. Ridley being unclothed to his shirt, the smith placed an iron chain about their waists, and Dr. Ridley bid him fasten it securely; his brother having tied a bag of gunpowder about his neck, gave some also to Mr. Latimer. Dr. Ridley then requested of Lord Williams, of Fame, to advocate with the queen the cause of some poor men to whom he had, when bishop, granted leases, but which the present bishop refused to confirm. A lighted fagot was now laid at Dr. Ridley's feet, which caused Mr. Latimer to say, "Be of good cheer, Ridley; and play the man. We shall this day, by God's grace, light up such a candle in England, as, I trust, will never be put out." When Dr. Ridley saw the flame approaching him, he exclaimed, "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit!" and repeated often, "Lord receive my spirit!" Mr. Latimer, too, ceased not to say, "O Father of heaven receive my soul!" Embracing the flame, he bathed his hands in it, and soon died, apparently with little pain; but Dr. Ridley, by the ill-adjustment of the fagots, which were green, and placed too high above the furze was burnt much downwards. At this time, piteously entreating for more fire to come to him, his brother-in-law imprudently heaped the fagots up over him, which caused the fire more fiercely to burn his limbs, whence he literally leaped up and down under the fagots, exclaiming that he could not burn; indeed, his dreadful extremity was but too plain, for after his legs were quite consumed, he showed his body and shirt unsinged by the flame. Crying upon God for mercy, a man with a bill pulled the fagots down, and when the flames arose, he bent himself towards that side; at length the gunpowder was ignited, and then he ceased to move, burning on the other side, and falling down at Mr. Latimer's feet over the chain that had hitherto supported him. Every eye shed tears at the afflicting sight of these sufferers, who were among the most distinguished persons of their time in dignity, piety, and public estimation. They suffered October 16, 1555. In the following month died Stephen Gardiner, bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor of England. This papistical monster was born at Bury, in Suffolk, and partly educated at Cambridge. Ambitious, cruel, and bigoted, he served any cause; be first espoused the king's part in the affair of Anne Boleyn: upon the establishment of the Reformation, he declared the supremacy of the Pope an execrable tenet, and when queen Mary came to the crown, he entered into all her papistical bigoted views, and became a second time bishop of Winchester. It is conjectured it was his intention to have moved the sacrifice of Lady Elizabeth, but when he arrived at this point, it pleased God to remove him. It was on the afternoon of the day when those faithful soldiers of Christ, Ridley and Latimer, perished, that Gardiner sat down with a joyful heart to dinner. Scarcely had he taken a few mouthfuls, when he was seized with illness, and carried to his bed, where he lingered fifteen days in great torment, unable in any wise to evacuate, and burnt with a devouring fever, that terminated in death. Execrated by all good Christians, we pray the Father of Mercies, that he may receive that mercy above he never imparted below. _Mr. John Webb, George Roper, and Gregory Parker._ These martyrs, after being brought before the bishop of Dover and Dr. Harpsfield, were finally examined, October 3, 1555, adjudged to be heretics, and at Canterbury, terminated their existence. Wm. Wiseman, clothworker of London, died in Lollard's Tower, Dec. 13, 1555, not without suspicion of being made way with, for his love of the gospel. In December, died James Gore, at Colchester, imprisoned for the same cause. _Mr. John Philpot._ This martyr was the son of a knight, born in Hampshire, and brought up at New College, Oxford, where he several years studied the civil law, and became eminent in the Hebrew tongue. He was a scholar and a gentleman, zealous in religion, fearless in disposition, and a detester of flattery. After visiting Italy, he returned to England, affairs in King Edward's days wearing a more promising aspect. During this reign he continued to be archdeacon of Winchester under Dr. Poinet, who succeeded Gardiner. Upon the accession of Mary, a convocation was summoned, in which Mr. Philpot defended the Reformation against his ordinary, Gardiner, (again made bishop of Winchester,) and soon was conducted to Bonner and other commissioners for examination, Oct. 2, 1555, after being eighteen months imprisoned. Upon his demanding to see the commission, Dr. Story cruelly observed, "I will spend both my gown and my coat, but I will burn thee! Let him be in Lollard's tower, (a wretched prison,) for I will sweep the King's Bench and all other prisons of these heretics!" Upon Mr. Philpot's second examination, it was intimated to him, that Dr. Story had said that the Lord Chancellor had commanded that he should be made way with. It is easy to foretell the result of this inquiry; he was committed to Bonner's coal-house, where he joined company with a zealous minister of Essex, who had been induced to sign a bill of recantation; but afterward, stung by his conscience, he asked the bishop to let him see the instrument again, when he tore it to pieces; which induced Bonner in a fury to strike him repeatedly, and tear away part of his beard. Mr. Philpot had a private interview with Bonner the same night, and was then remanded to his bed of straw like other prisoners, in the coal-house. After seven examinations, Bonner ordered him to be set in the stocks, and on the following Sunday separated him from his fellow-prisoners as a sower of heresy, and ordered him up to a room near the battlements of St. Paul's, eight feet by thirteen, on the other side of Lollard's tower, and which could be overlooked by any one in the bishop's outer gallery. Here Mr. Philpot was searched, but happily he was successful in secreting some letters containing his examinations. In the eleventh investigation before various bishops, and Mr. Morgan, of Oxford, the latter was so driven into a corner by the close pressure of Mr. Philpot's arguments, that he said to him, "Instead of the spirit of the gospel which you boast to possess, I think it is the spirit of the buttery, which your fellows have had, who were drunk before their death, and went I believe drunken to it." To this unfounded and brutish remark, Mr. Philpot indignantly replied, "It appeareth by your communication, that you are better acquainted with that spirit than the spirit of God; wherefore I tell thee, thou painted wall and hypocrite, in the name of the living God, whose truth I have told thee, that God shall rain fire and brimstone upon such blasphemers as thou art!" He was then remanded by Bonner, with an order not to allow him his Bible nor candlelight. December 4th, Mr. Philpot had his next hearing, and this was followed by two more, making in all, fourteen conferences, previous to the final examination in which he was condemned; such were the perseverance and anxiety of the Catholics, aided by the argumentative abilities of the most distinguished of the papal bishops, to bring him into the pale of their church. Those examinations, which were very long and learned, were all written down by Mr. Philpot, and a stronger proof of the imbecility of the Catholic doctors, cannot, to an unbiassed mind, be exhibited. December 16th, in the consistory of St. Paul's bishop Bonner, after laying some trifling accusations to his charge such as secreting powder to make ink, writing some private letters, &c. proceeded to pass the awful sentence upon him, after he and the other bishops had urged him by every inducement to recant. He was afterward conducted to Newgate, where the avaricious Catholic keeper loaded him with heavy irons, which by the humanity of Mr. Macham were ordered to be taken off. December 17th, Mr. Philpot received intimation that he was to die next day, and the next morning about eight o'clock, he joyfully met the sheriffs, who were to attend him to the place of execution. Upon entering Smithfield the ground was so muddy, that two officers offered to carry him to the stake, but he replied, "Would you make me a pope? I am content to finish my journey on foot." Arrived at the stake, he said, "Shall I disdain to suffer at the stake, when my Redeemer did not refuse to suffer the most vile death upon the Cross for me?" He then meekly recited the cvii. and cviii. Psalms, and when he had finished his prayers, was bound to the post, and fire applied to the pile. On December 18th, 1555, perished this illustrious martyr, reverenced by man, and glorified in heaven! His letters arising out of the cause for which he suffered, are elegant, numerous, and elaborate. _Rev. T. Whittle, B. Green, T. Brown, J. Tudson, J. Ent, Isabel Tooster, and Joan Lashford._ These seven persons were summoned before Bonner's consistory, and the articles of the Romish church tendered for their approbation. Their refusal subjected them to the sentence of condemnation, and on January 27, 1556, they underwent the dreadful sentence of blood in Smithfield. Mr. Bartlet Green was condemned the next day. Mr. Thomas Brown, born at Histon, Ely, but afterward of St. Bride's, London, was presented by the parish constable to Bonner, for absenting himself from church. This faithful soldier of Christ suffered on the same day with the preceding. Mr. John Tudson, of Ipswich by birth, was apprenticed in London to a Mr. Goodyear, of St. Mary Botolph. He was condemned January 15, 1556, and consigned to the secular power, which completed the fiery tyranny of the law, January 27, to the glory of God, and the immortal salvation of the meek sufferer. Subsequently, John Hunt, Isabella Forster, and Joan Warne, were condemned and executed. _John Lomas, Agnes Snoth, Anne Wright, Joan Sole, and Joan Catmer._ These five martyrs suffered together, January 31, 1556. John Lomas was a young man of Tenterden. He was cited to appear at Canterbury, and was examined January 17. His answers being adverse to the idolatrous doctrine of the papacy, he was condemned on the following day, and suffered January 31. Agnes Snoth, widow, of Smarden Parish, was several times summoned before the Catholic Pharisees, and rejecting absolution, indulgences, transubstantiation, and auricular confession, she was adjudged worthy to suffer death, and endured martyrdom, January 31, with Anne Wright and Joan Sole, who were placed in similar circumstances, and perished at the same time, with equal resignation. Joan Catmer, the last of this heavenly company, of the parish Hithe, was the wife of the martyr George Catmer. Seldom in any country, for political controversy, have four women been led to execution, whose lives were irreproachable, and whom the pity of savages would have spared. We cannot but remark here that, when the Protestant power first gained the ascendency over the Catholic superstition, and some degree of force in the laws was necessary to enforce uniformity, whence some bigoted people suffered privation in their person or goods, we read of few burnings, savage cruelties, or poor women brought to the stake, but it is the nature of error to resort to force instead of argument, and to silence truth by taking away existence, of which the Redeemer himself is an instance. The above five persons were burnt at two stakes in one fire, singing hosannahs to the glorified Saviour, till the breath of life was extinct. Sir John Norton, who was present, wept bitterly at their unmerited sufferings. _Archbishop Cranmer._ Dr. Thomas Cranmer was descended from an ancient family, and was born at the village of Arselacton, in the county of Northampton. After the usual school education he was sent to Cambridge, and was chosen fellow of Jesus College. Here he married a gentleman's daughter, by which he forfeited his fellowship, and became a reader in Buckingham college, placing his wife at the Dolphin inn, the landlady of which was a relation of hers, whence arose the idle report that he was an ostler. His lady shortly after dying in childbed, to his credit he was re-chosen a fellow of the college before mentioned. In a few years after, he was promoted to be Divinity Lecturer, and appointed one of the examiners over those who were ripe to become Bachelors or Doctors in Divinity. It was his principle to judge of their qualifications by the knowledge they possessed of the Scriptures, rather than of the ancient fathers, and hence many popish priests were rejected, and others rendered much improved. He was strongly solicited by Dr. Capon to be one of the fellows on the foundation of Cardinal Wolsey's college, Oxford, of which he hazarded the refusal. While he continued in Cambridge, the question of Henry VIII.'s divorce with Catharine was agitated. At that time, on account of the plague, Dr. Cranmer removed to the house of a Mr. Cressy, at Waltham Abbey, whose two sons were then educating under him. The affair of divorce, contrary to the king's approbation, had remained undecided above two or three years, from the intrigues of the canonists and civilians, and though the cardinals Campeius and Wolsey were commissioned from Rome to decide the question, they purposely protracted the sentence. It happened that Dr. Gardiner (secretary) and Dr. Fox, defenders of the king in the above suit, came to the house of Mr. Cressy to lodge, while the king removed to Greenwich. At supper, a conversation ensued with Dr. Cranmer, who suggested that the question, whether a man may marry his brother's wife or not, could be easily and speedily decided by the word of God, and this as well in the English courts as in those of any foreign nation. The king, uneasy at the delay, sent for Dr. Gardiner and Dr. Foxe, to consult them, regretting that a new commission must be sent to Rome, and the suit be endlessly protracted. Upon relating to the king the conversation which had passed on the previous evening with Dr. Cranmer, his majesty sent for him, and opened the tenderness of conscience upon the near affinity of the queen. Dr. Cranmer advised that the matter should be referred to the most learned divines of Cambridge and Oxford, as he was unwilling to meddle in an affair of such weight; but the king enjoined him to deliver his sentiments in writing, and to repair for that purpose to the Earl of Wiltshire's, who would accommodate him with books, and every thing requisite for the occasion. This Dr. Cranmer immediately did, and in his declaration, not only quoted the authority of the Scriptures, of general councils and the ancient writers, but maintained that the bishop of Rome had no authority whatever to dispense with the word of God. The king asked him if he would stand by this bold declaration; to which replying in the affirmative, he was deputed ambassador to Rome, in conjunction with the Earl of Wiltshire, Dr. Stokesley, Dr. Carne, Dr. Bennet, and others, previous to which, the marriage was discussed in most of the universities of Christendom and at Rome; when the pope presented his toe to be kissed, as customary, the Earl of Wiltshire and his party refused. Indeed, it is affirmed, that a spaniel of the Earl's, attracted by the glitter of the pope's toe, made a snap at it, whence his holiness drew in his sacred foot, and kicked at the offender with the other. Upon the pope demanding the cause of their embassy, the Earl presented Dr. Cranmer's book, declaring that his learned friends had come to defend it. The pope treated the embassy honourably, and appointed a day for the discussion, which he delayed, as if afraid of the issue of the investigation. The Earl returned, and Dr. Cranmer, by the king's desire, visited the emperor, and was successful in bringing him over to his opinion. Upon the Doctor's return to England, Dr. Warham, archbishop of Canterbury, having quitted this transitory life, Dr. Cranmer was deservedly, and by Dr. Warham's desire, elevated to that eminent station. In this function, it may be said that he followed closely the charge of St. Paul. Diligent in duty, he rose at five in the morning, and continued in study and prayer till nine: between then and dinner, he devoted to temporal affairs. After dinner, if any suitors wanted hearing, he would determine their business with such an affability, that even the defaulters were scarcely displeased. Then he would play at chess for an hour, or see others play, and at five o'clock he heard the Common Prayer read, and from this till supper he took the recreation of walking. At supper his conversation was lively and entertaining; again he walked or amused himself till nine o'clock, and then entered his study. He ranked high in favour with king Henry and ever had the purity and the interest of the English church deeply at heart. His mild and forgiving disposition is recorded in the following instance--An ignorant priest, in the country, had called Cranmer an ostler, and spoken very derogatory of his learning. Lord Cromwell receiving information of it, the man was sent to the fleet, and his case was told to the archbishop by a Mr. Chertsey, a grocer, and a relation of the priest's. His grace, having sent for the offender, reasoned with him, and solicited the priest to question him on any learned subject. This the man, overcome by the bishop's good nature, and knowing his own glaring incapacity, declined, and entreated his forgiveness, which was immediately granted, with a charge to employ his time better when he returned to his parish. Cromwell was much vexed at the lenity displayed, but the bishop was ever more ready to receive injury than to retaliate in any other manner than by good advice and good offices. At the time that Cranmer was raised to be archbishop, he was king's chaplain, and archdeacon of Taunton; he was also constituted by the pope, penitentiary general of England. It was considered by the king that Cranmer would be obsequious; hence the latter married the king to Anne Boleyn, performed her coronation, stood godfather to Elizabeth, the first child, and divorced the king from Catharine. Though Cranmer received a confirmation of his dignity from the pope, he always protested against acknowledging any other authority than the king's, and he persisted in the same independent sentiments when before Mary's commissioners in 1555. One of the first steps after the divorce was to prevent preaching throughout his diocess, but this narrow measure had rather a political view than a religious one, as there were many who inveighed against the king's conduct. In his new dignity Cranmer agitated the question of supremacy, and by his powerful and just arguments induced the parliament to "render to Cæsar the things which are Cæsar's." During Cranmer's residence in Germany, 1531, he became acquainted with Ossiander, at Nurenburgh, and married his niece, but left her with him while on his return to England; after a season he sent for her privately, and she remained with him till the year 1539, when the Six Articles compelled him to return her to her friends for a time. It should be remembered that Ossiander, having obtained the approbation of his friend Cranmer, published the laborious work of the Harmony of the Gospels in 1537. In 1534 the archbishop completed the dearest wish of his heart, the removal of every obstacle to the perfection of the Reformation, by the subscription of the nobles and bishops to the king's sole supremacy. Only bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More made objection; and their agreement not to oppose the succession, Cranmer was willing to consider as sufficient, but the monarch would have no other than an entire concession. Not long after, Gardiner, in a private interview with the king, spoke inimically of Cranmer, (whom he maliciously hated) for assuming the title of Primate of all England, as derogatory to the supremacy of the king, this created much jealousy against Cranmer, and his translation of the Bible was strongly opposed by Stokesley, bishop of London. It is said, upon the demise of queen Catharine, that her successor Anne Boleyn rejoiced--a lesson this to show how shallow is the human judgment! since her own execution took place in the spring of the following year, and the king, on the day following the beheading of this sacrificed lady, married the beautiful Jane Seymour, a maid of honour to the late queen. Cranmer was ever the friend of Anne Boleyn, but it was dangerous to oppose the will of the carnal tyrannical monarch. In 1538, the holy Scriptures were openly exposed to sale; and the places of worship overflowed every where to hear its holy doctrines expounded. Upon the king's passing into a law the famous Six Articles, which went nearly again to establish the essential tenets of the Romish creed, Cranmer shone forth with all the lustre of a Christian patriot, in resisting the doctrines they contained, and in which he was supported by the bishops of Sarum, Worcester, Ely, and Rochester, the two former of whom resigned their bishoprics. The king, though now in opposition to Cranmer, still revered the sincerity that marked his conduct. The death of Lord Cromwell in the Tower, in 1540, the good friend of Cranmer, was a severe blow to the wavering protestant cause, but even now Cranmer, when he saw the tide directly adverse to the truth, boldly waited on the king in person, and by his manly and heartfelt pleading, caused the book of Articles to be passed on his side, to the great confusion of his enemies, who had contemplated his fall as inevitable. Cranmer now lived in as secluded a manner as possible, till the rancour of Winchester preferred some articles against him, relative to the dangerous opinion he taught in his family, joined to other treasonable charges. These the king delivered himself to Cranmer, and believing firmly the fidelity and assertions of innocence of the accused prelate, he caused the matter to be deeply investigated, and Winchester and Dr. Lenden, with Thornton and Barber, of the bishop's household, were found by the papers to be the real conspirators. The mild forgiving Cranmer would have interceded for all remission of punishment, had not Henry, pleased with the subsidy voted by parliament, let them be discharged; these nefarious men, however, again renewing their plots against Cranmer, fell victims to Henry's resentment, and Gardiner forever lost his confidence. Sir G. Gostwick soon after laid charges against the archbishop, which Henry quashed, and the primate was willing to forgive. In 1544, the archbishop's palace at Canterbury was burnt, and his brother-in-law with others perished in it. These various afflictions may serve to reconcile us to an humble state; for of what happiness could this great and good man boast? since his life was constantly harassed either by political, religious, or natural crosses. Again the inveterate Gardiner laid high charges against the meek archbishop and would have sent him to the tower; but the king was his friend, gave him his signet that he would defend him, and in the council not only declared the bishop one of the best affected men in his realm, but sharply rebuked his accusers for their calumny. A peace having been made, Henry, and the French king Henry the Great, were unanimous to have the mass abolished in their kingdom, and Cranmer set about this great work; but the death of the English monarch, in 1546, suspended the procedure, and king Edward his successor continued Cranmer in the same functions, upon whose coronation he delivered a charge that will ever honour his memory, for its purity, freedom, and truth. During this reign he prosecuted the glorious reformation with unabated zeal, even in the year 1552, when he was seized with a severe ague, from which it pleased God to restore him that he might testify by his death the truth of that seed he had diligently sown. The death of Edward, in 1553, exposed Cranmer to all the rage of his enemies. Though the archbishop was among those who supported Mary's accession, he was attainted at the meeting of parliament, and in November adjudged guilty of high treason at Guildhall, and degraded from his dignities. He sent an humble letter to Mary, explaining the cause of his signing the will in favor of Edward, and in 1554 he wrote to the council, whom he pressed to obtain a pardon from the queen, by a letter delivered to Dr. Weston, but which the latter opened, and on seeing its contents, basely returned. Treason was a charge quite inapplicable to Cranmer, who supported the queen's right; while others, who had favoured Lady Jane, upon paying a small fine were dismissed. A calumny was now spread against Cranmer, that he complied with some of the popish ceremonies to ingratiate himself with the queen, which he dared publicly to disavow, and justified his articles of faith. The active part which the prelate had taken in the divorce of Mary's mother had ever rankled deeply in the heart of the queen, and revenge formed a prominent feature in the death of Cranmer. We have in this work, noticed the public disputations at Oxford, in which the talents of Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer, shone so conspicuously, and tended to their condemnation.--The first sentence was illegal, inasmuch as the usurped power of the pope had not yet been re-established by law. Being kept in prison till this was effected, a commission was despatched from Rome, appointing Dr. Brooks to sit as the representative of his Holiness, and Drs. Story and Martin as those of the queen. Cranmer was willing to bow to the authority of Drs. Story and Martin, but against that of Dr. Brooks he protested. Such were the remarks and replies of Cranmer, after a long examination, that Dr. Brooks observed, "We come to examine you, and methinks you examine us." Being sent back to confinement, he received a citation to appear at Rome within eighteen days, but this was impracticable, as he was imprisoned in England; and as he stated, even had he been at liberty, he was too poor to employ an advocate. Absurd as it must appear, Cranmer was condemned at Rome, and February 14, 1556, a new commission was appointed by which, Thirdly, bishop of Ely, and Bonner, of London, were deputed to sit in judgment at Christ-church, Oxford. By virtue of this instrument, Cranmer was gradually degraded, by putting mere rags on him to represent the dress of an archbishop; then stripping him of his attire, they took off his own gown, and put an old worn one upon him instead. This he bore unmoved, and his enemies, finding that severity only rendered him more determined, tried the opposite course, and placed him in the house of the dean of Christ-church, where he was treated with every indulgence. This presented such a contrast to the three years hard imprisonment he had received, that it threw him off his guard. His open, generous nature was more easily to be seduced by a liberal conduct than by threats and fetters. When satan finds the christian proof against one mode of attack, he tries another; and what form is so seductive as smiles, rewards, and power, after a long, painful imprisonment? Thus it was with Cranmer: his enemies promised him his former greatness if he would but recant, as well as the queen's favour, and this at the very time they knew that his death was determined in council. To soften the path to apostacy, the first paper brought for his signature was conceived in general terms; this one signed, five others were obtained as explanatory of the first, till finally he put his hand to the following detestable instrument:-- "I, Thomas Cranmer, late archbishop of Canterbury, do renounce, abhor, and detest all manner of heresies and errors of Luther and Zuinglius, and all other teachings which are contrary to sound and true doctrine. And I believe most constantly in my heart, and with my mouth I confess one holy and catholic church visible, without which there is no salvation; and therefore I acknowledge the bishop of Rome to be supreme head on earth, whom I acknowledge to be the highest bishop and pope, and Christ's vicar, unto whom all christian people ought to be subject. "And as concerning the sacraments, I believe and worship in the sacrament of the altar the body and blood of Christ, being contained most truly under the forms of bread and wine; the bread, through the mighty power of God being turned into the body of our Saviour Jesus Christ, and the wine into his blood. "And in the other six sacraments, also, (alike as in this) I believe and hold as the universal church holdeth, and the church of Rome judgeth and determineth. "Furthermore, I believe that there is a place of purgatory, where souls departed be punished for a time, for whom the church doth godlily and wholesomely pray, like as it doth honour saints and make prayers to them. "Finally, in all things I profess, that I do not otherwise believe than the catholic church and the church of Rome holdeth and teacheth.--I am sorry that I ever held or thought otherwise. And I beseech Almighty God, that of his mercy he will vouchsafe to forgive me whatsoever I have offended against God or his church, and also I desire and beseech all christian people to pray for me. "And all such as have been deceived either by mine example of doctrine, I require them by the blood of Jesus Christ that they will return to the unity of the church, that we may be all of one mind, without schism or division. "And to conclude, as I submit myself to the catholic church of Christ, and to the supreme head thereof, so I submit myself unto the most excellent majesties of Philip and Mary, king and queen of this realm of England, &c. and to all other their laws and ordinances, being ready always as a faithful subject ever to obey them. And God is my witness, that I have not done this for favour or fear of any person, but willingly and of mine own conscience, as to the instruction of others." "Let him that standeth take heed lest he fall!" said the apostle, and here was a falling off indeed! The papists now triumphed in their turn: they had acquired all they wanted short of his life. His recantation was immediately printed and dispersed, that it might have its due effect upon the astonished protestants; but God counter-worked all the designs of the catholics by the extent to which they carried the implacable persecution of their prey. Doubtless, the love of life induced Cranmer to sign the above declaration; yet death may be said to have been preferable to life to him who lay under the stings of a goaded conscience and the contempt of every gospel christian; this principle he strongly felt in all its force and anguish. The queen's revenge was only to be satiated in Cranmer's blood, and therefore she wrote an order to Dr. Cole, to prepare a sermon to be preached March 21, directly before his martyrdom, at St. Mary's, Oxford; Dr. Cole visited him the day previous, and was induced to believe that he would publicly deliver his sentiments in confirmation of the articles to which he had subscribed. About nine in the morning of the day of sacrifice, the queen's commissioners, attended by the magistrates, conducted the amiable unfortunate to St. Mary's church. His torn, dirty garb, the same in which they habited him upon his degradation, excited the commisseration of the people. In the church he found a low, mean stage, erected opposite to the pulpit, on which being placed, he turned his face, and fervently prayed to God. The church was crowded with persons of both persuasions, expecting to hear the justification of the late apostacy: the catholics rejoicing, and the protestants deeply wounded in spirit at the deceit of the human heart. Dr. Cole, in his sermon, represented Cranmer as having been guilty of the most atrocious crimes; encouraged the deluded sufferer not to fear death, not to doubt the support of God in his torments, nor that masses would be said in all the churches of Oxford for the repose of his soul. The Doctor then noticed his conversion, and which he ascribed to the evident working of Almighty Power, and in order that the people might be convinced of its reality, asked the prisoner to give them a sign. This Cranmer did, and begged the congregation to pray for him, for he had committed many and grievous sins; but, of all, there was one which awfully lay upon his mind, of which he would speak shortly. During the sermon Cranmer wept bitter tears: lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, and letting them fall, as if unworthy to live: his grief now found vent in words: before his confession he fell upon his knees, and, in the following words unveiled the deep contrition and agitation which harrowed up his soul. "O Father of heaven! O Son of God, Redeemer of the world! O Holy Ghost, three persons and one God! have mercy on me, most wretched caitiff and miserable sinner. I have offended both against heaven and earth, more than my tongue can express. Whither then may I go, or whither may I flee? To heaven I may be ashamed to lift up mine eyes, and in earth I find no place of refuge or succour. To thee, therefore, O Lord, do I run; to thee do I humble myself, saying, O Lord, my God, my sins be great, but yet have mercy upon me for thy great mercy. The great mystery that God became man, was not wrought for little or few offences. Thou didst not give thy Son, O Heavenly Father, unto death for small sins only, but for all the greatest sins of the world, so that the sinner return to thee with his whole heart, as I do at present. Wherefore, have mercy on me, O God, whose property is always to have mercy, have mercy upon me, O Lord, for thy great mercy. I crave nothing for my own merits, but for thy name's sake, that it may be hallowed thereby, and for thy dear Son Jesus Christ's sake. And now therefore, O Father of Heaven, hallowed be thy name," &c. Then rising, he said he was desirous before his death to give them some pious exhortations by which God might be glorified and themselves edified. He then descanted upon the danger of a love for the world, the duty of obedience to their majesties of love to one another and the necessity of the rich administering to the wants of the poor. He quoted the three verses of the fifth chapter of James, and then proceeded, "Let them that be rich ponder well these three sentences: for if they ever had occasion to show their charity, they have it now at this present, the poor people being so many, and victual so dear. "And now forasmuch as I am come to the last end of my life, whereupon hangeth all my life past, and all my life to come, either to live with my master Christ for ever in joy, or else to be in pain for ever with the wicked in hell, and I see before mine eyes presently, either heaven ready to receive me, or else hell ready to swallow me up; I shall therefore declare unto you my very faith how I believe, without any colour of dissimulation: for now is no time to dissemble, whatsoever I have said or written in times past. "First, I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, &c. And I believe every article of the Catholic faith, every word and sentence taught by our Saviour Jesus Christ, his apostles and prophets, in the New and Old Testament. "And now I come to the great thing which so much troubleth my conscience, more than any thing that ever I did or said in my whole life, and that is the setting abroad of a writing contrary to the truth, which now here I renounce and refuse, as things written with my hand contrary to the truth which I thought in my heart, and written for fear of death, and to save my life, if it might be; and that is, all such bills or papers which I have written or signed with my hand since my degradation, wherein I have written many things untrue. And forasmuch as my hand hath offended, writing contrary to my heart, therefore my hand shall first be punished; for when I come to the fire, it shall first be burned. "And as for the Pope, I refuse him as Christ's enemy, and antichrist, with all his false doctrine. "And as for the sacrament, I believe as I have taught in my book against the bishop of Winchester, which my book teacheth so true a doctrine of the sacrament, that it shall stand in the last day before the judgment of God, where the papistical doctrines contrary thereto shall be ashamed to show their face." Upon the conclusion of this unexpected declaration, amazement and indignation were conspicuous in every part of the church. The catholics were completely foiled, their object being frustrated; Cranmer, like Sampson, having completed a greater ruin upon his enemies in the hour of death, than he did in his life. Cranmer would have proceeded in the exposure of the popish doctrines, but the murmurs of the idolaters drowned his voice, and the preacher gave an order to lead the heretic away! The savage command was directly obeyed, and the lamb about to suffer was torn from his stand to the place of slaughter, insulted all the way by the revilings and taunts of the pestilent monks and friars. With thoughts intent upon a far higher object than the empty threats of man, he reached the spot dyed with the blood of Ridley and Latimer. There he knelt for a short time in earnest devotion, and then arose, that he might undress and prepare for the fire. Two friars who had been parties in prevailing upon him to abjure, now endeavoured to draw him off again from the truth, but he was steadfast and immoveable in what he had just professed, and before publicly taught. A chain was provided to bind him to the stake, and after it had tightly encircled him, fire was put to the fuel, and the flames began soon to ascend. Then were the glorious sentiments of the martyr made manifest;--then it was, that stretching out his right hand, he held it unshrinkingly in the fire till it was burnt to a cinder, even before his body was injured, frequently exclaiming, "This unworthy right hand!" Apparently insensible of pain, with a countenance of venerable resignation, and eyes directed to Him for whose cause he suffered, he continued, like St. Stephen, to say, "Lord Jesus receive my spirit!" till the fury of the flames terminated his powers of utterance and existence. He closed a life of high sublunary elevation, of constant uneasiness, and of glorious martyrdom, on March 21, 1556. Thus perished the illustrious Cranmer, the man whom king Henry's capricious soul esteemed for his virtues above all other men. Cranmer's example is an endless testimony that fraud and cruelty are the leading characteristics of the catholic hierarchy. They first seduced him to live by recantation, and then doomed him to perish, using perhaps the sophistical arguments, that, being brought again within the catholic pale, he was then most fit to die. His gradual change from darkness to the light of the truth, proved that he had a mind open to conviction. Though mild and forgiving in temper, he was severe in church discipline, and it is only on this ground that one act of cruelty of his can in any way be excused. A poor woman was in Edward's reign condemned to be burnt for her religious opinions; the pious young monarch reasoned with the archbishop upon the impropriety of protestants resorting to the same cruel means they censured in papists, adding humanely, "What! would you have me send her quick to the devil in her error?" The prelate however was not to be softened, and the king signed the death warrant with eyes steeped in tears. There is however a shade in the greatest characters, and few characters, whether political or religious, were greater than Cranmer's. _Agnes Potten and Joan Trunchfield._ These godly women (before mentioned) were both of Ipswich, and suffered about the same time with Cranmer. When in prison together, Mrs. Trunchfield was less ardent and zealous than Mrs. Potten; but when at the stake, her hope in glory was brighter even than that of her fellow-sufferer. John Maundrel, William Coberly, and John Spicer were burnt between Salisbury and Wilton, March 24, 1556. Two died without any particular retardation, but Coberly, from the current of wind as he stood, was a long time in perishing. His left arm was visible to the bone, while the right, but little injured, beat upon his breast softly, and the discharge from his mouth was considerable. Rising suddenly erect from hanging over the chain, as if dead, he gave up his mortal abode for one made without hands, eternal in the heavens! _Rev. Robert Drakes, Rev. William Tyms, Richard Spurge, Sheerman T. Spurge, Fuller; J. Cavel, Weaver; and G. Ambrose, Fuller._ These worthies were of Essex, and in the diocese of London.--They were all sent up to Gardiner, the chancellor, March 25, 1555; who imprisoned them some in the king's bench, and others in the Marshalsea. March 28, the six were brought up for condemnation in the consistory of St. Paul's; after which sentence, they were delivered to the sheriff, to be sent to Newgate, where they remained, patiently waiting the Lord's time for deliverance, which took place about the 23d of April, 1556, in Smithfield. In the same month, perished John Harpole, of Rochester, and Joan Beach, widow, (before mentioned) with Mr. N. Hall. They suffered under Maurice, bishop of Rochester, in whose diocess they lived. Rev. John Hullier. This gentleman went from Eton school to king's college, Cambridge, and suffered under Dr. Thirlby, bishop of Ely. He died the 2d of April, 1556. From Kent we now turn to Colchester in Essex, where six constant professors of the gospel were selected to witness the truth by the sacrifice of their lives. These were, C. Luyster, of Dagenham, husbandman; John Mace, apothecary; John Spencer, weaver; Simon Joyne, lawyer; Richard Nichols, weaver, and John Hammond, tanner; five of Colchester. _Hugh Laverick and John Aprice._ Here we perceive that neither the impotence of age nor the affliction of blindness, could turn aside the murdering fangs of these Babylonish monsters. The first of these unfortunates was of the parish of Barking, aged sixty-eight, a painter and a cripple. The other was blind,--dark indeed in his visual faculties, but intellectually illuminated with the radiance of the everlasting gospel of truth. Inoffensive objects like these were informed against by some of the sons of bigotry, and dragged before the prelatical shark of London, where they underwent examination, and replied to the articles propounded to them, as other christian martyrs had done before. On the 9th of May, in the consistory of St. Paul's, they were entreated to recant, and upon refusal, were sent to Fulham, where Bonner, by way of a dessert after dinner, condemned them to the agonies of the fire. Being consigned to the secular officers, May 15, 1556, they were taken in a cart from Newgate to Stratford-le-Bow, where they were fastened to the stake. When Hugh Laverick was secured by the chain, having no farther occasion for his crutch, he threw it away saying to his fellow-martyr, while consoling him, "Be of good cheer my brother; for my lord of London is our good physician; he will heal us both shortly--thee of thy blindness, and me of my lameness." They sank down in the fire, to rise to immortality! The day after the above martyrdoms, Catharine Hut, of Bocking, widow; Joan Horns, spinster, of Billericay; Elizabeth Thackwel, spinster, of Great Burstead; suffered death in Smithfield. Thomas Dowry. We have again to record an act of unpitying cruelty, exercised on this lad, whom bishop Hooper, had confirmed in the Lord and the knowledge of his word. How long this poor sufferer remained in prison is uncertain. By the testimony of one John Paylor, register of Gloucester, we learn, that when Dowry was brought before Dr. Williams, then chancellor of Gloucester, the usual articles were presented him for subscription. From these he dissented; and, upon the doctor's demanding of whom and where he had learned his heresies, the youth replied, "Indeed, Mr. Chancellor, I learned from you in that very pulpit. On such a day (naming the day) you said, in preaching upon the sacrament, that it was to be exercised spiritually by faith, and not carnally and really, as taught by the papists." Dr. Williams then bid him recant, as he had done; but Dowry had not so learned his duty. "Though you," said he, "can so easily mock God, the world, and your own conscience, yet will I not do so." After the death of the above, the following three persons suffered at Beccles, in Suffolk, May 21, 1556. Thomas Spicer, of Winston, labourer; John Denny, and Edmund Poole. _Preservation of George Crow and his Testament._ This poor man, of Malden, May 26, 1556, put to sea, to lade in Lent with Fuller's earth, but the boat, being driven on land, filled with water, and every thing was washed out of her; Crow, however, saved his Testament, and coveted nothing else. With Crow was a man and a boy, whose awful situation became every minute more alarming, as the boat was useless, and they were ten miles from land, expecting the tide should in a few hours set in upon them. After prayer to God, they got upon the mast, and hung there for the space of ten hours, when the poor boy, overcome by cold and exhaustion, fell off, and was drowned. The tide having abated, Crow proposed to take down the masts, and float upon them, which they did; and at ten o'clock at night they were borne away at the mercy of the waves. On Wednesday, in the night, Crow's companion died through fatigue and hunger, and he was left alone, calling upon God for succour. At length he was picked up by a Captain Morse, bound to Antwerp, who had nearly steered away, taking him for some fisherman's buoy floating in the sea. As soon as Crow was got on board, he put his hand in his bosom, and drew out his Testament, which indeed was wet, but no otherwise injured. At Antwerp he was well received, and the money he had lost was more than made good to him. June 6, 1556, the following four martyrs suffered at Lewes, in Sussex: J. Harland, of Woodmancote, carpenter; John Oswald, of the same place, husbandmen; Thomas Avington, of Ardingly, turner; and Thomas Read. June 20, at the same place, were burnt the Rev. Thomas Whood, and Thomas Mills. June 24, the Rev. Wm. Alderhall; and June 28, John Clement, wheelright, died in the King's Bench prison, and were buried on the dunghill in the backyard. June 21, a young man, the servant of a merchant, was burnt at Leicester. _Executions at Stratford-le-Bow._ At this sacrifice, which we are about to detail, no less than thirteen were doomed to the fire. Each one refusing to subscribe contrary to conscience, they were condemned, and the 27th of June, 1556, was appointed for their execution at Stratford-le-Bow. Their constancy and faith glorified their Redeemer, equally in life and in death. _R. Bernard, A. Foster, and R. Lawson._ The first was a labourer, and a single man, of Framsden, Suffolk. He was a shrewd, undaunted professor, and fearlessly replied to the bishop's questions. Adam Foster was a husbandman, married, aged 26, of Mendlesham, Suffolk. Refusing to go to church, he was sent by Sir J. Tyrrel to Eye-Dungeon, and thence to bishop Hopton, who condemned him. R. Lawson, of Bury, linen-weaver, a single man, aged 30, was sent to Eye-Dungeon, and after that to Bury, where they suffered in the same fire, praising God, and encouraging others to martyrdom. _Rev. Julius Palmer._ This gentleman's life presents a singular instance of error and conversion. In the time of Edward, he was a rigid and obstinate papist, so adverse to godly and sincere preaching, that he was even despised by his own party; that this frame of mind should be changed, and he suffer persecution and death in queen Mary's reign, are among those events of omnipotence at which we wonder and admire. Mr. Palmer was born at Coventry, where his father had been mayor. Being afterward removed to Oxford, he became, under Mr. Harley, of Magdalen college, an elegant Latin and Greek scholar. He was fond of useful disputation, possessed of a lively wit, and a strong memory. Indefatigable in private study, he rose at four in the morning, and by this practice qualified himself to become reader in logic in Magdalen college. The times of Edward, however, favouring the reformation, Mr. Palmer became frequently punished for his contempt of prayer and orderly behaviour, and was at length expelled the house. He afterwards embraced the doctrines of the reformation, which occasioned his arrest and final condemnation. He was tried on the 15th of July, 1556, together with one Thomas Askin, a fellow-prisoner. Askin and one John Guin had been sentenced the day before, and Mr. Palmer, on the 15th, was brought up for final judgment.--Execution was ordered to follow the sentence, and at five o'clock in the same afternoon, at a place called the Sand-pits, these three martyrs were fastened to a stake. After devoutly praying together, they sung the 31st psalm. When the fire was kindled, and it had seized their bodies, without an appearance of enduring pain, they continued to cry, Lord Jesus, strengthen us! Lord Jesus receive our souls! till animation was suspended and human suffering was past. It is remarkable, that, when their heads had fallen together in a mass as it were by the force of the flames, and the spectators thought Palmer was lifeless, his tongue and lips again moved, and were heard to pronounce the name of Jesus, to whom be glory and honour forever! About this time, three women were burnt in the island of Guernsey, under circumstances of aggravated cruelty, whose names were, Catherine Cauches, and her two daughters, Mrs. Perotine Massey, and Guillemine Gilbert. The day of execution having arrived, three stakes were erected: the middle post was assigned to the mother, the eldest daughter on her right hand, and the younger on the left. They were strangled previous to burning, but the rope breaking before they were dead, the poor women fell into the fire. Perotine, at the time of her inhuman sentence, was largely pregnant, and now, falling on her side upon the flaming fagots, presented a singular spectacle of horror!--Torn open by the tremendous pangs she endured, she was delivered of a fine male child, who was rescued from its burning bed by the humanity of one W. House, who tenderly laid it on the grass. The infant was taken to the provost, and by him presented to the bailiff, when the inhuman monster decreed it to be re-cast into the fire, that it might perish with its heretical mother! Thus was this innocent baptised in its own blood, to make up the very climax of Romish barbarity; being born and dying at the same time a martyr; and realizing again the days of Herodian cruelty, with circumstances of bigoted malice unknown even to that execrable murderer. Their execution took place, July 18, 1556. On the same day, were burnt at Grinstead, in Sussex, Thomas Dungate, John Foreman, and Mother Tree. June 26, 1556, at Leicester, was executed Thomas Moor, a servant, aged 24 years, who was taken up for saying that his Saviour was in Paradise, and not in the popish paste or wafer. _Joan Waste._ This poor honest woman, blind from her birth, and unmarried, aged 22, was of the parish of Allhallows, Derby. Her father was a barber, and also made ropes for a living: in which she assisted him, and also learned to knit several articles of apparel. Refusing to communicate with those who maintained doctrines contrary to those she had learned in the days of the pious Edward, she was called before Dr. Draicot, the chancellor of bishop Blaine, and Peter Finch, official of Derby. With sophistical arguments and threats they endeavoured to confound the poor girl; but she proffered to yield to the bishop's doctrine, if he would answer for her at the day of judgment, (as pious Dr. Taylor had done in his sermons) that his belief of the real presence of the sacrament was true. The bishop at first answered that he would; but Dr. Draicot reminding him that he might not in any way answer for a heretic, he withdrew his confirmation of his own tenets; and she replied, that if their consciences would not permit them to answer at God's bar for that truth they wished her to subscribe to, she would answer no more questions. Sentence was then adjudged, and Dr. Draicot appointed to preach her condemned sermon, which took place August 1, 1556, the day of her martyrdom. His fulminating discourse being finished, the poor sightless object was taken to a place called Windmill Pit, near the town, where she for a time held her brother by the hand, and then prepared herself for the fire, calling upon the pitying multitude to pray with her, and upon Christ to have mercy upon her, till the glorious light of the everlasting sun of righteousness beamed upon her departed spirit. September 8, 1556, Edward Sharp, aged 40, was condemned at Bristol. September 24, Thomas Ravendale, a currier, and John Hart, suffered at Mayfield, in Essex; and on the day following, a young man, a carpenter, died at Bristol with joyous constancy. September 27, John Horn, and a female martyr suffered at Wooten-under-edge, Gloucestershire, professing abjurgation of popery. In November, fifteen martyrs were imprisoned in Canterbury castle, of whom all were either burnt or famished. Among the latter were J. Clark, D. Chittenden, W. Foster of Stone, Alice Potkins, and J. Archer, of Cranbrooke, weaver. The two first of these had not received condemnation, but the others were sentenced to the fire. Foster, at his examination, observed upon the utility of carrying lighted candles about on Candlemas-day, that he might as well carry a pitch fork; and that a gibbet would have as good an effect as the cross. We have now brought to a close the sanguinary proscriptions of the merciless Mary, in the year 1556, the number of which amounted to above EIGHTY-FOUR! The beginning of the year 1557, was remarkable for the visit of Cardinal Pole to the University of Cambridge, which seemed to stand in need of much cleansing from heretical preachers and reformed doctrines. One object was also to play the popish farce of trying Martin Bucer and Paulus Phagius, who had been buried about three or four years; for which purpose the churches of St. Mary and St. Michael, where they lay, were interdicted as vile and unholy places, unfit to worship God in, until they were perfumed and washed with the Pope's holy water, &c. &c. The trumpery act of citing these dead reformers to appear, not having had the least effect upon them, on January 26, sentence of condemnation was passed, part of which ran in this manner, and may serve as a specimen of proceedings of this nature:--"We therefore pronounce the said Martin Bucer and Paulus Phagius excommunicated and anathematized, as well by the common law, as by letters of process; and that their memory be condemned, we also condemn their bodies and bones (which in that wicked time of schism, and other heresies flourishing in this kingdom, were rashly buried in holy ground) to be dug up, and cast far from the bodies and bones of the faithful, according to the holy canons; and we command that they and their writings, if any be there found, be publicly burnt; and we interdict all persons whatsoever of this university, town, or places adjacent, who shall read or conceal their heretical book, as well by the common law, as by our letters of process!" After the sentence thus read, the bishop commanded their bodies to be dug out of their graves, and being degraded from holy orders, delivered them into the hands of the secular power; for it was not lawful for such innocent persons as they were, abhorring all bloodshed, and detesting all desire of murder, to put any man to death. February 6, the bodies, enclosed as they were in chests, were carried into the midst of the market place at Cambridge, accompanied by a vast concourse of people. A great post was set fast in the ground, to which the chests were affixed with a large iron chain, and bound round their centres, in the same manner as if the dead bodies had been alive. When the fire began to ascend, and caught the coffins, a number of condemned books were also launched into the flames, and burnt. Justice, however, was done to the memories of these pious and learned men in queen Elizabeth's reign, when Mr. Ackworth, orator of the university, and Mr. J. Pilkington, pronounced orations in honour of their memory, and in reprobation of their catholic persecutors. Cardinal Cole also inflicted his harmless rage upon the dead body of Peter Martyr's wife, who, by his command, was dug out of her grave, and buried on a distant dunghill, partly because her bones lay near St. Fridewide's relics, held once in great esteem in that college, and partly because he wished to purify Oxford of heretical remains as well as Cambridge. In the succeeding reign, however, her remains were restored to their former cemetary, and even intermingled with those of the catholic saint, to the utter astonishment and mortification of the disciples of his holiness the pope. Cardinal Cole published a list of fifty-four Articles, containing instructions to the clergy of his diocess of Canterbury, some of which are too ludicrous and puerile to excite any other sentiment than laughter in these days. _Persecutions in the Diocess of Canterbury._ In the year 1557, fifteen were imprisoned in the castle of Canterbury, five of whom perished of hunger. We now proceed to the account of the other ten; whose names were--J. Philpot, M. Bradbridge, N. Final, all of Tenterden; W. Waterer and T. Stephens, of Beddington; J. Kempe, of Norgate; W. Hay, of Hithe; T. Hudson, of Salenge; W. Lowick, of Cranbrooke; and W. Prowting, of Thornham. Of these Kempe, Waterer, Prowting, Lowick, Hudson, and Hay, were burnt at Canterbury, January 15, 1557: Stephens and Philpot at Wye, about the same time; and Final and Bradbridge at Ashford, on the 16th. They were steadfast and immoveable in the faith. In the month of February, the following persons were committed to prison:--R. Coleman, of Waldon, labourer; Joan Winseley, of Horsley Magna, spinster; S. Glover of Rayley; R. Clerk, of Much Holland, mariner; W. Munt, of Much Bentley, sawyer; Marg. Field, of Ramsey, spinster; R. Bongeor, currier; R. Jolley, mariner; Allen Simpson; Helen Ewing; C. Pepper, widow; Alice Walley, (who recanted;) W. Bongeor, glazier; all of Colchester; R. Atkin, of Halstead, weaver; R. Barcock, of Wilton, carpenter; R. George, of Westbarhoalt, labourer; R. Debnam, of Debenham, weaver; C. Warren, of Cocksall, spinster; Agnes Whitlock, of Dover-court, spinster; Rose Allen, spinster; and T. Feresannes, minor; both of Colchester. These persons were brought before Bonner, who would have immediately sent them to execution, but Cardinal Pole was for more merciful measures, and Bonner, in a letter of his to the cardinal, seems to be sensible that he had displeased him, for he has this expression,--"I thought to have them all hither to Fulham, and to have given sentence against them; nevertheless, perceiving by my last doing that your grace was offended, I thought it my duty, before I proceeded farther, to inform your grace." This circumstance verifies the account that the cardinal was a humane man; and though a zealous catholic, we, as protestants, are willing to render him that honour which his merciful character deserves. Some of the bitter persecutors denounced him to the pope as a favourer of heretics, and he was summoned to Rome, but queen Mary, by particular entreaty, procured his stay. However, before his latter end, and a little before his last journey from Rome to England, he was strongly suspected of favouring the doctrine of Luther. _T. Loseby, H. Ramsey, T. Thirtell, Margaret Hide, and Agnes Stanley._ These persons were successively called up, condemned, delivered over to the sheriffs of London, in April 15, 1557, were conducted to Smithfield, there to exchange a temporal life for a life eternal with him for whose sake and truth they perished. In May following, W. Morant, S. Gratwick, and ---- King, suffered in St. George's Field, Southwark. _Executions in Kent._ The following seven were arraigned for heresy: Joan Bainbridge, of Staplehurst; W. Appleby, Petronella his wife, and the wife of John Manning, of Maidstone; B. Allin, and his wife Catherine, of Freytenden; and Elizabeth ----, a blind maiden. Allin was put in the stocks at night, and some advised him to compromise a little, and go for the form's sake to mass, which he did next day, but, just before the sacring, as it is termed, he went into the churchyard, and so reasoned with himself upon the absurdity of transubstantiation, that he staid away, and was soon after brought back again before Sir John Baker, and condemned for heresy. He was burnt with the six before mentioned at Maidstone, the 18th of June, 1557. As in the last sacrifice four women did honour to the truth, so in the following auto-de-fe we have the like number of females and males, who suffered June 30, 1557, at Canterbury, and were J. Fishcock, F. White, N. Pardue, Barbary Final, widow; Bradbridge's widow; Wilson's wife; and Benden's wife. Of this group we shall more particularly notice Alice Benden, wife of Edward Benden, of Staplehurst, Kent. She had been taken up in Oct. 1556, for non-attendance, and released upon a strong injunction to mind her conduct. Her husband was a bigoted catholic, and publicly speaking of his wife's contumacy, she was conveyed to Canterbury castle, where knowing, when she should be removed to the bishop's prison, she should be almost starved upon three farthings a day, she endeavoured to prepare herself for this suffering by living upon two-pence halfpenny per day. Jan. 22, 1557, her husband wrote to the bishop, that if his wife's brother, Roger Hall, were to be kept from consoling and relieving her, she might turn; on this account, she was moved to a prison called Monday's hole; her brother sought diligently for her, and at the end of five weeks providentially heard her voice in the dungeon, but could no otherwise relieve her, than by putting some money in a loaf, and sticking it on a long pole. Dreadful must have been the situation of this poor victim, lying on straw, between stone walls, without a change of apparel, or the meanest requisites of cleanliness, during a period of nine weeks! March 25, she was summoned before the bishop, who, with rewards, offered her liberty if she would go home and be comfortable; but Mrs. Benden had been inured to suffering, and, showing him her contracted limbs and emaciated appearance, refused to swerve from the truth. She was however removed from this Black Hole to the West gate, whence, about the end of April, she was taken out to be condemned, and then committed to the castle prison till the 19th of June, the day of her burning. At the stake, she gave her handkerchief to one John Banks, as a memorial; and from her waist she drew a white lace, desiring him to give it her brother, and tell him, it was the last band that had bound her, except the chain; and to her father she returned a shilling he had sent her. The whole of these seven martyrs undressed themselves with alacrity, and, being prepared, knelt down, and prayed with an earnestness and Christian spirit that even the enemies of the Cross were affected. After invocation made together, they were secured to the stake, and, being encompassed with the unsparing flames, they yielded their souls into the hands of the living Lord. Matthew Plaise, weaver, a sincere and shrewd Christian, of Stone, Kent, was brought before Thomas, bishop of Dover, and other inquisitors, whom he ingeniously teazed by his indirect answers, of which the following is a specimen. _Dr. Harpsfield._ Christ called the bread his body; what dost thou say it is? _Plaise._ I do believe it was that which he gave them. _Dr. H._ What was that? _P._ That which he brake. _Dr. H._ What did he break? _P._ That which he took. _Dr. H._ What did he take? _P._ The text saith, "He took bread." _Dr. H._ Well, then, thou sayest it was but bread which the disciples did eat. _P._ I say, what he gave them, that did they eat indeed. A very long disputation followed, in which Plaise was desired to humble himself to the bishop; but this he refused. Whether this zealous person died in prison, was executed, or delivered, history does not mention. _Execution of ten martyrs at Lewes._ Again we have to record the wholesale sacrifice of Christ's little flock, of whom five were women. On the 22d of June, 1557, the town of Lewes beheld ten persons doomed to perish by fire and persecution. The names of these worthies were, Richard Woodman; G. Stephens, W. Mainard, Alex. Hosman, and Thomasin Wood, servants; Margery Morris, and James Morris, her son; Dennis Burges, Ashdon's wife, and Grove's wife. These nine persons were taken a few days only before their judgment, and suffered at Lewes, in Sussex, June 22, 1557. Of these, eight were prematurely executed, inasmuch as the writ from London could not have arrived for their burning. A person named Ambrose died in Maidstone prison about this time. Rev. Mr. John Hullier was brought up at Eton college, and in process of time became curate of Babram, three miles from Cambridge and went afterward to Lynn; where, opposing the superstition of the papists, he was carried before Dr. Thirlby, bishop of Ely, and sent to Cambridge castle: here he lay for a time, and was then sent to the Tolbooth prison, where, after three months, he was brought to St. Mary's church, and condemned by Dr. Fuller. On Maunday Thursday, he was brought to the stake: while undressing, he told the people to bear witness that he was about to suffer in a just cause, and exhorted them to believe, that there was no other rock than Jesus Christ to build upon. A priest, named Boyes, then desired the mayor to silence him. After praying, he went meekly to the stake, and being bound with a chain, and placed in a pitch barrel, fire was applied to the reeds and wood; but the wind drove the fire directly to his back, which caused him under the severe agony to pray the more fervently. His friends directed the executioner to fire the pile to windward of his face, which was immediately done. A quantity of books were now thrown into the fire, one of which (the Communion Service) he caught, opened it, and joyfully continued to read it, until the fire and smoke deprived him of sight; then even, in earnest prayer, he pressed the book to his heart, thanking God for bestowing on him in his last moments this precious gift.--The day being hot, the fire burnt fiercely; and at a time when the spectators supposed he was no more, he suddenly exclaimed, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit! And meekly resigned his life. He was burnt on Jesus Green, not far from Jesus College. He had gunpowder given him, but he was dead before it became ignited. This pious sufferer afforded a singular spectacle; for his flesh was so burnt from the bones, which continued erect, that he presented the idea of a skeleton figure chained to the stake. His remains were eagerly seized by the multitude, and venerated by all who admired his piety or detested inhuman bigotry. _Simon Miller and Elizabeth Cooper,_ In the following month of July, received the crown of martyrdom. Miller dwelt at Lynn, and came to Norwich, where, planting himself at the door of one of the churches, as the people came out, he requested to know of them where he could go to receive the communion. For this a priest brought him before Dr. Dunning, who committed him to ward; but he was suffered to go home, and arrange his affairs; after which he returned to the bishop's house, and to his prison, where he remained till the 13th of July, the day of his burning. Elizabeth Cooper, wife of a pewterer, of St. Andrews, Norwich, had recanted; but, tortured for what she had done by the worm which dieth not, she shortly after voluntarily entered her parish church during the time of the popish service, and standing up, audibly proclaimed that she revoked her former recantation, and cautioned the people to avoid her unworthy example. She was taken from her own house by Mr. Sutton the sheriff, who very reluctantly complied with the letter of the law, as they had been servants and in friendship together. At the stake, the poor sufferer, feeling the fire, uttered the cry of Oh! upon which Mr. Miller, putting his hand behind him towards her, desired her to be of good courage, "for (said he) good sister, we shall have a joyful and a sweet supper." Encouraged by this example and exhortation, she stood the fiery ordeal without flinching, and, with him, proved the power of faith over the flesh. _Executions at Colchester._ It was before mentioned that twenty-two persons had been sent up from Cholchester, who upon a slight submission, were afterward released. Of these, Wm. Munt, of Much-Bentley, husbandman, with Alice, his wife, and Rose Allin, her daughter, upon their return home, abstained from church, which induced the bigoted priest secretly to write to Bonner. For a short time they absconded, but returning again, March 7th, one Mr. Edmund Tyrrel, (a relation of the Tyrrel who murdered king Edward V. and his brother) with the officers, entered the house while Munt and his wife were in bed, and informed them that they must go to Colchester Castle. Mrs. Munt at that time very ill, requested her daughter to get her some drink; leave being permitted, Rose took a candle and a mug; and in returning through the house was met by Tyrrel, who cautioned her to advise her parents to become good catholics. Rose briefly informed him that they had the Holy Ghost for their adviser; and that she was ready to lay down her own life for the same cause. Turning to his company, he remarked that she was willing to burn; and one of them told him to prove her, and see what she would do by and by. The unfeeling wretch immediately executed this project; and, seizing the young woman by the wrist, he held the lighted candle under her hand, burning it crosswise on the back, till the tendons divided from the flesh, during which he loaded her with many opprobious epithets. She endured his rage unmoved, and then, when he had ceased the torture, she asked him to begin at her feet or head, for he need not fear that his employer would one day repay him. After this she took the drink to her mother. This cruel act of torture does not stand alone on record. Bonner had served a poor blind harper in nearly the same manner, who had steadily maintained a hope that if every joint of him were to be burnt, he should not fly from the faith. Bonner, upon this, privately made a signal to his men, to bring a burning coal, which they placed in the poor man's hand, and then by force held it closed, till it burnt into the flesh deeply. But to return.-- In searching Munt's house, John Thurston and Margaret his wife were found, and conveyed to Colchester Castle; where lay J. Johnson, of Thorp, Essex, aged 34, widower, with his three young children, all indicted for heresy. The following lay in Mote-hall, or town prison: Wm. Bongeor, of St. Nicholas, in Colchester; Thomas Penold, Colchester, tallow chandler; W. Pucras, of Bocking, Essex, fuller, 20; Agnes Silversides, Colchester, widow, 70; Helen Ewring, wife of John Ewring, miller, of Colchester, 45; and Eliz. Folks, a servant, Colchester. Shortly after their condemnation, Bonner's writ arrived for their execution, which was fixed for the 2d of August, 1557. About seven o'clock in the morning, the town prisoners in the Mote-hall were brought to a plot of ground on the outside of the town wall, where the stake was erected, surrounded by fagots and fuel. Having prayed, and prepared themselves for the fiery torment, Elizabeth Folks, as she was standing at the stake, received a dreadful blow on the shoulder from the stroke of a hammer, which was aimed at the staple that secured the chain. This, however, in no wise discomposed her, but turning her head round, she continued to pray and exhort the people. Fire being put to the pile, these martyrs died amidst the prayers and commisseration of thousands who came to be witnesses of their fortitude and their faith. In the same manner, in the afternoon, the county prisoners from Colchester castle were brought out, and executed, at different stakes, on the same spot; praising God, and exhorting the people to avoid idolatry and the church of Rome. John Thurston, of whom mention was made before, died in May, in Colchester castle. George Eagles, tailor, was indicted for having prayed that "God would turn queen Mary's heart, or take her away;" the ostensible cause of his death was his religion, for treason could hardly be imagined in praying for the reformation of such an execrable soul as that of Mary. Being condemned for this crime, he was drawn to the place of execution upon a sledge, with two robbers, who were executed with him. After Eagles had mounted the ladder, and been turned off a short time, he was cut down, before he was at all insensible; a bailiff, named Wm. Swallow, then dragged him to the sledge, and with a common blunt cleaver, hacked off the head: in a manner equally clumsy and cruel, he opened his body and tore out the heart. In all this suffering the poor martyr repined not, but to the last called upon his Saviour. The fury of these bigots did not end here; the intestines were burnt, and the body was quartered, the four parts being sent to Colchester, Harwich, Chelmsford, and St. Rouse's.--Chelmsford had the honor of retaining his head, which was affixed to a long pole in the market-place. In time it was blown down, and lay several days in the streets, till it was buried at night in the church-yard. God's judgment not long after fell upon Swallow, who in his old age became a beggar, and affected with a leprosy that made him obnoxious even to the animal creation; nor did Richard Potts, who troubled Eagles in his dying moments, escape the visiting hand of God. About this time, Richard Crashfield, of Wymundham, suffered at Norwich. Nearly about this time a person named Fryer, and the sister of George Eagles, suffered martyrdom. _Mrs. Joyce Lewes._ This lady was the wife of Mr. T. Lewes, of Manchester. She had received the Romish religion as true, till the burning of that pious martyr, the Rev. Mr. Saunders, at Coventry. Understanding that his death arose from a refusal to receive the mass, she began to inquire into the ground of his refusal, and her conscience, as it began to be enlightened, became restless and alarmed. In this inquietude, she resorted to Mr. John Glover, who lived near, and requested that he would unfold those rich sources of gospel knowledge he possessed, particularly upon the subject of transubstantiation. He easily succeeded in convincing her that the mummery of popery and the mass were at variance with God's most holy word, and honestly reproved her for following too much the vanities of a wicked world. It was to her indeed a word in season, for she soon become weary of her former sinful life, and resolved to abandon the mass and idolatrous worship. Though compelled by her husband's violence to go to church, her contempt of the holy water and other ceremonies were so manifest, that she was accused before the bishop for despising the sacramentals. A citation, addressed to her, immediately followed, which was given to Mr. Lewes, who, in a fit of passion, held a dagger to the throat of the officer, and made him eat it, after which he caused him to drink it down, and then sent him away. But for this the bishop summoned Mr. Lewes before him as well as his wife; the former readily submitted, but the latter resolutely affirmed, that, in refusing holy water, she neither offended God, nor any part of his laws. She was sent home for a month, her husband being bound for her appearance, during which time Mr. Glover impressed upon her the necessity of doing what she did, not from self-vanity, but for the honour and glory of God. Mr. Glover and others earnestly exhorted Lewes to forfeit the money he was bound in, rather than subject his wife to certain death; but he was deaf to the voice of humanity, and delivered her over to the bishop, who soon found a sufficient cause to consign her to a loathsome prison, whence she was several times brought for examination. At the last time the bishop reasoned with her upon the fitness of her coming to mass, and receiving as sacred the sacrament and sacramentals of the Holy Ghost. "If these things were in the word of God," said Mrs. Lewes, "I would with all my heart receive, believe, and esteem them." The bishop, with the most ignorant and impious effrontery, replied, "If thou wilt believe no more than what is warranted by scripture, thou art in a state of damnation!" Astonished at such a declaration, this worthy sufferer ably rejoined, "that his words were as impure, as they were profane." After condemnation, she lay a twelvemonth in prison, the sheriff not being willing to put her to death in his time, though he had been but just chosen. When her death warrant came from London, she sent for some friends, whom she consulted in what manner her death might be more glorious to the name of God, and injurious to the cause of God's enemies. Smilingly, she said, "As for death, I think but lightly of. When I know that I shall behold the amiable countenance of Christ my dear Saviour, the ugly face of death does not much trouble me." The evening before she suffered, two priests were anxious to visit her, but she refused both their confession and absolution, when she could hold a better communication with the High Priest of souls. About three o'clock in the morning, Satan began to shoot his fiery darts, by putting into her mind to doubt whether she was chosen to eternal life, and Christ died for her. Her friends readily pointed out to her those consolatory passages of Scripture which comfort the fainting heart, and treat of the Redeemer who taketh away the sins of the world. About eight o'clock the sheriff announced to her that she had but an hour to live; she was at first cast down, but this soon passed away, and she thanked God that her life was about to be devoted to his service. The sheriff granted permission for two friends to accompany her to the stake--an indulgence for which he was afterward severely handled. Mr. Reniger and Mr. Bernher led her to the place of execution; in going to which, from its distance, her great weakness, and the press of the people, she had nearly fainted. Three times she prayed fervently that God would deliver the land from popery and the idolatrous mass; and the people for the most part, as well as the sheriff, said Amen. When she had prayed, she took the cup, (which had been filled with water to refresh her,) and said, I drink to all them that unfeignedly love the gospel of Christ, and wish for the abolition of popery. Her friends, and a great many women of the place, drank with her, for which most of them afterward were enjoined penance. When chained to the stake, her countenance was cheerful, and the roses of her cheeks were not abated. Her hands were extended towards heaven till the fire rendered them powerless, when her soul was received into the arms of the Creator. The duration of her agony was but short, as the under-sheriff, at the request of her friends, had prepared such excellent fuel that she was in a few minutes overwhelmed with smoke and flame. The case of this lady drew a tear of pity from every one who had a heart not callous to humanity. _Executions at Islington._ About the 17th of Sept. suffered at Islington the following four professors of Christ: Ralph Allerton, James Austoo, Margery Austoo, and Richard Roth. James Austoo and his wife, of St. Allhallows, Barking, London, were sentenced for not believing in the presence. Richard Roth rejected the seven sacraments, and was accused of comforting the heretics by the following letter written in his own blood, and intended to have been sent to his friends at Colchester:-- "O dear Brethren and Sisters, "How much reason have you to rejoice in God, that he hath given you such faith to overcome this blood-thirsty tyrant thus far! And no doubt he that hath begun that good work in you, will fulfil it unto the end. O dear hearts in Christ, what a crown of glory shall ye receive with Christ in the kingdom of God! O that it had been the good will of God that I had been ready to have gone with you; for I lie in my lord's Little-ease by day, and in the night I lie in the Coal-house, apart from Ralph Allerton, or any other; and we look every day when we shall be condemned; for he said that I should be burned within ten days before Easter; but I lie still at the pool's brink, and every man goeth in before me; but we abide patiently the Lord's leisure, with many bonds, in fetters and stocks, by which we have received great joy of God. And now fare you well, dear brethren and sisters, in this world, but I trust to see you in the heavens face to face. "O brother Munt, with your wife and my sister Rose, how blessed are you in the Lord, that God hath found you worthy to suffer for his sake! with all the rest of my dear brethren and sisters known and unknown. O be joyful even unto death. Fear it not, saith Christ, for I have overcome death. O dear hearts, seeing that Jesus Christ will be our help, O tarry you the Lord's leisure. Be strong, let your hearts be of good comfort, and wait you still for the Lord. He is at hand. Yea, the angel of the Lord pitcheth his tent round about them that fear him, and delivereth them which way he seeth best. For our lives are in the Lord's hands; and they can do nothing unto us before God suffer them. Therefore give all thanks to God. "O dear hearts, you shall be clothed in long white garments upon the mount of Sion, with the multitude of saints, and with Jesus Christ our Saviour, who will never forsake us. O blessed virgins, ye have played the wise virgins' part, in that ye have taken oil in your lamps that ye may go in with the bridegroom, when he cometh, into the everlasting joy with him. But as for the foolish, they shall be shut out, because they made not themselves ready to suffer with Christ, neither go about to take up his cross. O dear hearts, how precious shall your death be in the sight of the Lord! for dear is the death of his saints. O fare you well, and pray. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen, Amen. Pray, pray, pray! "Written by me, with my own blood, "RICHARD ROTH." This letter, so justly denominating Bonner the "blood-thirsty tyrant," was not likely to excite his compassion. Roth accused him of bringing them to secret examination by night, because he was afraid of the people by day. Resisting every temptation to recant, he was condemned, and, Sept. 17, 1557, these four martyrs perished at Islington, for the testimony of the Lamb, who was slain that they might be of the redeemed of God. Agnes Bengeor and Margaret Thurston were doomed to the fire at Colchester, Sept. 17, 1557. Humbly they knelt to pray, and joyfully they arose to be chained to the stake, uttering invocations and hallelujahs, till the surrounding flames mounted to the seat of life, and their spirits ascended to the Almighty Saviour of all who truly believe! About this time suffered, at Northampton, John Kurde, shoemaker of Syrsam, Northamptonshire. John Noyes, a shoemaker, of Laxfield, Suffolk, was taken to Eye and at midnight, Sept. 21, 1557, he was brought from Eye to Laxfield to be burned. On the following morning he was led to the stake, prepared for the horrid sacrifice. Mr. Noyes, on coming to the fatal spot, knelt down, prayed, and rehearsed the 50th psalm. When the chain enveloped him, he said, "Fear not them that kill the body, but fear him that can kill both body and soul, and cast it into everlasting fire!" As one Cadman placed a fagot against him, he blessed the hour in which he was born to die for the truth: and while trusting only upon the all-sufficient merits of the Redeemer, fire was set to the pile, and the blazing fagots in a short time stifled his last words, Lord, have mercy on me!--Christ, have Mercy upon me!--The ashes of the body were buried in a pit, and with them one of his feet, whole to the ankle, with the stocking on. _Mrs. Cicely Ormes._ This young martyr, aged twenty-two, was the wife of Mr. Edmund Ormes, worsted weaver of St. Lawrence, Norwich. At the death of Miller and Elizabeth Cooper, before mentioned, she had said that she would pledge them of the same cup they drank of. For these words she was brought to the chancellor, who would have discharged her upon promising to go to church, and to keep her belief to herself. As she would not consent to this, the chancellor urged that he had shown more lenity to her than any other person, and was unwilling to condemn her, because she was an ignorant foolish woman; to this she replied, (perhaps with more shrewdness than he expected,) that, however great his desire might be to spare her sinful flesh, it could not equal her inclination to surrender it up in so great a quarrel. The chancellor then pronounced the fiery sentence, and, September 23, 1557, she was brought to the stake, at eight o'clock in the morning. After declaring her faith to the people, she laid her hand on the stake, and said, "Welcome thou cross of Christ." Her hand was sooted in doing this, (for it was the same stake at which Miller and Cooper were burnt,) and she at first wiped it; but directly after again welcomed and embraced it as the "sweet cross of Christ." After the tormentors had kindled the fire, she said, "My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit doth rejoice in God my Saviour." Then crossing her hands upon her breast, and looking upwards with the utmost serenity, she stood the fiery furnace. Her hands continued gradually to rise till the sinews were dried, and then they fell. She uttered no sigh of pain, but yielded her life, an emblem of that celestial paradise in which is the presence of God, blessed for ever. It might be contended that this martyr voluntarily sought her own death, as the chancellor scarcely exacted any other penance of her than to keep her belief to herself; yet it should seem in this instance as if God had chosen her to be a shining light, for a twelve-month before she was taken, she had recanted; but she was wretched till the chancellor was informed, by letter, that she repented of her recantation from the bottom of her heart. As if to compensate for her former apostacy, and to convince the catholics that she meant no more to compromise for her personal security, she boldly refused his friendly offer of permitting her to temporize. Her courage in such a cause deserves commendation--the cause of Him who has said, Whoever is ashamed of me on earth, of such will I be ashamed in heaven. In November, Thomas Spurdance, one of queen Mary's servants, was brought before the chancellor of Norwich, who, among his interrogations, was severely recriminated upon by the prisoner. This good man was taken by two of his fellow-servants, dwelling at Codman, in Suffolk. He was sent to Bury where he remained some time in prison, and in November, 1557, braved the fiery indignation of the enemies of Christ with Christian fortitude and resignation. J. Hallingdale, W. Sparrow, and R Gibson, suffered in Smithfield November 18th, 1557. _Rev. John Rough._ This pious martyr was a Scotchman: at the age of 17, he entered himself as one of the order of Black Friars, at Stirling, in Scotland. He had been kept out of an inheritance by his friends, and he took this step in revenge for their conduct to him. After being there sixteen years, Lord Hamilton, Earl of Arran, taking a liking to him, the archbishop of St. Andrew's induced the provincial of the house to dispense with his habit and order; and he thus became the Earl's chaplain. He remained in this spiritual employment a year, and in that time God wrought in him a saving knowledge of the truth; for which reason the Earl sent him to preach in the freedom of Ayr, where he remained four years; but finding danger there from the religious complexion of the times, and learning that there was much gospel freedom in England, he travelled up to the duke of Somerset, then Lord Protector of England, who gave him a yearly salary of twenty pounds, and authorized him, to preach at Carlisle, Berwick, and Newcastle, where he married. He was afterward removed to a benefice at Hull, in which he remained till the death of Edward VI. In consequence of the tide of persecution then setting in, he fled with his wife to Friesland, and at Nordon they followed the occupation of knitting hose, caps, &c. for subsistence. Impeded in his business by the want of yarn, he came over to England to procure a quantity, and on Nov. 10th, arrived in London, where he soon heard of a secret society of the faithful, to whom he joined himself, and was in a short time elected their minister, in which occupation he strengthened them in every good resolution. Dec. 12th, through the information of one Taylor, a member of the society, Mr. Rough, with Cuthbert Symson and others, was taken up in the Saracen's Head, Islington, where, under the pretext of coming to see a play, their religious exercises were holden. The queen's vice-chamberlain conducted Rough and Symson before the council, in whose presence they were charged with meeting to celebrate the communion. The council wrote to Bonner and he lost no time in this affair of blood. In three days he had him up, and on the next (the 20th) resolved to condemn him. The charges laid against him were, that he, being a priest, was married, and that he had rejected the service in the Latin tongue. Rough wanted not arguments to reply to these flimsy tenets. In short, he was degraded and condemned. Mr. Rough, it should be noticed, when in the north, in Edward the VIth's reign, had saved Dr. Watson's life, who afterward sat with bishop Bonner on the bench. This ungrateful prelate, in return for the kind act he had received, boldly accused Mr. Rough of being the most pernicious heretic in the country. The godly minister reproved him for his malicious spirit; he affirmed that, during the thirty years he had lived, he had never bowed the knee to Baal; and that twice at Rome he had seen the pope borne about on men's shoulders with the false-named sacrament carried before him, presenting a true picture of the very antichrist; yet was more reverence shown to him than to the wafer, which they accounted to be their God. "Ah?" said Bonner, rising up, and making towards him, as if he would have torn his garment, "hast thou been at Rome, and seen our holy father the pope, and dost thou blaspheme him after this sort?" This said, he fell upon him, tore off a piece of his beard, and, that the day might begin to his own satisfaction, he ordered the object of his rage to be burnt by half past five the following morning. _Cuthbert Symson._ Few professors of Christ possessed more activity and zeal than this excellent person. He not only labored to preserve his friends from the contagion of popery, but to guard them against the terrors of persecution. He was deacon of the little congregation over which Mr. Rough presided as minister. Mr. Symson has written an account of his own sufferings, which we cannot detail better than in his own words: "On the 13th of December, 1557, I was committed by the council to the tower of London. On the following Thursday, I was called into the ware-room, before the constable of the tower, and the recorder of London, Mr. Cholmly, who commanded me to inform them of the names of those who came to the English service. I answered, that I would declare nothing; in consequence of my refusal, I was set upon a rack of iron, as I judge for the space of three hours! "They then asked me if I would confess: I answered as before. After being unbound, I was carried back to my lodging. The Sunday after I was brought to the same place again, before the lieutenant and recorder of London, and they examined me. As I had answered before, so I answered now. Then the lieutenant swore by God I should tell; after which my two fore-fingers were bound together, and a small arrow placed between them, they drew it through so fast that the blood followed, and the arrow brake. "After enduring the rack twice again, I was retaken to my lodging, and ten days after the lieutenant asked me if I would not now confess that which they had before asked of me. I answered, that I had already said as much as I would. Three weeks after I was sent to the priest, where I was greatly assaulted, and at whose hand I received the pope's curse, for bearing witness of the resurrection of Christ. And thus I commend you to God, and to the word of his grace, with all those who unfeignedly call upon the name of Jesus; desiring God of his endless mercy, through the merits of his dear Son Jesus Christ, to bring us all to his everlasting kingdom, Amen. I praise God for his great mercy shown upon us. Sing Hosanna to the Highest with me, Cuthbert Symson. God forgive my sins! I ask forgiveness of all the world, and I forgive all the world, and thus I leave the world, in the hope of a joyful resurrection!" If this account be duly considered, what a picture of repeated tortures does it present! But, even the cruelty of the narration is exceeded by the patient meekness with which it was endured. Here are no expressions of malice, no invocations even of God's retributive justice, not a complaint of suffering wrongfully! On the contrary, praise to God, forgiveness of sin, and a forgiving all the world, concludes this unaffected interesting narrative. Bonner's admiration was excited by the steadfast coolness of this martyr. Speaking of Mr. Symson in the consistory, he said, "You see what a personable man he is, and then of his patience, I affirm, that, if he were not a heretic, he is a man of the greatest patience that ever came before me. Thrice in one day has he been racked in the tower: in my house also he has felt sorrow, and yet never have I seen his patience broken." The day before this pious deacon was to be condemned, while in the stocks in the bishop's coal-house, he had the vision of a glorified form, which much encouraged him. This he certainly attested to his wife, Mr. Austen, and others, before his death; but Mr. Fox, in reciting this article, leaves it to the reader's judgment, to consider it either as a natural or supernatural circumstance. With this ornament of the Christian reformation were apprehended Mr. Hugh Foxe and John Devinish; the three were brought before Bonner, March 19, 1558, and the papistical articles tendered. They rejected them, and were all condemned. As they worshipped together in the same society, at Islington, so they suffered together in Smithfield, March 28; in whose death the God of Grace was glorified, and true believers confirmed! Wm. Nichol, of Haverfordwest, Wales, was taken up for reprobating the practice of the worshippers of antichrist, and April 9, 1558, bore testimony to the truth at Haverfordwest, in Wales, by enduring the fire. _Thomas Hudson, Thomas Carman, and William Seamen,_ Were condemned by a bigoted vicar of Aylesbury, named Berry. The spot of execution was called Lollard's pit, without Bishopsgate, at Norwich. After joining together in humble petition to the throne of grace, they rose, went to the stake, and were encircled with their chains. To the great surprise of the spectators, Hudson slipped from under his chain, and came forward. A great opinion prevailed that he was about to recant; others thought that he wanted further time. In the mean time, his companions at the stake urged every promise and exhortation to support him. The hopes of the enemies of the cross, however, were disappointed: the good man, far from fearing the smallest personal terror at the approaching pangs of death, was only alarmed that his Saviour's face seemed to be hidden from him. Falling upon his knees, his spirit wrestled with God and God verified the words of his Son, "Ask, and it shall be given." The martyr rose in an ecstacy of joy, and exclaimed, "Now, I thank God, I am strong! and care not what man can do to me!" With an unruffled countenance he replaced himself under the chain, joined his fellow-sufferers, and with them suffered death, to the comfort of the godly, and the confusion of antichrist. Berry, unsatiated with this demoniacal act, summoned up two hundred persons in the town of Aylesham, whom he compelled to kneel to the cross at Pentecost, and inflicted other punishments. He struck a poor man for a trifling word, with a flail, which proved fatal to the unoffending object. He also gave a woman named Alice Oxes, so heavy a blow with his fist, as she met him entering the hall when he was in an ill-humour, that she died with the violence. This priest was rich, and possessed great authority; he was a reprobate, and, like the priesthood, he abstained from marriage, to enjoy the more a debauched and licentious life. The Sunday after the death of queen Mary, he was revelling with one of his concubines, before vespers; he then went to church, administered baptism, and in his return to his lascivious pastime, he was smitten by the hand of God. Without a moment given for repentance, he fell to the ground, and a groan was the only articulation permitted him. In him we may behold the difference between the end of a martyr and a persecutor. In the month of May, William Harris, Richard Day, and Christiana George, suffered at Colchester, and there humbly made an offering of themselves to God. _Apprehensions at Islington._ In a retired close, near a field, in Islington, a company of decent persons had assembled, to the number of forty. While they were religiously engaged in praying and expounding the scripture, twenty-seven of them were carried before Sir Roger Cholmly. Some of the women made their escape, twenty-two were committed to Newgate, who continued in prison seven weeks. Previous to their examination, they were informed by the keeper, (Alexander,) that nothing more was requisite to procure their discharge, than to hear mass. Easy as this condition may seem, these martyrs valued their purity of conscience more than loss of life or property; hence, thirteen were burnt, seven in Smithfield, and six at Brentford; two died in prison, and the other seven were providentially preserved. The names of the seven who suffered were, H. Pond, R. Estland, R. Southain, M. Ricarby, J. Floyd, J. Holiday, and R. Holland. They were sent to Newgate June 16, 1558, and executed on the 27th. The story of Roger Holland is the only one of these martyrs which has been handed down to us. He was first an apprentice to one Mr. Kempton, at the Black-Boy, Watling-street. He was, in every sense of the word, licentious, a lover of bad company, and, more than all, a stubborn determined papist--one of whom it might be said, that a miracle only could effect his conversion. Dissipated as he was, his master had the imprudent confidence to trust him with money; and, having received thirty pounds on his master's account, he lost it at the gaming table. Knowing it was impossible to regain his character, he determined to withdraw to France or Flanders.--With this resolution, he called early in the morning on a discreet servant in the house, named Elizabeth, who professed the gospel, and lived a life that did honour to her profession. To her he revealed the loss his folly had occasioned, regretted that he had not followed her advice, and begged her to give his master a note of hand from him acknowledging the debt, which he would repay if ever it were in his power; he also entreated his disgraceful conduct might be kept secret, lest it would bring the grey hairs of his father with sorrow to a premature grave. The maid, with a generosity and Christian principle rarely surpassed, conscious that his imprudence might be his ruin, brought him the thirty pounds, which was part of a sum of money recently left her by legacy. "Here," said she, "is the sum requisite: you shall take the money, and I will keep the note; but expressly on this condition, that you abandon all lewd and vicious company; that you neither swear nor talk immodestly, and game no more; for, should I learn that you do, I will immediately show this note to your master. I also require, that you shall promise me to attend the daily lecture at Allhallows, and the sermon at St. Paul's every Sunday; that you cast away all your books of popery, and in their place substitute the Testament and the Book of Service, and that you read the Scriptures with reverence and fear, calling upon God for his grace to direct you in his truth. Pray also fervently to God, to pardon your former offences, and not to remember the sins of your youth, and would you obtain his favour, ever dread to break his laws or offend his majesty. So shall God have you in his keeping, and grant you your heart's desire." We must honour the memory of this excellent domestic, whose pious endeavours were equally directed to benefit the thoughtless youth in this life and that which is to come. May her example be followed by the present generation of servants, who seek rather to seduce by vain dress and loose manners the youth who are associated in servitude with them! God did not suffer the wish of this excellent domestic to be thrown upon a barren soil; within half a year after the licentious Holland became a zealous professor of the gospel, and was an instrument of conversion to his father and others whom he visited in Lancashire, to their spiritual comfort and reformation from popery. His father, pleased with his change of conduct, gave him forty pounds to commence business with in London. Upon his return, like an honest man, he paid the debt of gratitude, and, rightly judging that she who had proved so excellent a friend and counsellor, would be no less amiable as a wife, he tendered her his hand. They were married in the first year of Mary, and a child was the fruit of their union, which Mr. Holland caused to be baptised by Mr. Ross in his own house. For this offence he was obliged to fly, and Bonner, with his accustomed implacability, seized his goods, and ill-treated his wife. After this, he remained secretly among the congregations of the faithful, till the last year of queen Mary, when he, with six others was taken not far from St. John's Wood, and brought to Newgate upon May-day, 1558. He was called before the bishop, Dr. Chedsey, the Harpsfields, &c. Dr. Chedsey expressed much affection for him, and promised he should not want any favour that he or his friends could procure, if he would not follow his conceit. This was seconded by squire Eaglestone, a gentleman of Lancashire, and a near kinsman of Holland's, who said, "I am sure your honour means good to my cousin. I beseech God he may have the grace to follow your counsel." Holland directly replied, "Sir, you crave of God you know not what. I beseech of God to open your eyes to see the light of his blessed word." After some private communication among the commissioners, Bonner said, "I perceive, Roger, you will not be ruled by any counsel that I or my friends can give." The following speech of Mr. Holland we are induced to give unabridged, as it contains a pointed charge, founded on the sins resulting from false doctrines; and, besides, is in itself a well-digested and just attack upon the tenets of popery. "I may say to you, my lord, as Paul said to Felix and to the Jews, in the 22d of the Acts, and in the 15th of the first epistle to the Corinthians. It is not unknown to my master, to whom I was apprenticed, that I was of your blind religion--that which now is taught, and that I obstinately and wilfully remained in it, till the latter end of king Edward. Having liberty under your auricular confession, I made no conscience of sin, but trusted in the priests' absolution, who for money did also some penance for me; which after I had given, I cared no farther what offences I did, no more than he did after he had my money, whether he tasted bread and water for me, or not: so that lechery, swearing, and all other vices, I accounted no offence of danger, so long as I could for money have them absolved. So straitly did I observe your rules of religion, that I would have ashes upon Ash Wednesday, though I had used ever so much wickedness at night. Though I could not in conscience eat flesh upon the Friday, yet I made no conscience at all of swearing, drinking, or gaming all night long: thus I was brought up, and herein I have continued till now of late, when God hath opened the light of his word, and called me by his grace to repent of my former idolatry and wicked life; for in Lancashire their blindness and whoredom is much more, than may with chaste ears be heard. Yet these my friends, who are not clear in these notable crimes, think the priest with his mass can save them, though they blaspheme God, and keep concubines besides their wives, as long as they live. Yea, I know some priests, very devout, my lord, yet such have six or seven children by four or five sundry women. "Mr. Doctor, as to your antiquity, unity, and universality, (for these Dr. Chedsey alleged as notes and tokens of their religion,) I am unlearned. I have no sophistry to shift my reasons with; but the truth I trust I have, which needs no painted colours to set her forth. The antiquity of our church is not from pope Nicholas, nor pope Joan, but our church is from the beginning, even from the time that God said unto Adam, that the seed of the woman should break the serpent's head; and so to faithful Noah; to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to whom it was promised, that their seed should multiply as the stars in the sky; and so to Moses, David, and all the holy fathers that were from the beginning unto the birth of our Saviour Christ. All who believed these promises were of the church, though the number was oftentimes but few and small, as in Elias' days, who thought he was the only one that had not bowed the knee to Baal, when God had reserved seven thousand that never had bowed their knees to that idol: as I trust there be seven hundred thousand more than I know of, that have not bowed their knee to that idol your mass, and your God Maozim; in the upholding of which is your bloody cruelty while you daily persecute Elias and the servants of God, forcing them (as Daniel was in his chamber) closely to serve the Lord their God; and even as we by this your cruelty are forced in the fields to pray unto God, that his holy word may be once again truly preached amongst us, and that he would mitigate and shorten these idolatrous and bloody days wherein all cruelty reigns. Moreover, of our church have been the apostles and evangelists, the martyrs and confessors of Christ, who have at all times and in all ages been persecuted for the testimony of the word of God. But for the upholding of your church and religion, what antiquity can you show? The mass indeed, that idol and chief pillar of your religion, is not yet four hundred years old, and some of your masses are younger, as that of St. Thomas a Becket, the traitor, wherein you pray, That you may be saved by the blood of St. Thomas. And as for your Latin service, what are we of the laity the better for it? I think if any one were to hear your priests mumble up their service, although he well understood Latin, yet he would understand very few words of it, the priests so champ them and chew them, and post so fast, that they neither understand what they say, nor they that hear them; and in the mean time the people, when they should pray with the priest, are set to their beads to pray our Lady's Psalter. So crafty is Satan to devise these his dreams, (which you defend with fagot and fire,) to quench the light of the word of God; which, as David saith, should be a lantern to our feet. And again, Wherein shall a young man direct his way, but by the word of God? and yet you will hide it from us in a tongue unknown. St. Paul had rather have five words spoken with understanding, than ten thousand in an unknown tongue, and yet will you have your Latin service and praying in a strange tongue, whereof the people are utterly ignorant, to be of such antiquity. "The Greek church, and a good part of Christendom besides, never received your service in an unknown tongue, but in their own natural language, which all the people understand; neither your transubstantiation, your receiving in one kind, your purgatory, your images, &c. "As for the unity which is in your church, what is it but treason, murder, poisoning one another, idolatry, superstition, and wickedness? What unity was in your church, when there were three popes at once? Where was your head of unity when you had a woman pope?" Here he was interrupted, and was not suffered to proceed. The bishop said his words were blasphemous, and ordered the keeper to take him away. Bonner observing, on his second examination, that Holland said, he was willing to be instructed by the church, (meaning the true church,) he ordered the keeper to let him want for nothing, not even for money, by which conduct he hoped to inveigle him from the truth. This, however, upon his last examination did not produce the intended effect. Bonner spoke very handsomely to him, and assured him his former hasty answers should not operate against him, as he himself (the bishop) was sometimes too hasty, but it was soon over; he further said, that he should have consigned him to his own ordinary for examination, but for the particular interest he took in his welfare, for his and his friends' sake. From this exordium he proceeded to the touchstone question of the real presence in the mass. "Do you not believe, that, after the priest hath spoken the words of consecration, there remains the body of Christ, really and corporeally under the forms of bread and wine? I mean the self-same body as was born of the Virgin Mary, that was crucified upon the cross, that rose again the third day." Holland replied, "Your lordship saith, the same body which was born of the Virgin Mary, which was crucified upon the cross, which rose again the third day: but you leave out 'which ascended into heaven;' and the Scripture saith, He shall remain until he come to judge the quick and the dead. Then he is not contained under the forms of bread and wine, by Hoc est corpus meum, &c." Bonner, finding no impression could be made upon his firmness, and that he himself could not endure to hear the mass, transubstantiation, and the worshipping the sacrament, denominated impious and horrid idolatry, pronounced the condemnatory sentence, adjudging him to be burnt. During this fulmination, Holland stood very quiet, and when he was about to depart, he begged permission to speak a few words. The bishop would not hear him, but, at the intercession of a friend, he was permitted. In the following speech, there is a spirit of prophecy which entitles it to particular attention; they were not the words of a random enthusiast, but of one to whom God seems to have given an assurance, that the present abject state of his faithful people should shortly be altered. _Holland._ "Even now I told you that your authority was from God, and by his sufferance: and now I tell you God hath heard the voice of his servants, which hath been poured forth with tears for his afflicted saints, whom you daily persecute, as now you do us. But this I dare be bold in God to say, (by whose Spirit I am moved,) that God will shorten your hand of cruelty, that for a time you shall not molest his church. And this you shall in a short time well perceive, my dear brethren, to be most true. For _after this day, in this place_, there shall not be any by him put to the trial of fire and fagot;" and after that day there were none that suffered in Smithfield for the truth of the gospel. In reply, Bonner said, "Roger, thou art, I perceive, as mad in these thy heresies as ever was Joan Butcher. In anger and fume thou would become a railing prophet. Though thou and all the rest of you would see me hanged, yet I _shall_ live to burn, yea, and I _will_ burn all the sort of you that come into my hands, that will not worship the blessed sacrament of the altar, for all thy prattling;" and so he went his way. Then Holland began to exhort his friends to repentance, and to think well of them that suffered for the testimony of the gospel, upon which the bishop came back, charging the keeper that no man should speak to them without his license; if they did, they should be committed to prison. In the mean time, Henry Pond and Holland spake to the people, exhorting them to stand firm in the truth; adding, that God would shorten these cruel and evil days for his elect's sake. The day they suffered, a proclamation was made, prohibiting every one from speaking or talking to, or receiving any thing from them, or touching them, upon pain of imprisonment without either bail or mainprize. Notwithstanding, the people cried out, "God strengthen them!" They also prayed for the people, and the restoration of his word. Embracing the stake and the reeds, Holland said these words: "Lord, I most humbly thank thy Majesty, that thou hast called me from the state of death unto the light of thy heavenly word, and now unto the fellowship of thy saints, that I may sing and say, Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts! And, Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit! Lord, bless these, thy people, and save them from idolatry." Thus he ended his life, looking towards heaven, praying to, and praising God, with the rest of his fellow saints. These seven martyrs were consumed, June 27, 1558. The names of the six martyrs taken in company with those who were apprehended in the close, near Islington, were R. Mills, S. Cotton, R. Dynes, S. Wright, J. Slade, and W. Pikes, tanner. They were condemned by Bonner's chancellor in one day, and the next day a writ was sent to Brentford for their execution, which took place, July 14, 1558. _Flagellations by Bonner._ When this catholic hyena found that neither persuasions, threats, nor imprisonment, could produce any alteration in the mind of a youth named Thomas Hinshaw, he sent him to Fulham, and during the first night set him in the stocks, with no other allowance than bread and water. The following morning he came to see if this punishment had worked any change in his mind, and finding none, he sent Dr. Harpsfield, his archdeacon, to converse with him. The Doctor was soon out of humour at his replies, called him peevish boy, and asked him if he thought he went about to damn his soul? "I am persuaded," said Thomas, "that you labour to promote the dark kingdom of the devil, not for the love of the truth." These words the doctor conveyed to the bishop, who, in a passion that almost prevented articulation, came to Thomas, and said, "Dost thou answer my archdeacon thus, thou naughty boy? But I'll soon handle thee well enough for it, be assured!" Two willow twigs were then brought him, and causing the unresisting youth to kneel against a long bench, in an arbour in his garden, he scourged him till he was compelled to cease for want of breath and fatigue, being of a punchy and full-bellied make. One of the rods was worn quite away. Many other conflicts did Hinshaw undergo from the bishop; who, at length, to remove him effectually, procured false witnesses to lay articles against him, all of which the young man denied, and, in short, refused to answer to any interrogatories administered to him. A fortnight after this, the young man was attacked by a burning ague, and at the request of his master, Mr. Pugson, of St. Paul's church-yard, he was removed, the bishop not doubting that he had given him his death in the natural way; he however remained ill above a year, and in the mean time queen Mary died, by which act of providence he escaped Bonner's rage. John Willes was another faithful person, on whom the scourging hand of Bonner fell. He was the brother of Richard Willes, before mentioned, burnt at Brentford. Hinshaw and Willes were confined in Bonner's coal house together, and afterward removed to Fulham, where he and Hinshaw remained during eight or ten days, in the stocks. Bonner's persecuting spirit betrayed itself in his treatment of Willes during his examinations, often striking him on the head with a stick, seizing him by the ears, and filipping him under the chin, saying he held down his head like a thief. This producing no signs of recantation, he took him into his orchard, and in a small arbour there he flogged him first with a willow rod, and then with birch, till he was exhausted. This cruel ferocity arose from the answer of the poor sufferer, who, upon being asked how long it was since he had crept to the cross, replied, "Not since he had come to years of discretion, nor would he, though he should be torn to pieces by wild horses." Bonner then bade him make the sign of the cross on his forehead, which he refused to do, and thus was led to the orchard. The communications that took place between Bonner and Willes are too tedious to give in detail. The reader would smile to read the infatuated simple reasons with which the bishop endeavoured to delude the ignorant. He strongly urged the impropriety of his meddling with matters of scripture; adding, "If thou wilt believe Luther, Zuinglius, and other protestant authors, thou canst not go right; but in believing me, there can be no error!--and, if there be, thy blood will be required at our hands. In following Luther, and the heretics of latter days, now wilt thou come to the place thou askest for?--They will lead thee to destruction, and burn thy body and soul in hell, like all those who have been burnt in Smithfield." The bishop continued to afflict him in his examinations, in which, among other things, he said, "They call me bloody Bonner!--A vengeance on you all! I would fain be rid of you, but you have a delight in burning. Could I have my will, I would sew up your mouths, put you in sacks, and drown you!" What a sanguinary speech was this, to proceed from the mouth of one who professed to be a minister of the gospel of peace, and a servant of the Lamb of God!--Can we have an assurance that the same spirit does not reign now, which reigned in this mitred catholic? One day, when in the stocks, Bonner asked him how he liked his lodging and fare. "Well enough," said Willes, "might I have a little straw to sit or lie upon." Just at this time came in Willes' wife, then largely pregnant, and entreated the bishop for her husband, boldly declaring that she would be delivered in the house, if he were not suffered to go with her. To get rid of the good wife's importunity, and the trouble of a lying-in woman in his palace, he bade Willes make the sign of the cross, and say, In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. Willes omitted the sign, and repeated the words, "in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen." Bonner would have the words repeated in Latin, to which Willes made no objection, knowing the meaning of the words. He was then permitted to go home with his wife, his kinsman Robert Rouze being charged to bring him to St. Paul's the next day, whither he himself went, and, subscribing to a Latin instrument of little importance, was liberated. This is the last of the twenty-two taken at Islington. _Rev. Richard Yeoman._ This devout aged person was curate to Dr. Taylor, at Hadley, and eminently qualified for his sacred function. Dr. Taylor left him the curacy at his departure, but no sooner had Mr. Newall gotten the benefice, than he removed Mr. Yeoman, and substituted a Romish priest. After this he wandered from place to place, exhorting all men to stand faithfully to God's word, earnestly to give themselves unto prayer, with patience to bear the cross now laid upon them for their trial, with boldness to confess the truth before their adversaries, and with an undoubted hope to wait for the crown and reward of eternal felicity. But when he perceived his adversaries lay wait for him, he went into Kent, and with a little packet of laces, pins, points, &c. he travelled from village to village, selling such things, and in this manner subsisted himself, his wife, and children. At last Justice Moile, of Kent, took Mr. Yeoman, and set him in the stocks a day and a night; but, having no evident matter to charge him with, he let him go again. Coming secretly again to Hadley, he tarried with his poor wife, who kept him privately, in a chamber of the town-house, commonly called the Guildhall, more than a year. During this time the good old father abode in a chamber locked up all the day, spending his time in devout prayer, in reading the Scriptures, and in carding the wool which his wife spun. His wife also begged bread for herself and her children, by which precarious means they supported themselves. Thus the saints of God sustained hunger and misery, while the prophets of Baal lived in festivity, and were costily pampered at Jezebel's table. Information being at length given to Newall, that Yeoman was secreted by his wife, he came, attended by the constables, and broke into the room where the object of his search lay in bed with his wife. He reproached the poor woman with being a whore, and would have indecently pulled the clothes off, but Yeoman resisted both this act of violence and the attack upon his wife's character, adding that he defied the pope and popery. He was then taken out, and set in the stocks till day. In the cage also with him was an old man, named John Dale, who had sat there three or four days, for exhorting the people during the time service was performing by Newall and his curate. His words were, "O miserable and blind guides, will ye ever be blind leaders of the blind? will ye never amend? will ye never see the truth of God's word? will neither God's threats nor promises enter into your hearts? will the blood of the martyrs nothing mollify your stony stomachs? O obdurate, hard-hearted, perverse, and crooked generation! to whom nothing can do good." These words he spake in fervency of spirit against the superstitious religion of Rome; wherefore parson Newall caused him forthwith to be attached, and set in the stocks in a cage, where he was kept till Sir Henry Doile, a justice, came to Hadley. When Yeoman was taken, the parson called earnestly upon Sir Henry Doile to send them both to prison. Sir Henry Doile as earnestly entreated the parson to consider the age of the men, and their mean condition; they were neither persons of note nor preachers; wherefore he proposed to let them be punished a day or two and to dismiss them, at least John Dale, who was no priest, and therefore, as he had so long sat in the cage, he thought it punishment enough for this time. When the parson heard this, he was exceedingly mad, and in a great rage called them pestilent heretics, unfit to live in the commonwealth of Christians. Sir Henry, fearing to appear too merciful, Yeoman and Dale were pinioned, bound like thieves with their legs under the horses' bellies, and carried to Bury jail, where they were laid in irons; and because they continually rebuked popery, they were carried into the lowest dungeon, where John Dale, through the jail-sickness and evil-keeping, died soon after: his body was thrown out, and buried in the fields. He was a man of sixty-six years of age, a weaver by occupation, well learned in the holy Scriptures, steadfast in his confession of the true doctrines of Christ as set forth in king Edward's time; for which he joyfully suffered prison and chains, and from this worldly dungeon he departed in Christ to eternal glory, and the blessed paradise of everlasting felicity. After Dale's death, Yeoman was removed to Norwich prison, where, after strait and evil keeping, he was examined upon his faith and religion, and required to submit himself to his holy father the pope. "I defy him, (quoth he,) and all his detestable abomination: I will in no wise have to do with him." The chief articles objected to him, were his marriage and the mass sacrifice. Finding he continued steadfast in the truth, he was condemned, degraded, and not only burnt, but most cruelly tormented in the fire. Thus he ended this poor and miserable life, and entered into that blessed bosom of Abraham, enjoying with Lazarus that rest which God has prepared for his elect. _Thomas Benbridge._ Mr. Benbridge was a single gentleman, in the diocese of Winchester. He might have lived a gentleman's life, in the wealthy possessions of this world; but he chose rather to enter through the strait gate of persecution to the heavenly possession of life in the Lord's kingdom, than to enjoy present pleasure with disquietude of conscience. Manfully standing against the papists for the defence of the sincere doctrine of Christ's gospel, he was apprehended as an adversary to the Romish religion, and led for examination before the bishop of Winchester, where he underwent several conflicts for the truth against the bishop and his colleague; for which he was condemned, and some time after brought to the place of martyrdom by Sir Richard Pecksal, sheriff. When standing at the stake he began to untie his points, and to prepare himself; then he gave his gown to the keeper, by way of fee. His jerkin was trimmed with gold lace, which he gave to Sir Richard Pecksal, the high sheriff. His cap of velvet he took from his head, and threw away. Then, lifting his mind to the Lord, he engaged in prayer. When fastened to the stake, Dr. Seaton begged him to recant, and he should have his pardon; but when he saw that nothing availed, he told the people not to pray for him unless he would recant, no more than they would pray for a dog. Mr. Benbridge, standing at the stake with his hands together in such a manner as the priest holds his hands in his Memento, Dr. Seaton came to him again, and exhorted him to recant, to whom he said, "Away, Babylon, away!" One that stood by said, Sir, cut his tongue out; another, a temporal man, railed at him worse than Dr. Seaton had done. When they saw he would not yield, they bade the tormentors to light the pile, before he was in any way covered with fagots. The fire first took away a piece of his beard, at which he did not shrink. Then it came on the other side and took his legs, and the nether stockings of his hose being leather, they made the fire pierce the sharper, so that the intolerable heat made him exclaim, "I recant!" and suddenly he thrust the fire from him. Two or three of his friends being by, wished to save him; they stepped to the fire to help remove it, for which kindness they were sent to jail. The sheriff also of his own authority took him from the stake, and remitted him to prison, for which he was sent to the fleet, and lay there sometime. Before, however, he was taken from the stake, Dr. Seaton wrote articles for him to subscribe to. To these Mr. Benbridge made so many objections, that Dr. Seaton ordered them to set fire again to the pile. Then with much pain and grief of heart he subscribed to them upon a man's back. This done, his gown was given him again, and he was led to prison. While there, he wrote a letter to Dr. Seaton, recanting those words he spake at the stake, and the articles which he had subscribed; for he was grieved that he had ever signed them. The same day se'night he was again brought to the stake, where the vile tormentors rather broiled than burnt him. The Lord give his enemies repentance! Not long before the sickness of queen Mary, in the beginning of August, 1558, four inoffensive humble martyrs were burnt at St. Edmundsbury with very little examination. Neglect in attending the popish service at mass, which in vain they pleaded as a matter of conscience, was the cause of their untimely sufferings and deaths. Their heroic names were J. Crooke, sawyer; R. Miles, alias Plummer, sheerman; A. Lane, wheelright; and J. Ashley, a bachelor. _Alexander Gouch and Alice Driver._ These godly persons were apprehended by Mr. Noone, a justice in Suffolk. They were brought to the stake at seven o'clock in the morning, notwithstanding they had come from Melton jail, six miles off. The sheriff, Sir Henry Dowell, was much dissatisfied with the time they took in prayer, and sent one of his men to bid them make an end. Gouch earnestly entreated for a little time, urging that they had but a little while to live: but the sheriff would grant no indulgence, and ordered the numerous friends who came to take the last farewell of them as they stood chained to the stake, to be forcibly torn away, and threatened them with arrest; but the indignation of the spectators made him revoke this order. They endured the terrific conflagration, and honoured God equally in their lives and deaths. In the same month were executed at Bury, P. Humphrey, and J. and H. David, brothers. Sir Clement Higham, about a fortnight before the queen's death, issued out a warrant for their sacrifice, notwithstanding the queen's illness at that time rendered her incapable of signing the order for their execution. _Mrs. Prest._ From the number condemned in this fanatical reign, it is almost impossible to obtain the name of every martyr, or to embellish the history of all with anecdotes and exemplifications of Christian conduct. Thanks be to Providence, our cruel task begins to draw towards a conclusion, with the end of the reign of Papal terror and bloodshed. Monarchs, sit upon thrones possessed by hereditary right, should, of all others, consider that the laws of nature are the laws of God, and hence that the first law of nature is the preservation of their subjects. Maxims of persecutions, of torture, and of death, they should leave to those who have effected sovereignty by fraud or the sword; but where, except among a few miscreant emperors of Rome, and the Roman pontiffs, shall we find one whose memory is so "damned to everlasting fame" as that of queen Mary? Nations bewail the hour which separates them forever from a beloved governor, but, with respect to that of Mary, it was the most blessed time of her whole reign. Heaven has ordained three great scourges for national sins--plague, pestilence, and famine. It was the will of God in Mary's reign to bring a fourth upon this kingdom, under the form of Papistical Persecution. It was sharp, but glorious; the fire which consumed the martyrs has undermined the Popedom; and the Catholic states, at present the most bigoted and unenlightened, are those which are sunk lowest in the scale of moral dignity and political consequence. May they remain so, till the pure light of the gospel shall dissipate the darkness of fanaticism and superstition! But to return. Mrs. Prest for some time lived about Cornwall, where she had a husband and children, whose bigotry compelled her to frequent the abominations of the church of Rome. Resolving to act as her conscience dictated, she quitted them, and made a living by spinning. After some time, returning home, she was accused by her neighbours, and brought to Exeter, to be examined before Dr. Troubleville, and his chancellor Blackston. As this martyr was accounted of inferior intellects, we shall put her in competition with the bishop, and let the reader judge which had the most of that knowledge conducive to everlasting life. The bishop bringing the question to issue, respecting the bread and wine being flesh and blood, Mrs. Prest said, "I will demand of you whether you can deny your creed, which says, that Christ doth perpetually sit at the right hand of his Father, both body and soul, until he come again; or whether he be there in heaven our Advocate, and to make prayer for us unto God his Father? If he be so, he is not here on earth in a piece of bread. If he be not here, and if he do not dwell in temples made with hands, but in heaven, what! shall we seek him here? If he did not offer his body once for all, why make you a new offering? If with one offering he made all perfect, why do you with a false offering make all imperfect? If he be to be worshipped in spirit and in truth, why do you worship a piece of bread? If he be eaten and drunken in faith and truth, if his flesh be not profitable to be among us, why do you say you make his flesh and blood, and say it is profitable for body and soul? Alas! I am a poor woman, but rather than do as you do, I would live no longer. I have said, Sir." _Bishop._ I promise you, you are a jolly protestant. I pray you in what school have you been brought up? _Mrs. Prest._ I have upon the Sundays visited the sermons, and there have I learned such things as are so fixed in my breast, that death shall not separate them. _B._ O foolish woman, who will waste his breath upon thee, or such as thou art? But how chanceth it that thou wentest away from thy husband? If thou wert an honest woman, thou wouldst not have left thy husband and children, and run about the country like a fugitive. _Mrs. P._ Sir, I laboured for my living; and as my master Christ counselleth me, when I was persecuted in one city, I fled into another. _B._ Who persecuted thee? _Mrs. P._ My husband and my children. For when I would have them to leave idolatry, and to worship God in heaven, he would not hear me, but he with his children rebuked me, and troubled me. I fled not for whoredom, nor for theft, but because I would be no partaker with him and his of that foul idol the mass; and wheresoever I was, as oft as I could, upon Sundays and holydays, I made excuses not to go to the popish church. _B._ Belike then you are a good housewife, to fly from your husband and the church. _Mrs. P._ My housewifery is but small; but God gave me grace to go to the true church. _B._ The true church, what dost thou mean? _Mrs. P._ Not your popish church, full of idols and abominations, but where two or three are gathered together in the name of God, to that church will I go as long as I live. _B._ Belike then you have a church of your own. Well, let this mad woman be put down to prison till we send for her husband. _Mrs. P._ No, I have but one husband, who is here already in this city, and in prison with me, from whom I will never depart. Some persons present endeavouring to convince the bishop she was not in her right senses, she was permitted to depart. The keeper of the bishop's prisons took her into his house, where she either spun worked as a servant, or walked about the city, discoursing upon the sacrament of the altar. Her husband was sent for to take her home, but this she refused while the cause of religion could be served. She was too active to be idle, and her conversation, simple as they affected to think her, excited the attention of several catholic priests and friars. They teazed her with questions, till she answered them angrily, and this excited a laugh at her warmth. Nay, said she, you have more need to weep than to laugh, and to be sorry that ever you were born, to be the chaplains of that whore of Babylon. I defy him and all his falsehood; and get you away from me, you do but trouble my conscience. You would have me follow your doings; I will first lose my life. I pray you depart. Why, thou foolish woman, said they, we come to thee for thy profit and soul's health. To which she replied, What profit ariseth by you, that teach nothing but lies for truth? how save you souls, when you preach nothing but lies, and destroy souls? How provest thou that? said they. Do you not destroy your souls, when you teach the people to worship idols, stocks and stones, the works of men's hands? and to worship a false God of your own making of a piece of bread, and teach that the pope is God's vicar, and hath power to forgive sins? and that there is a purgatory, when God's Son hath by his passion purged all? and say you make God, and sacrifice him, when Christ's body was a sacrifice once for all? Do you not teach the people to number their sins in your ears, and say they will be damned if they confess not all; when God's word saith, Who can number his sins? Do you not promise them trentals and dirges, and masses for souls, and sell your prayers for money, and make them buy pardons, and trust to such foolish inventions of your imaginations? Do you not altogether act against God? Do you not teach us to pray upon beads, and to pray unto saints, and say they can pray for us? Do you not make holy water and holy bread to fray devils? Do you not do a thousand more abominations? And yet you say, you come for my profit, and to save my soul. No, no, one hath saved me. Farewell, you with your salvation. During the liberty granted her by the bishop, before-mentioned, she went into St. Peter's church, and there found a skilful Dutchman, who was affixing new noses to certain fine images which had been disfigured in king Edward's time; to whom she said, What a madman art thou, to make them new noses, which within a few days shall all lose their heads? The Dutchman accused her and laid it hard to her change. And she said unto him, Thou are accursed, and so are thy images. He called her a whore. Nay, said she, thy images are whores, and thou art a whore-hunter; for doth not God say, You go a whoring after strange gods, figures of your own making? and thou art one of them. After this she was ordered to be confined, and had no more liberty. During the time of her imprisonment, many visited her, some sent by the bishop, and some of their own will; among these was one Daniel, a great preacher of the gospel, in the days of king Edward, about Cornwall and Devonshire, but who, through the grievous persecution he had sustained, had fallen off. Earnestly did she exhort him to repent with Peter, and to be more constant in his profession. Mrs. Walter Rauley and Mr. Wm. and John Kede, persons of great respectability, bore ample testimony of her godly conversation, declaring, that unless God were with her, it were impossible she could have so ably defended the cause of Christ. Indeed, to sum up the character of this poor woman, she united the serpent and the dove, abounding in the highest wisdom joined to the greatest simplicity. She endured imprisonment, threatenings, taunts, and the vilest epithets, but nothing could induce her to swerve; her heart was fixed; she had cast anchor; nor could all the wounds of persecution remove her from the rock on which her hopes of felicity were built. Such was her memory, that, without learning, she could tell in what chapter any text of scripture was contained: on account of this singular property, one Gregory Basset, a rank papist, said she was deranged, and talked as a parrot, wild without meaning. At length, having tried every manner without effect to make her nominally a catholic, they condemned her. After this, one exhorted her to leave her opinions, and go home to her family, as she was poor and illiterate. "True, (said she) though I am not learned, I am content to be a witness of Christ's death, and I pray you make no longer delay with me; for my heart is fixed, and I will never say otherwise, nor turn to your superstitious doing." To the disgrace of Mr. Blackston, treasurer of the church, he would often send for this poor martyr from prison, to make sport for him and a woman whom he kept; putting religious questions to her, and turning her answers into ridicule. This done, he sent her back to her wretched dungeon, while he battened upon the good things of this world. There was perhaps something simply ludicrous in the form of Mrs. Prest, as she was of a very short stature, thick set, and about fifty-four years of age; but her countenance was cheerful and lively, as if prepared for the day of her marriage with the Lamb. To mock at her form was an indirect accusation of her Creator, who framed her after the fashion he liked best, and gave her a mind that far excelled the transient endowments of perishable flesh. When she was offered money, she rejected it, "because (said she) I am going to a city where money bears no mastery, and while I am here God has promised to feed me." When sentence was read, condemning her to the flames, she lifted up her voice and praised God, adding, "This day have I found that which I have long sought." When they tempted her to recant,--"That will I not, (said she) God forbid that I should lose the life eternal, for this carnal and short life. I will never turn from my heavenly husband to my earthly husband; from the fellowship of angels to mortal children; and if my husband and children be faithful, then am I theirs. God is my father, God is my mother, God is my sister, my brother, my kinsman; God is my friend, most faithful." Being delivered to the sheriff, she was led by the officer to the place of execution, without the walls of Exeter, called Sothenhey, where again the superstitious priests assaulted her. While they were tying her to the stake, she continued earnestly to exclaim "God be merciful to me, a sinner!" Patiently enduring the devouring conflagration, she was consumed to ashes, and thus ended a life which in unshaken fidelity to the cause of Christ, was not surpassed by that of any preceding martyr. _Richard Sharpe, Thomas Banion, and Thomas Hale._ Mr. Sharpe, weaver, of Bristol, was brought the 9th day of March, 1556, before Mr. Dalby, chancellor of the city of Bristol, and after examination concerning the sacrament of the altar, was persuaded to recant; and on the 29th, he was enjoined to make his recantation in the parish church. But, scarcely had he publicly avowed his backsliding, before he felt in his conscience such a tormenting fiend, that he was unable to work at his occupation; hence, shortly after, one Sunday, he came into the parish church, called Temple, and after high mass, stood up in the choir door, and said with a loud voice, "Neighbours, bear me record that yonder idol (pointing to the altar) is the greatest and most abominable that ever was; and I am sorry that ever I denied my Lord God!" Notwithstanding the constables were ordered to apprehend him, he was suffered to go out of the church; but at night he was apprehended and carried to Newgate. Shortly after, before the chancellor, denying the sacrament of the altar to be the body and blood of Christ, he was condemned to be burned by Mr. Dalby. He was burnt the 7th of May, 1558, and died godly, patiently, and constantly, confessing the protestant articles of faith. With him suffered Thomas Hale, shoemaker, of Bristol, who was condemned by chancellor Dalby. These martyrs were bound back to back. Thomas Banion, a weaver, was burnt on August 27th, of the same year, and died for the sake of the evangelical cause of his Saviour. _J. Corneford, of Wortham; C. Browne, of Maidstone; J. Herst, of Ashford; Alice Snoth, and Catharine Knight, an aged woman._ With pleasure we have to record that these five martyrs were the last who suffered in the reign of Mary for the sake of the protestant cause; but the malice of the papists was conspicuous in hastening their martyrdom, which might have been delayed till the event of the queen's illness was decided. It is reported that the archdeacon of Canterbury, judging that the sudden death of the queen would suspend the execution, travelled post from London, to have the satisfaction of adding another page to the black list of papistical sacrifices. The articles against them were, as usual, the sacramental elements and the idolatry of bending to images. They quoted St. John's words, "Beware of images!" and respecting the real presence, they urged according to St. Paul, "the things that be seen are temporal." When sentence was about to be read against them, and excommunication take place in the regular form, John Corneford, illuminated by the Holy Spirit, awfully turned the latter proceeding against themselves, and in a solemn impressive manner, recriminated their excommunication in the following words: "In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of the most mighty God, and by the power of his holy Spirit, and the authority of his holy catholic and apostolic church, we do here give into the hands of Satan to be destroyed, the bodies of all those blasphemers and heretics that maintain any error against his most holy word, or do condemn his most holy truth for heresy, to the maintenance of any false church or foreign religion, so that by this thy just judgment, O most mighty God, against thy adversaries, thy true religion may be known to thy great glory and our comfort and to the edifying of all our nation. Good Lord, so be it. Amen." This sentence was openly pronounced and registered, and, as if Providence had awarded that it should not be delivered in vain, within six days after, queen Mary died, detested by all good men and accursed of God! Though acquainted with these circumstances, the archdeacon's implacability exceeded that of his great exemplary, Bonner, who, though he had several persons at that time under his fiery grasp, did not urge their deaths hastily, by which delay he certainly afforded them an opportunity of escape. Father Lining and his wife, with several others, thus saved their lives, who, had they been under the barbarous archdeacon, must inevitably have perished. At the queen's decease, many were in bonds: some just taken, some examined, and others condemned. The writs indeed were issued for several burnings, but by the death of the three instigators of protestant murder,--the chancellor, the bishop, and the queen, who fell nearly together, the condemned sheep were liberated, and lived many years to praise God for their happy deliverance. These five martyrs, when at the stake, earnestly prayed that their blood might be the last shed, nor did they pray in vain. They died gloriously, and perfected the number God had selected to hear witness of the truth in this dreadful reign, whose names are recorded in the Book of Life;--though last, not least among the saints made meet for immortality through the redeeming blood of the Lamb! Catharine Finlay, alias Knight, was first converted by her son's expounding the Scriptures to her, which wrought in her a perfect work that terminated in martyrdom. Alice Snoth at the stake sent for her grandmother and godfather, and rehearsed to them the articles of her faith, and the commandments of God, thereby convincing the world that she knew her duty. She died calling upon the spectators to bear witness that she was a Christian woman, and suffered joyfully for the testimony of Christ's gospel. _William Fetty scourged to death._ Among the numberless enormities committed by the merciless and unfeeling Bonner, the murder of this innocent and unoffending child may be ranked as the most horrid. His father, John Fetty, of the parish of Clerkenwell, by trade a tailor, and only twenty-four years of age, had made a blessed election; he was fixed secure in eternal hope, and depended on Him who so builds his church that the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. But alas! the very wife of his bosom, whose heart was hardened against the truth, and whose mind was influenced by the teachers of false doctrine, became his accuser. Brokenbery, a creature of the pope, and parson of the parish, received the information of this wedded Delilah, in consequence of which the poor man was apprehended. But here the awful judgment of an ever-righteous God, "who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity," fell upon this stone-hearted and perfidious woman; for no sooner was the injured husband captured by her wicked contriving, than she also was suddenly seized with madness, and exhibited an awful and awakening instance of God's power to punish the evil doer. This dreadful circumstance had some effect upon the hearts of the ungodly hunters who had eagerly grasped their prey; but, in a relenting moment, they suffered him to remain with his unworthy wife, to return her good for evil, and to comfort two children, who, on his being sent to prison, would have been left without a protector, or have become a burden to the parish. As bad men act from little motives, we may place the indulgence shown him to the latter account. We have noticed in the former part of our narratives of the martyrs, some whose affection would have led them even to sacrifice their own lives, to preserve their husbands; but here, agreeable to Scripture language, a mother proves, indeed, a monster in nature! Neither conjugal nor maternal affection could impress the heart of this disgraceful woman. Although our afflicted Christian had experienced so much cruelty and falsehood from the woman who was bound to him by every tie, both human and divine, yet, with a mild and forbearing spirit, he overlooked her misdeeds, during her calamity endeavouring all he could to procure relief for her malady, and soothing her by every possible expression of tenderness: thus she became in a few weeks nearly restored to her senses. But, alas! she returned again to her sin, "as the dog returneth to his vomit." Malice against the saints of the Most High was seated in her heart too firmly to be removed; and as her strength returned, her inclination to work wickedness returned with it. Her heart was hardened by the prince of darkness; and to her may be applied these afflicting and soul-harrowing words, "can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? then will they do good who are accustomed to do evil." Weighing this text duly with another, "I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy," how shall we presume to refine away the sovereignty of God, by arraigning Jehovah at the bar of human reason, which, in religious matters, is too often opposed by infinite wisdom? "Broad is the way which leadeth to death, and many walk therein. Narrow is the way which leadeth to life, and few there be who find it." The ways of heaven are indeed inscrutable, and it is our bounden duty to walk ever dependent on God, looking up to him with humble confidence, and hope in his goodness, and ever confess his justice; and where we "cannot unravel, there learn to trust." This wretched woman, pursuing the horrid dictates of a heart hardened and depraved, was scarcely confirmed in her recovery, when, stifling the dictates of honour, gratitude, and every natural affection, she again accused her husband, who was once more apprehended, and taken before Sir John Mordant, Knight, and one of queen Mary's commissioners. Upon examination, his judge finding him fixed to opinions which militated against those nursed by superstition and maintained by cruelty he was sentenced to confinement and torture in Lollard's Tower. "Here (says honest Fox) he was put into the painful stocks, and had a dish of water set by him, with a stone put into it, to what purpose God knoweth, except it were to show that he should look for little other subsistence: which is credible enough, if we consider their like practices upon divers before mentioned in this history; as, among others, upon Richard Smith, who died through their cruel imprisonment; touching whom, when a godly woman came to Dr. Story to have leave that she might bury him, he asked her if he had any straw or blood in his mouth; but what he means thereby, I leave to the judgment of the wise." On the first day of the third week of our martyr's sufferings, an object presented itself to his view, which made him indeed feel his tortures with all their force, and to execrate, with bitterness only short of cursing, the author of his misery. To mark and punish the proceedings of his tormentors, remained with the Most High, who noteth even the fall of a sparrow, and in whose sacred word it is written, "Vengeance is mine, and I will repay." This object was his own son, a child of the tender age of eight years. For fifteen days, had its hapless father been suspended by his tormentor by the right arm and left leg, and sometimes by both, shifting his positions for the purpose of giving him strength to bear and to lengthen the date of his sufferings. When the unoffending innocent, desirous of seeing and speaking to its parent, applied to Bonner for permission so to do, the poor child being asked by the bishop's chaplain the purport of his errand, he replied, he wished to see his father. "Who is thy father?" said the chaplain. "John Fetty," returned the boy, at the same time pointing to the place where he was confined. The interrogating miscreant on this said, "Why, thy father is a heretic!" The little champion again rejoined, with energy sufficient to raise admiration in any breast, except that of this unprincipled and unfeeling wretch--this miscreant, eager to execute the behests of a remorseless queen--"My father is no heretic: for you have Balaam's mark." Irritated by reproach so aptly applied, the indignant and mortified priest concealed his resentment for a moment, and took the undaunted boy into the house, where, having him secure, he presented him to others, whose baseness and cruelty being equal to his own, they stripped him to the skin, and applied their scourges to so violent a degree, that, fainting beneath the stripes inflicted on his tender frame, and covered with the blood that flowed from them, the victim of their ungodly wrath was ready to expire under his heavy and unmerited punishment. In this bleeding and helpless state was the suffering infant, covered only with his shirt, taken to his father by one of the actors in the horrid tragedy, who, while he exhibited the heart-rending spectacle, made use of the vilest taunts, and exulted in what he had done. The dutiful child, as if recovering strength at the sight of his father, on his knees implored his blessing. "Alas! Will," said the afflicted parent, in trembling amazement, "who hath done this to thee!" The artless innocent related the circumstances that led to the merciless correction which had been so basely inflicted on him; but when he repeated the reproof bestowed on the chaplain, and which was prompted by an undaunted spirit, he was torn from his weeping parent, and conveyed again to the house, where he remained a close prisoner. Bonner, somewhat fearful that what had been done could not be justified even among the bloodhounds of his own voracious pack, concluded in his dark and wicked mind, to release John Fetty, for a time at least, from the severities he was enduring in the glorious cause of everlasting truth! whose bright rewards are fixed beyond the boundaries of time, within the confines of eternity; where the arrow of the wicked cannot wound, even "where there shall be no more sorrowing for the blessed, who, in the mansion of eternal bliss shall glorify the Lamb forever and ever." He was accordingly by order of Bonner, (how disgraceful to all dignity, to say bishop!) liberated from the painful bonds, and led from Lollard's Tower, to the chamber of that ungodly and infamous butcher, where, says Fox, he found the bishop bathing himself before a great fire; and at his first entering the chamber, Fetty said, "God be here and peace!" "God be here and peace, (said Bonner,) that is neither God speed nor good morrow!" "If ye kick against this peace, (said Fetty,) then this is not the place that I seek for." A chaplain of the bishop, standing by, turned the poor man about and thinking to abash him, said, in mocking wise, "What have we here--a player!" While Fetty was thus standing in the bishop's chamber, he espied, hanging about the bishop's bed, a pair of great black beads, whereupon he said, "My Lord, I think the hangman is not far off; for the halter (pointing to the beads) is here already!" At which words the bishop was in a marvellous rage. Then he immediately after espied also, standing in the bishop's chamber, in the window, a little crucifix. Then he asked the bishop what it was, and he answered, that it was Christ. "Was he handled as cruelly as he is here pictured?" said Fetty. "Yea, that he was," said the bishop. "And even so cruelly will you handle such as come before you; for you are unto God's people as Caiaphas was unto Christ!" The bishop, being in a great fury, said, "Thou art a vile heretic, and I will burn thee, or else I will spend all I have, unto my gown." "Nay, my Lord, (said Fetty) you were better to give it to some poor body, that he may pray for you." Bonner, notwithstanding his passion, which was raised to the utmost by the calm and pointed remarks of this observing Christian, thought it most prudent to dismiss the father, on account of the nearly murdered child. His coward soul trembled for the consequences which might ensue; fear is inseparable from little minds; and this dastardly pampered priest experienced its effects so far as to induce him to assume the appearance of that he was an utter stranger to, namely, MERCY. The father, on being dismissed, by the tyrant Bonner, went home with a heavy heart, with his dying child, who did not survive many days the cruelties which had been inflicted on him. How contrary to the will of our great King and Prophet, who mildly taught his followers, was the conduct of this sanguinary and false teacher, this vile apostate from his God to Satan! But the arch-fiend had taken entire possession of his heart, and guided every action of the sinner he had hardened: who, given up to terrible destruction, was running the race of the wicked, marking his footsteps with the blood of the saints, as if eager to arrive at the goal of eternal death. _Deliverance of Dr. Sands._ This eminent prelate, vice-chancellor of Cambridge, at the request of the duke of Northumberland, when he came down to Cambridge in support of Lady Jane Grey's claim to the throne, undertook at a few hours notice, to preach before the duke and the university. The text he took was such as presented itself in opening the Bible, and a more appropriate one he could not have chosen, namely, the three last verses of Joshua. As God gave him the text, so he gave him also such order and utterance, that it excited the most lively emotions in his numerous auditors. The sermon was about to be sent to London to be printed, when news arrived that the duke had returned and queen Mary was proclaimed. The duke was immediately arrested, and Dr. Sands was compelled by the university to give up his office. He was arrested by the queen's order, and when Mr. Mildmay wondered that so learned a man could wilfully incur danger, and speak against so good a princess as Mary, the doctor replied, "If I would do as Mr. Mildmay has done, I need not fear bonds. He came down armed against queen Mary; before a traitor--now a great friend. I cannot with one mouth blow hot and cold in this manner." A general plunder of Dr. Sands' property ensued, and he was brought to London upon a wretched horse. Various insults he met on the way from the bigoted catholics, and as he passed through Bishopsgate-street, a stone struck him to the ground. He was the first prisoner that entered the tower, in that day, on a religious account; his man was admitted with his Bible, but his shirts and other articles were taken from him. On Mary's coronation-day, the doors of the dungeon were so laxly guarded, that it was easy to escape. A Mr. Mitchell, like a true friend, came to him, afforded him his own clothes as a disguise, and was willing to abide the consequence of being found in his place. This was a rare friendship: but he refused the offer; saying, "I know no cause why I should be in prison. To do thus, were to make myself guilty. I will expect God's good will, yet do I think myself much obliged to you:" and so Mr. Mitchell departed. With doctor Sands was imprisoned Mr. Bradford; they were kept close in prison twenty-nine weeks. John Fowler, their keeper, was a perverse papist, yet, by often persuading him, at length he began to favour the gospel, and was so persuaded in the true religion, that on a Sunday, when they had mass in the chapel, Dr. Sands administered the communion to Bradford and to Fowler. Thus Fowler was their son begotten in bonds. To make room for Wyat and his accomplices, Dr. Sands and nine other preachers were sent to the Marshalsea. The keeper of the Marshalsea appointed to every preacher a man to lead him in the street; he caused them to go on before, and he and Dr. Sands followed conversing together. By this time popery began to be unsavoury. After they had passed the bridge, the keeper said to Dr. Sands, "I perceive the vain people would set you forward to the fire. You are as vain as they, if you, being a young man, will stand in your own conceit, and prefer your own judgment before that of so many worthy prelates, ancient, learned, and grave men as be in this realm. If you do so, you shall find me a severe keeper, and one that utterly dislikes your religion." Dr. Sands answered, "I know my years to be young, and my learning but small; it is enough to know Christ crucified, and he hath learned nothing who seeth not the great blasphemy that is in popery. I will yield unto God, and not unto man; I have read in the Scriptures of many godly and courteous keepers: may God make you one! if not, I trust he will give me strength and patience to bear your hard usage." Then said the keeper, "Are you resolved to stand to your religion?" "Yes," quoth the doctor, "by God's grace!" "Truly," said the keeper, "I love you the better for it; I did but tempt you: what favour I can show you, you shall be assured of; and I shall think myself happy if I might die at the stake with you." He was as good as his word, for he trusted the doctor to walk in the fields alone, where he met with Mr. Bradford, who was also a prisoner in the King's Bench, and had found the same favour from his keeper. At his request, he put Mr. Saunders in along with him, to be his bed-fellow, and the communion was administered to a great number of communicants. When Wyat with his army came to Southwark, he offered to liberate all the imprisoned protestants, but Dr. Sands and the rest of the preachers refused to accept freedom on such terms. After Dr. Sands had been nine weeks prisoner in the Marshalsea, by the mediation of Sir Thomas Holcroft, knight marshal, he was set at liberty. Though Mr. Holcroft had the queen's warrant, the bishop commanded him not to set Dr. Sands at liberty, until he had taken sureties of two gentlemen with him, each one bound in £500, that Dr. Sands should not depart out of the realm without license. Mr. Holcroft immediately after met with two gentlemen of the north, friends and cousins to Dr. Sands, who offered to be bound for him. After dinner, the same day, Sir Thomas Holcroft sent for Dr. Sands to his lodging at Westminster, to communicate to him all he had done. Dr. Sands answered, "I give God thanks, who hath moved your heart to mind me so well, that I think myself most bound unto you. God shall requite you, nor shall I ever be found unthankful. But as you have dealt friendly with me, I will also deal plainly with you. I came a freeman into prison; I will not go forth a bondman. As I cannot benefit my friends, so will I not hurt them. And if I be set at liberty, I will not tarry six days in this realm, if I may get out. If therefore I may not get free forth, send me to the Marshalsea again, and there you shall be sure of me." This answer Mr. Holcroft much disapproved of; but like a true friend he replied, "Seeing you cannot be altered, I will change my purpose, and yield unto you. Come of it what will, I will set you at liberty; and seeing you have a mind to go over sea, get you gone as quick as you can. One thing I require of you, that, while you are there, you write nothing to me hither, for this may undo me." Dr. Sands having taken an affectionate farewell of him, and his other friends in bonds, departed. He went by Winchester house, and there took boat, and came to a friend's house in London, called William Banks, and tarried there one night. The next night he went to another friend's house, and there he heard that strict search was making for him, by Gardiner's express order. Dr. Sands now conveyed himself by night to one Mr. Berty's house, a stranger who was in the Marshalsea prison with him a while; he was a good protestant and dwelt in Mark-lake. There he was six days, and then removed to one of his acquaintances in Cornhill; he caused his man Quinton to provide two geldings for him, resolved on the morrow to ride into Essex, to Mr. Sands, his father-in-law, where his wife was, which after a narrow escape, he effected. He had not been there two hours, before Mr. Sands was told that two of the guards would that night apprehend Dr. Sands. That night Dr. Sands was guided to an honest farmer's near the sea, where he tarried two days and two nights in a chamber without company. After that he removed to one James Mower's, a ship-master, who dwelt at Milton-Shore, where he waited for a wind to Flanders. While he was there, James Mower brought to him forty or fifty mariners, to whom he gave an exhortation; they liked him so well, that they promised to die rather than he should be apprehended. The sixth of May, Sunday, the wind served. In taking leave of his hostess, who had been married eight years without having a child, he gave her a fine handkerchief and an old royal of gold, and said, "Be of good comfort; before that one whole year be past, God shall give you a child, a boy." This came to pass, for, that day twelvemonth, wanting one day, God gave her a son. Scarcely had he arrived at Antwerp, when he learned that king Philip had sent to apprehend him. He next flew to Augsburgh, in Cleveland, where Dr. Sands tarried fourteen days, and then travelled towards Strasburgh, where, after he had lived one year, his wife came to him. He was sick of a flux nine months, and had a child which died of the plague. His amiable wife at length fell into a consumption, and died in his arms. When his wife was dead, he went to Zurich, and there was in Peter Martyr's house for the space of five weeks. As they sat at dinner one day, word was suddenly brought that queen Mary was dead, and Dr. Sands was sent for by his friends at Strasburgh, where he preached. Mr. Grindall and he came over to England, and arrived in London the same day that queen Elizabeth was crowned. This faithful servant of Christ, under queen Elizabeth, rose to the highest distinctions in the church, being successively bishop of Worcester, bishop of London, and archbishop of York. _Queen Mary's treatment of her sister the Princess Elizabeth._ The preservation of the princess Elizabeth may be reckoned a remarkable instance of the watchful eye which Christ had over his church. The bigotry of Mary regarded not the ties of consanguinity, of natural affection, of national succession. Her mind, physically morose was under the dominion of men who possessed not the milk of human kindness, and whose principles were sanctioned and enjoined by the idolatrous tenets of the Romish pontiff. Could they have foreseen the short date of Mary's reign, they would have imbrued their hands in the protestant blood of Elizabeth, and, as a _sine qua non_ of the queen's salvation, have compelled her to bequeath the kingdom to some catholic prince. The contest might have been attended with the horrors incidental to a religious civil war, and calamities might have been felt in England similar to those under Henry the Great in France, whom queen Elizabeth assisted in opposing his priest-ridden catholic subjects. As if Providence had the perpetual establishment of the protestant faith in view, the difference of the durations of the two reigns is worthy of notice. Mary might have reigned many years in the course of nature, but the course of grace willed it otherwise. Five years and four months was the time of persecution alloted to this weak, disgraceful reign, while that of Elizabeth reckoned a number of years among the highest of those who have sat on the English throne, almost nine times that of her merciless sister! Before Mary attained the crown, she treated her with a sisterly kindness, but from that period her conduct was altered, and the most imperious distance substituted. Though Elizabeth had no concern in the rebellion of Sir Thomas Wyat, yet she was apprehended, and treated as a culprit in that commotion. The manner too of her arrest was similar to the mind that dictated it: the three cabinet members, whom she deputed to see the arrest executed, rudely entered the chamber at ten o'clock at night, and, though she was extremely ill, they could scarcely be induced to let her remain till the following morning. Her enfeebled state permitted her to be moved only by short stages in a journey of such length to London; but the princess, though afflicted in person, had a consolation in mind which her sister never could purchase: the people, through whom she passed on her way, pitied her, and put up their prayers for her preservation. Arrived at court, she was made a close prisoner for a fortnight, without knowing who was her accuser, or seeing any one who could console or advise her. The charge however was at length unmasked by Gardiner, who, with nineteen of the council, accused her of abetting Wyat's conspiracy, which she religiously affirmed to be false. Failing in this, they placed against her the transactions of Sir Peter Carew in the west in which they were as unsuccessful as in the former. The queen now signified, it was her pleasure she should be committed to the Tower, a step which overwhelmed the princess with the greatest alarm and uneasiness. In vain she hoped the queen's majesty would not commit her to such a place; but there was no lenity to be expected; her attendants were limited, and a hundred northern soldiers appointed to guard her day and night. On Palm-Sunday she was conducted to the Tower. When she came to the palace garden, she cast her eyes towards the windows, eagerly anxious to meet those of the queen, but she was disappointed. A strict order was given in London, that every one should go to church, and carry palms, that she might be conveyed without clamour or commiseration to her prison. At the time of passing under London-bridge the fall of the tide made it very dangerous, and the barge some time stuck fast against the starlings. To mortify her the more, she was landed at Traitors' Stairs. As it rained fast, and she was obliged to step in the water to land, she hesitated; but this excited no complaisance in the lord in waiting. When she set her foot on the steps, she exclaimed, "Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before thee, O God, I speak it, having no friend but thee alone!" A large number of the wardens and servants of the Tower were arranged in order, between whom the princess had to pass. Upon inquiring the use of this parade, she was informed it was customary to do so. "If," said she, "it is on account of me, I beseech you that they may be dismissed." On this the poor men knelt down, and prayed that God would preserve her grace, for which they were the next day turned out of their employments. The tragic scene must have been deeply interesting, to see an amiable and irreproachable princess sent like a lamb to languish in expectation of cruelty and death; against whom there was no other charge than her superiority in Christian virtues and acquired endowments. Her attendants openly wept as she proceeded with a dignified step to the frowning battlements of her destination. "Alas!" said Elizabeth, "what do you mean? I took you to comfort, not to dismay me; for my truth is such, that no one shall have cause to weep for me." The next step of her enemies was to procure evidence by means which, in the present day, are accounted detestable. Many poor prisoners were racked, to extract, if possible, any matters of accusation which might affect her life, and thereby gratify Gardiner's sanguinary disposition. He himself came to examine her, respecting her removal from her house at Ashbridge to Dunnington castle a long while before. The princess had quite forgotten this trivial circumstance, and lord Arundel, after the investigation, kneeling down, apologized for having troubled her in such a frivolous matter. "You sift me narrowly," replied the princess, "but of this I am assured, that God has appointed a limit to your proceedings; and so God forgive you all." Her own gentlemen, who ought to have been her purveyors, and served her provision, were compelled to give place to the common soldiers, at the command of the constable of the Tower, who was in every respect a servile tool of Gardiner,--her grace's friends, however, procured an order of council which regulated this petty tyranny more to her satisfaction. After having been a whole month in close confinement, she sent for the lord Chamberlain and lord Chandois, to whom she represented the ill state of her health from a want of proper air and exercise. Application being made to the council, Elizabeth was with some difficulty admitted to walk in the queen's lodgings, and afterwards in the garden, at which time the prisoners on that side were attended by their keepers, and not suffered to look down upon her. Their jealousy was excited by a child of four years old, who daily brought flowers to the princess. The child was threatened with a whipping, and the father ordered to keep him from the princess' chambers. On the 5th of May the constable was discharged from his office, and Sir Henry Benifield appointed in his room, accompanied by a hundred ruffian-looking soldiers in blue. This measure created considerable alarm in the mind of the princess, who imagined it was preparatory to her undergoing the same fate as lady Jane Gray, upon the same block. Assured that this project was not in agitation, she entertained an idea that the new keeper of the Tower was commissioned to make away with her privately, as his equivocal character was in conformity with the ferocious inclination of those by whom he was appointed. A report now obtained that her grace was to be taken away by the new constable and his soldiers, which in the sequel proved to be true. An order of council was made for her removal to the manor of Woodstock, which took place on Trinity Sunday, May 13, under the authority of Sir Henry Benifield and Lord Tame. The ostensible cause of her removal was to make room for other prisoners. Richmond was the first place they stopped at, and here the princess slept, not however without much alarm at first, as her own servants were superseded by the soldiers, who were placed as guards at her chamber door. Upon representation, Lord Tame overruled this indecent stretch of power, and granted her perfect safety while under his custody. In passing through Windsor, she saw several of her poor dejected servants waiting to see her. "Go to them," said she, to one of her attendants, "and say these words from me, tanquim ovis, that is, like a sheep to the slaughter." The next night her grace lodged at the house of a Mr. Dormer, in her way to which the people manifested such tokens of loyal affection, that Sir Henry was indignant, and bestowed on them very liberally the names of rebels and traitors. In some villages they rang the bells for joy, imagining the princess's arrival among them was from a very different cause; but this harmless demonstration of gladness was sufficient with the persecuting Benefield to order his soldiers to seize and set these humble persons in the stocks. The day following, her grace arrived at Lord Tame's house, where she staid all night, and was most nobly entertained. This excited Sir Henry's indignation, and made him caution Lord Tame to look well to his proceedings; but the humanity of Lord Tame was not to be frightened, and he returned a suitable reply. At another time, this official prodigal, to show his consequence and disregard of good manners, went up into a chamber, where was appointed for her grace a chair, two cushions, and a foot carpet, wherein he presumptuously sat and called his man to pull off his boots. As soon as it was known to the ladies and gentlemen, they laughed him to scorn. When supper was done, he called to his lordship, and directed that all gentlemen and ladies should withdraw home, marvelling much that he would permit such a large company, considering the great charge he had committed to him. "Sir Henry," said his lordship, "content yourself; all shall be avoided, your men and all." "Nay, but my soldiers," replied Sir Henry, "shall watch all night." Lord Tame answered, "There is no need." "Well," said he, "need or need not, they shall so do." The next day her grace took her journey from thence to Woodstock, where she was enclosed, as before in the Tower of London, the soldiers keeping guard within and without the walls, every day, to the number of sixty; and in the night, without the walls were forty during all the time of her imprisonment. At length she was permitted to walk in the gardens, but under the most severe restrictions, Sir Henry keeping the keys himself, and placing her always under many bolts and locks, whence she was induced to call him her jailer, at which he felt offended, and begged her to substitute the word officer. After much earnest entreaty to the council, she obtained permission to write to the queen; but the jailer, who brought her pen, ink, and paper stood by her while she wrote, and, when she left off, he carried the things away till they were wanted again. He also insisted upon carrying it himself to the queen, but Elizabeth would not suffer him to be the bearer, and it was presented by one of her gentlemen. After the letter, doctors Owen and Wendy went to the princess, as the state of her health rendered medical assistance necessary. They staid with her five or six days, in which time she grew much better; they then returned to the queen, and spoke flatteringly of the princess' submission and humility, at which the queen seemed moved; but the bishops wanted a concession that she had offended her majesty. Elizabeth spurned this indirect mode of acknowledging herself guilty. "If I have offended," said she, "and am guilty, I crave no mercy but the law, which I am certain I should have had ere this, if any thing could have been proved against me. I wish I were as clear from the peril of my enemies; then should I not be thus bolted and locked up within walls and doors." Much question arose at this time respecting the propriety of uniting the princess to some foreigner, that she might quit the realm with a suitable portion. One of the council had the brutality to urge the necessity of beheading her, if the king (Philip) meant to keep the realm in peace; but the Spaniards, detesting such a base thought, replied, "God forbid that our king and master should consent to such an infamous proceeding!" Stimulated by a noble principle, the Spaniards from this time repeatedly urged to the king that it would do him the highest honour to liberate the lady Elizabeth, nor was the king impervious to their solicitation. He took her out of prison, and shortly after she was sent for to Hampton court. It may be remarked in this place, that the fallacy of human reasoning is shown in every moment. The barbarian who suggested the policy of beheading Elizabeth little contemplated the change of condition which his speech would bring about. In her journey from Woodstock, Benefield treated her with the same severity as before; removing her on a stormy day, and not suffering her old servant, who had come to Colnbrook, where she slept, to speak to her. She remained a fortnight strictly guarded and watched, before any one dared to speak with her; at length the vile Gardiner with three more of the council, came with great submission. Elizabeth saluted them, remarked that she had been for a long time kept in solitary confinement, and begged they would intercede with the king and queen to deliver her from prison. Gardiner's visit was to draw from the princess a confession of her guilt; but she was guarded against his subtlety, adding, that, rather than admit she had done wrong, she would lie in prison all the rest of her life. The next day Gardiner came again, and kneeling down, declared that the queen was astonished she should persist in affirming that she was blameless--whence it would be inferred that the queen had unjustly imprisoned her grace. Gardiner farther informed her that the queen had declared that she must tell another tale, before she could be set at liberty. "Then," replied the high-minded Elizabeth, "I had rather be in prison with honesty and truth, than have my liberty, and be suspected by her majesty. What I have said, I will stand to; nor will I ever speak falsehood!" The bishop and his friends then departed, leaving her locked up as before. Seven days after the queen sent for Elizabeth at ten o'clock at night, two years had elapsed since they had seen each other. It created terror in the mind of the princess, who, at setting out, desired her gentlemen and ladies to pray for her, as her return to them again was uncertain. Being conducted to the queen's bedchamber, upon entering it the princess knelt down, and having begged of God to preserve her majesty, she humbly assured her that her majesty had not a more loyal subject in the realm, whatever reports might be circulated to the contrary. With a haughty ungraciousness, the imperious queen replied, "You will not confess your offence, but stand stoutly to your truth. I pray God it may so fall out." "If it do not," said Elizabeth, "I request neither favour nor pardon at your majesty's hands." "Well," said the queen, "you stiffly still persevere in your truth. Besides, you will not confess that you have not been wrongfully punished." "I must not say so, if it please your majesty, to you." "Why, then," said the queen, "belike you will to others." "No, if it please your majesty: I have borne the burden, and must bear it. I humbly beseech your majesty to have a good opinion of me and to think me to be your subject, not only from the beginning hitherto, but for ever, as long as life lasteth." They departed without any heart-felt satisfaction on either side; nor can we think the conduct of Elizabeth displayed that independence and fortitude which accompanies perfect innocence. Elizabeth's admitting that she would not say neither to the queen nor to others, that she had been unjustly punished, was in direct contradiction to what she had told Gardiner, and must have arisen from some motive at this time inexplicable.--King Philip is supposed to have been secretly concealed during the interview, and to have been friendly to the princess. In seven days from the time of her return to imprisonment, her severe jailer, and his men were discharged, and she was set at liberty, under the constraint of being always attended and watched by some of the queen's council. Four of her gentlemen were sent to the Tower without any other charge against them than being zealous servants of their mistress. This event was soon after followed by the happy news of Gardiner's death, for which all good and merciful men glorified God, inasmuch as it had taken the chief tiger from the den, and rendered the life of the protestant successor of Mary more secure. This miscreant, while the princess was in the Tower, sent a secret writ, signed by a few of the council, for her private execution, and, had Mr. Bridges, lieutenant of the Tower, been as little scrupulous of dark assassination as this pious prelate was, she must have perished. The warrant not having the queen's signature, Mr. Bridges hastened to her majesty, to give her information of it, and to know her mind. This was a plot of Winchester's, who, to convict her of treasonable practices, caused several prisoners to be racked; particularly Mr. Edmund Tremaine and Smithwicke were offered considerable bribes to accuse the guiltless princess. Her life was several times in danger. While at Woodstock, fire was apparently put between the boards and ceiling under which she lay. It was also reported strongly, that one Paul Penny, the keeper of Woodstock, a notorious ruffian was appointed to assassinate her, but, however this might be, God counteracted in this point the nefarious designs of the enemies of the reformation. James Basset was another appointed to perform the same deed: he was a peculiar favourite of Gardiner, and had come within a mile of Woodstock, intending to speak with Benefield on the subject. The goodness of God however so ordered it, that while Basset was travelling to Woodstock, Benefield, by an order of council, was going to London; in consequence of which, he left a positive order with his brother, that no man should be admitted to the princess during his absence, not even with a note from the queen; his brother met the murderer, but the latter's intention was frustrated, as no admission could be obtained. When Elizabeth quitted Woodstock, she left the following lines written with her diamond on the window:-- Much suspected by me, Nothing proved can be. Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. With the life of Winchester ceased the extreme danger of the princess, as many of her other secret enemies soon after followed him, and, last of all, her cruel sister, who outlived Gardiner but three years. The death of Mary was ascribed to several causes. The council endeavoured to console her in her last moments, imagining it was the absence of her husband that lay heavy at her heart, but though his treatment had some weight, the loss of Calais, the last fortress possessed by the English in France, was the true source of her sorrow. "Open my heart," said Mary, "when I am dead, and you shall find Calais written there." Religion caused her no alarm; the priests had lulled to rest every misgiving of conscience, which might have obtruded, on account of the accusing spirits of the murdered martyrs. Not the blood she had spilled, but the loss of a town, excited her emotions in dying, and this last stroke seemed to be awarded, that her fanatical persecution might be paralleled by her political imbecility. We earnestly pray that the annals of no country, catholic or pagan, may ever be stained with such a repetition of human sacrifices to papal power, and that the detestation in which the character of Mary is holden, may be a beacon to succeeding monarchs to avoid the rocks of fanaticism! _God's Punishments upon some of the Persecutors of his People in Mary's Reign._ After that arch-persecutor, Gardiner, was dead, others followed, of whom Dr. Morgan, bishop of St. David's, who succeeded bishop Farrar, is to be noticed. Not long after he was installed in his bishopric, he was stricken by the visitation of God; his food passed through the throat, but rose again with great violence. In this manner, almost literally starved to death, he terminated his existence. Bishop Thornton, suffragan of Dover, was an indefatigable persecutor of the true church. One day after he had exercised his cruel tyranny upon a number of pious persons at Canterbury, he came from the chapter-house to Borne, where as he stood on a Sunday looking at his men playing at bowls, he fell down in a fit of the palsy, and did not long survive. After the latter succeeded another bishop or suffragan, ordained by Gardiner, who not long after he had been raised to the see of Dover, fell down a pair of stairs in the cardinal's chamber at Greenwich, and broke his neck. He had just received the cardinal's blessing--he could receive nothing worse. John Cooper, of Watsam, Suffolk, suffered by perjury; he was from private pique persecuted by one Fenning, who suborned two others to swear that they heard Cooper say, "If God did not take away queen Mary, the devil would." Cooper denied all such words, but Cooper was a protestant and a heretic, and therefore he was hung, drawn and quartered, his property confiscated, and his wife and nine children reduced to beggary. The following harvest, however, Grimwood of Hitcham, one of the witnesses before mentioned, was visited for his villany: while at work, stacking up corn, his bowels suddenly burst out, and before relief could be obtained he died. Thus was deliberate perjury rewarded by sudden death! In the case of the martyr Mr. Bradford, the severity of Mr. Sheriff Woodroffe has been noticed--he rejoiced at the death of the saints, and at Mr. Rogers' execution, he broke the carman's head, because he stopped the cart to let the martyr's children take a last farewell of him. Scarcely had Mr. Woodroffe's sheriffalty expired a week, when he was struck with a paralytic affection, and languished a few days in the most pitiable and helpless condition, presenting a striking contrast to his former activity in the cause of blood. Ralph Lardyn, who betrayed the martyr George Eagles, is believed to have been afterward arraigned and hanged in consequence of accusing himself. At the bar, he denounced himself in these words, "This has most justly fallen upon me, for betraying the innocent blood of that just and good man George Eagles, who was here condemned in the time of Queen Mary by my procurement, when I sold his blood for a little money." As James Abbes was going to execution, and exhorting the pitying bystanders to adhere steadfastly to the truth, and like him to seal the cause of Christ with their blood, a servant of the sheriff's interrupted him, and blasphemously called his religion heresy, and the good man a lunatic. Scarcely however had the flames reached the martyr, before the fearful stroke of God fell upon this hardened wretch, in the presence of him he had so cruelly ridiculed. The man was suddenly seized with lunacy, cast off his clothes and shoes before the people, (as Abbes had done just before, to distribute among some poor persons,) at the same time exclaiming, "Thus did James Abbes, the true servant of God, who is saved but I am damned." Repeating this often, the sheriff had him secured, and made him put his clothes on, but no sooner was he alone, than he tore them off, and exclaimed as before. Being tied in a cart, he was conveyed to his master's house, and in about half a year he died; just before which a priest came to attend him, with the crucifix, &c. but the wretched man bade him take away such trumpery, and said that he and other priests had been the cause of his damnation, but that Abbes was saved. One Clark, an avowed enemy of the protestants in king Edward's reign, hung himself in the Tower of London. Froling, a priest of much celebrity, fell down in the street and died on the spot. Dale, an indefatigable informer, was consumed by vermin, and died a miserable spectacle. Alexander, the severe keeper of Newgate, died miserably, swelling to a prodigious size, and became so inwardly putrid, that none could come near him. This cruel minister of the law would go to Bonner, Story, and others, requesting them to rid his prison, he was so much pestered with heretics! The son of this keeper, in three years after his father's death, dissipated his great property, and died suddenly in Newgate market. "The sins of the father," says the decalogue, "shall be visited on the children." John Peter, son-in-law of Alexander, a horrid blasphemer and persecutor, died wretchedly. When he affirmed any thing, he would say, "If it be not true, I pray I may rot ere I die." This awful state visited him in all its loathsomeness. Sir Ralph Ellerker was eagerly desirous to see the heart taken out of Adam Damlip, who was wrongfully put to death. Shortly after Sir Ralph was slain by the French, who mangled him dreadfully, cut off his limbs, and tore his heart out. When Gardiner heard of the miserable end of Judge Hales, he called the profession of the gospel a doctrine of desperation; but he forgot that the judge's despondency arose after he had consented to the papistry. But with more reason may this be said of the catholic tenets, if we consider the miserable end of Dr. Pendleton, Gardiner, and most of the leading persecutors. Gardiner, upon his death bed, was reminded by a bishop of Peter denying his master. "Ah," said Gardiner, "I have denied with Peter, but never repented with Peter." After the accession of Elizabeth, most of the Catholic prelates were imprisoned in the Tower or the fleet; Bonner was put into the Marshalsea. Of the revilers of God's word, we detail, among many others, the following occurrence. One William Maldon, living at Greenwich in servitude, was instructing himself profitably in reading an English primer one winter's evening. A serving man, named John Powell, sat by, and ridiculed all that Maldon said, who cautioned him not to make a jest of the word of God. Powell nevertheless continued, till Maldon came to certain English Prayers, and read aloud, Lord, have mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us, &c. Suddenly the reviler started, and exclaimed, Lord, have mercy upon us! He was struck with the utmost terror of mind, said the evil spirit could not abide that Christ should have any mercy upon him, and sunk into madness. He was remitted to Bedlam, and became an awful warning that God will not always be insulted with impunity. Henry Smith, a student in the law, had a pious protestant father, of Camden, in Gloucestershire, by whom he was virtuously educated. While studying law in the middle temple, he was induced to profess catholicism, and, going to Louvain, in France, he returned with pardons, crucifixes, and a great freight of popish toys. Not content with these things, he openly reviled the gospel religion he had been brought up in; but conscience one night reproached him so dreadfully, that in a fit of despair he hung himself in his garters. He was buried in a lane, without the Christian service being read over him. Dr. Story, whose name has been so often mentioned in the preceding pages, was reserved to be cut off by public execution, a practice in which he had taken great delight when in power. He is supposed to have had a hand in most of the conflagrations in Mary's time, and was even ingenious in his invention of new modes of inflicting torture. When Elizabeth came to the throne, he was committed to prison, but unaccountably effected his escape to the continent, to carry fire and sword there among the protestant brethren. From the duke of Alva, at Antwerp, he received a special commission to search all ships for contraband goods, and particularly for English heretical books. Dr. Story gloried in a commission that was ordered by Providence to be his ruin, and to preserve the faithful from his sanguinary cruelty. It was contrived that one Parker, a merchant, should sail to Antwerp and information should be given to Dr. Story that he had a quantity of heretical books on board. The latter no sooner heard this, than he hastened to the vessel, sought every where above, and then went under the hatches, which were fastened down upon him. A prosperous gale brought the ship to England, and this traitorous, persecuting rebel was committed to prison, where he remained a considerable time, obstinately objecting to recant his anti-christian spirit, or admit of queen Elizabeth's supremacy. He alleged, though by birth and education an Englishman, that he was a sworn subject of the king of Spain, in whose service the famous duke of Alva was. The doctor being condemned, was laid upon a hurdle, and drawn from the Tower to Tyburn, where after being suspended about half an hour, he was cut down, stripped, and the executioner displayed the heart of a traitor. Thus ended the existence of this Nimrod of England. CHAPTER XIV. THE SPANISH ARMADA. Philip, king of Spain, husband to the deceased queen Mary of England, was no less an enemy than that princess to the protestants. He had always disliked the English, and after her death, determined, if possible, to crown that infamous cruelty which had disgraced the whole progress of her reign, by making a conquest of the island, and putting every protestant to death. The great warlike preparations made by this monarch, though the purpose was unknown, gave a universal alarm to the English nation; as, though he had not declared that intention, yet it appeared evident that he was taking measures to seize the crown of England. Pope Sixtus V. not less ambitious than himself, and equally desirous of persecuting the protestants, urged him to the enterprise. He excommunicated the queen, and published a crusade against her, with the usual indulgences. All the ports of Spain resounded with preparations for this alarming expedition; and the Spaniards seemed to threaten the English with a total annihilation. Three whole years had been spent by Philip in making the necessary preparations for this mighty undertaking; and his fleet, which on account of its prodigious strength, was called the "Invincible Armada," was now completed. A consecrated banner was procured from the pope, and the gold of Peru was lavished on the occasion. The duke of Parma, by command of the Spaniards, built ships in Flanders, and a great company of small broad vessels, each one able to transport thirty horses, with bridges fitted for them severally; and hired mariners from the east part of Germany, and provided long pieces of wood sharpened at the end, and covered with iron, with hooks on one side; and 20,000 vessels, with a huge number of fagots; and placed an army ready in Flanders, of 103 companies of foot and 4000 horsemen. Among these 700 English vagabonds, who were held of all others in most contempt. Neither was Stanley respected or obeyed who was set over the English; nor Westmoreland, nor any other who offered their help, but for their unfaithfulness to their own country were shut out from all consultations, and as men unanimously rejected with detestation. And because Pope Sixtus the Fifth in such a case would not be wanting, he sent Cardinal Allen into Flanders, and renewed the bulls declaratory of Pope Pius the Fifth, and Gregory the Thirteenth. He excommunicated and deposed queen Elizabeth, absolved her subjects from all allegiance, and, as if it had been against the Turks or infidels, he set forth in print a conceit, wherein he bestowed plenary indulgences, out of the treasure of the church, besides a million of gold, or ten hundred thousand ducats, to be distributed (the one half in hand, the rest when either England, or some famous haven therein, should be won) upon all them that would join their help against England. By which means the Marquis of Bergau, of the house of Austria, the duke of Pastrana, Amadis, duke of Savoy, Vespasian, Gonzaga, John Medicis, and divers other noblemen, were drawn into these wars. Queen Elizabeth, that she might not be surprised unawares, prepared as great a navy as she could, and with singular care and providence, made all things ready necessary for war. And she herself, who was ever most judicious in discerning of men's wits and aptness, and most happy in making choice, when she made it out of her own judgment, and not at the discretion of others, designed the best and most serviceable to each several employment. Over the whole navy she appointed the Lord Admiral Charles Howard, in whom she reposed much trust; and sent him to the west part of England, where Captain Drake, whom she made vice-admiral, joined with him. She commanded Henry Seimor, the second son to the duke of Somerset, to watch upon the Belgic shore, with forty English and Dutch ships, that the duke of Parma might not come out with his forces; although some were of opinion, that the enemy was to be expected and set upon by land forces, accordingly as it was upon deliberation resolved, in the time of Henry the Eighth, when the French brought a great navy on the English shore. For the land fight, there were placed on the south shore twenty thousand; and two armies beside were mustered of the choicest men for war. The one of these, which consisted of 1000 horse and twenty two thousand foot was commanded by the earl of Leicester, and encamped at Tilbury, on the side of the Thames. For the enemy was resolved first to set upon London. The other army was commanded by the Lord Hunsdon, consisting of thirty-four thousand foot, and two thousand horse, to guard the queen. The Lord Gray, Sir Francis Knowles, Sir John Norris, Sir Richard Bingham, Sir Roger Williams, men famously known for military experience, were chosen to confer of the land-fight. These commanders thought fit that all those places should be fortified, with men and ammunition, which were commodious to land in, either out of Spain or out of Flanders, as Milford-Haven, Falmouth, Plymouth, Portland, the Isle of Wight, Portsmouth, the open side of Kent, called the Downs, the Thames' mouth, Harwich, Yarmouth, Hull, &c. That trained soldiers through all the maratime provinces should meet upon warning given, to defend the places; that they should by their best means, hinder the enemy from landing; and if they did happen to land, then they were to destroy the fruits of the country all about, and spoil every thing that might be of any use to the enemy, that so they might find no more victuals than what they brought with them. And that, by continued alarms, the enemy should find no rest day or night. But they should not try any battle until divers captains were met together with their companies. That one captain might be named in every shire which might command. Two years before, the duke of Parma, considering how hard a matter it was to end the Belgic war, so long as it was continually nourished and supported with aid from the queen, he moved for a treaty of peace, by the means of Sir James Croft, one of the privy council, a man desirous of peace, and Andrew Loe, a Dutchman, and professed that the Spaniard had delegated authority to him for this purpose. But the queen fearing that the friendship between her and the confederate princes might be dissolved, and that so they might secretly be drawn to the Spaniard, she deferred that treaty for some time. But now, that the wars on both sides prepared might be turned away, she was content to treat for peace; but so as still holding the weapons in her hand. For this purpose, in February, delegates were sent into Flanders, the earl of Derby, the lord Cobham, Sir James Croft, Dr. Dale, and Dr. Rogers. These were received with all humanity on the duke's behalf, and a place appointed for their treating, that they might see the authority delegated to him by the Spanish king. He appointed the place near to Ostend, not in Ostend, which at that time was held by the English against the Spanish king. His authority delegated, he promised them to show, when they were once met together. He wished them to make good speed in the business, lest somewhat might fall out in the mean time, which might trouble the motions of peace. Richardotus, spoke somewhat more plainly, That he knew not what in this interim should be done against England. Not long after, Dr. Rogers was sent to the prince, by an express commandment from the queen, to know the truth, whether the Spaniards had resolved to invade England, which he and Richardotus seemed to signify. He affirmed, that he did not so much as think of the invasion of England, when he wished that the business might proceed with speed; and was in a manner offended with Richardotus, who denied that such words fell from him. The 12th of April, the count Aremberg, Champigny, Richardotus, Doctor Maesius, and Garnier, delegated from the prince of Parma, met with the English, and yielded to them the honour both in walking and sitting. This conference, however, came to nothing; undertaken by, the queen, as the wiser then thought, to avert the Spanish fleet; continued by the Spaniard that he might oppress the queen, being as he supposed unprovided, and not expecting the danger. So both of them tried to use time to their best advantages. At length the Spanish fleet, well furnished with men, ammunition, engines, and all warlike preparations, the best, indeed, that ever was seen upon the ocean, called by the arrogant title, The Invincible Armada, consisted of 130 ships, wherein there were in all, 19,290. Mariners, 8,350. Chained rowers, 11,080. Great ordnance, 11,630. The chief commander was Perezius Guzmannus, duke of Medina Sidonia; and under him Joannes Martinus Ricaldus, a man of great experience in sea affairs. The 30th of May they loosed out of the river Tagus, and bending their course to the Groin, in Gallicia, they were beaten and scattered by a tempest, three galleys, by the help of David Gwin, an English servant, and by the perfidiousness of the Turks which rowed, were carried away into France. The fleet, with much ado, after some days came to the Groin, and other harbours near adjoining. The report was, that the fleet was so shaken by this tempest, that the queen was persuaded, that she was not to expect that fleet this year. And Sir Francis Walsingham, sec'y, wrote to the lord admiral, that he might send back four of the greatest ships, as if the war had been ended. But the lord admiral did not easily give credit to that report; yet with a gentle answer entreated him to believe nothing hastily in so important a matter: as also that he might be permitted to keep those ships with him which he had, though it were upon his own charges. And getting a favourable wind, made sail towards Spain, to surprise the enemy's damaged ships in their harbours. When he was close in with the coast of Spain, the wind shifting, and he being charged to defend the English shore, fearing that the enemy might unseen, by the same wind, sail for England, he returned unto Plymouth. Now with the same wind, the 12th of July, the duke of Medina with his fleet departed from the Groin. And after a few days he sent Rodericus Telius into Flanders, to advertise the duke of Parma, giving him warning that the fleet was approaching, and therefore he was to make himself ready. For Medina's commission was to join himself with the ships and soldiers of Parma; and under the protection of his fleet to bring them into England, and to land his forces upon the Thames side. The sixteenth, day, (saith the relator,) there was a great calm, and a thick cloud was upon the sea till noon; then the north wind blowing roughly; and again the west wind till midnight, and after that the east; the Spanish navy was scattered, and hardly gathered together until they came within sight of England the nineteenth day of July. Upon which day, the lord admiral was certified by Fleming, (who had been a pirate) that the Spanish fleet was entered into the English sea, which the mariners call the Channel, and was descried near to the Lizard. The lord admiral brought forth the English fleet into the sea, but not without great difficulty, by the skill, labour, and alacrity of the soldiers and mariners, every one labouring; yea, the lord admiral himself putting his hand to this work. The next day the English fleet viewed the Spanish fleet coming along like the towering castles in height, her front crooked like the fashion of the moon, the wings of the fleet were extended one from the other about seven miles, or as some say eight miles asunder, sailing with the labour of the winds, the ocean as it were groaning under it, their sail was but slow, and yet at full sail before the wind. The English were willing to let them hold on their course, and when they were passed by, got behind them, and so got to windward of them. Upon the 21st of July, the lord admiral of England sent a cutter before, called the Defiance, to denounce the battle by firing off pieces. And being himself in the Royal-Arch, (the English admiral ship) he began the engagement with a ship which he took to be the Spanish admiral, but which was the ship of Alfonsus Leva. Upon that he expended much shot. Presently Drake, Hawkins, and Forbisher, came in upon the rear of the Spaniards which Ricaldus commanded.--Upon these they thundered. Ricaldus endeavoured, as much as in him lay, to keep his men to their quarters, but all in vain, until his ship, much beaten and battered with many shot, hardly recovered the fleet. Then the duke of Medina gathered together his scattered fleet, and setting more sail, held on his course. Indeed they could do no other, for the English had gotten the advantage of the wind, and their ships being much easier managed, and ready with incredible celerity to come upon the enemy with a full course, and then to tack and retack and be on every side at their pleasure. After a long fight, and each of them had taken a trial of their courage, the lord admiral thought proper to continue the fight no longer, because there were forty ships more, which were then absent, and at that very time were coming out of Plymouth Sound. The night following, the St. Catharine, a Spanish ship, being sadly torn in the battle, was taken into the midst of the fleet to be repaired. Here a great Cantabrian ship, of Oquenda, wherein was the treasurer of the camp, by force of gunpowder took fire, yet it was quenched in time by the ships that came to help her. Of those which came to assist the fired ship, one was a galleon, commanded by one Petrus Waldez; the fore-yard of the galleon was caught in the rigging of another ship, and carried away. This was taken by Drake, who sent Waldez to Dartmouth, and a great sum of money, viz. 55,000 ducats, which he distributed among the soldiers. This Waldez coming into Drake's presence, kissed his hand, and told him they had all resolved to die, if they had not been so happy as to fall into his hands whom they knew to be noble. That night he was appointed to set forth a light, but neglected it; and some German merchant ships coming by that night, he, thinking them to be enemies, followed them so far, that the English fleet lay to all night, because they could see no light set forth. Neither did he nor the rest of the fleet find the admiral until the next evening. The admiral all the night proceeding with the Bear and the Mary Rose, carefully followed the Spaniards with watchfulness. The duke was busied in ordering his squadron. Alfonsus Leva was commanded to join the first and last divisions. Every ship had its proper station assigned, according to that prescribed form which was appointed in Spain; it was present death to any one who forsook his station. This done, he sent Gliclius and Anceani to Parma, which might declare to them in what situation they were, and left that Cantabrian ship, of Oquenda, to the wind and sea, having taken out the money and mariners, and put them on board of other ships. Yet it seemed that he had not care for all; for that ship the same day, with fifty mariners and soldiers wounded and half-burned, fell into the hands of the English, and was carried to Weymouth. The 23d of the same month, the Spaniards having a favourable north wind, tacked towards the English; but they being more expert in the management of their ships, tacked likewise, and kept the advantage they had gained, keeping the Spaniards to leeward, till at last the fight became general on both sides. They fought awhile confusedly with variable success: whilst on the one side the English with great courage delivered the London ships which were enclosed about by the Spaniards; and on the other side, the Spaniards by valour freed Ricaldus from the extreme danger he was in; great and many were the explosions, which, by the continued firing of great guns, were heard this day. But the loss (by the good providence of God,) fell upon the Spaniards, their ships being so high, that the shot went over our English ships, and the English, having such a fair mark at their large ships, never shot in vain. During this engagement, Cock, an Englishman, being surrounded by the Spanish ships, could not be recovered, but perished; however, with great honour he revenged himself. Thus a long time the English ships with great agility were sometimes upon the Spaniards, giving them the fire of one side, and then of the other, and presently were off again, and still kept the sea, to make themselves ready to come in again. Whereas the Spanish ships, being of great burden, were troubled and hindered, and stood to be the marks for the English shot. For all that the English admiral would not permit his people to board their ships, because they had such a number of soldiers on board, which he had not; their ships were many in number, and greater, and higher, that if they had come to grapple, as many would have had it, the English being much lower than the Spanish ships, must needs have had the worst of them that fought from the higher ships. And if the English had been overcome, the loss would have been greater than the victory could have been; for our being overcome would have put the kingdom in hazard. The 24th day of July they gave over fighting on both sides. The admiral sent some small barks to the English shore for a supply of provisions, and divided his whole fleet into four squadrons; the first whereof he took under his own command, the next was commanded by Drake, the third by Hawkins, and the last by Forbisher. And he appointed out of every squadron certain little ships, which, on divers sides might set upon the Spaniards in the night, but a sudden calm took them so that expedition was without effect. The 25th, the St. Anne, a galleon of Portugal, not being able to keep up with the rest, was attacked by some small English ships. To whose aid came in Leva, and Didacus Telles Enriques, with three galeasses; which the admiral, and the Lord Thomas Howard, espying, made all the sail they could against the galeasses, but the calm continuing, they were obliged to be towed along with their boats; as soon as they reached the galeasses, they began to play away so fiercely with their great guns, that with much danger, and great loss, they hardly recovered their galleon. The Spaniards reported that the Spanish admiral was that day in the rear of their fleet, which, being come nearer to the English ships than before, got terribly shattered with their great guns, many men were killed aboard, and her masts laid over the side. The Spanish admiral, after this, in company with Ricaldus, and others, attacked the English admiral, who, having the advantage of the wind, suddenly tacked and escaped. The Spaniards holding on their course again, sent to the duke of Parma, that with all possible speed he should join his ships with the king's fleet. These things the English knew not, who write that they had carried away the lantern from one of the Spanish ships, the stern from another, and sore mauled the third very much disabling her. The Non-Parigly, and the Mary Rose, fought awhile with the Spaniards, and the Triumph being in danger, other ships came in good time to help her. The next day the lord admiral knighted the Lord Thomas Howard, the Lord Sheffield, Roger Townsend, John Hawkins, and Martin Forbisher, for their valour in the last engagement. After this, they agreed not to attack the enemy until they came into the straits of Calais, where Henry Seimor, and William Winter, waited for their coming. Thus with a fair gale the Spanish fleet went forward, and the English followed. This great Spanish Armada was so far from being esteemed invincible in the opinion of the English, that many young men and gentlemen, in hope to be partakers of a famous victory against the Spaniards, provided ships at their own expense, and joined themselves to the English fleet; among whom were the earls of Essex, Northumberland, and Cumberland, Thomas and Robert Cecil, Henry Brooks, William Hatton, Robert Cary, Ambrose Willoughby, Thomas Gerard, Arthur George, and other gentlemen of good note and quality. The 27th day, at even, the Spaniards cast anchor near to Calais, being admonished by their skilful seamen, that if they went any further they might be in danger, through the force of the tide, to be driven into the North Ocean. Near to them lay the English admiral with his fleet, within a great gun's shot. The admiral, Seimor and Winter, now join their ships; so that now there were a hundred and forty ships in the English fleet, able, and well furnished for fighting, for sailing, and every thing else which was requisite; and yet there were but fifteen of these which bore the heat of the battle, and repulsed the enemy. The Spaniard, as often as he had done before, so now with great earnestness sent to the duke of Parma, to send forty fly-boats, without which they could not fight with the English, because of the greatness and slowness of their ships, and the agility of the English, entreating him by all means now to come to sea with his army, which army was now to be protected as it were, under the wings of the Spanish Armada, until they should land in England. But the duke was unprovided, and could not come out in an instant. The broad ships with flat bottoms being then full of chinks must be mended. Victuals wanted, and must be provided. The mariners being long kept against their wills, began to shrink away. The ports of Dunkirk and Newport, by which he must bring his army to the sea, were now so beset with the strong ships of Holland and Zealand, which were furnished with great and small munition, that he was not able to come to sea, unless he would come upon his own apparent destruction, and cast himself and his men wilfully into a headlong danger. Yet he omitted nothing that might be done, being a man eager and industrious, and inflamed with a desire of overcoming England. But queen Elizabeth's providence and care prevented both the diligence of this man, and the credulous hope of the Spaniard; for by her command the next day the admiral took eight of their worst ships, charging the ordnance therein up to the mouth with small shot, nails, and stones, and dressed them with wild fire, pitch, and rosin, and filling them full of brimstone, and some other matter fit for fire, and these being set on fire by the management of Young and Prowse, were secretly in the night, by the help of the wind, set full upon the Spanish fleet, which, on Sunday, the seventh of August, they sent in among them as they lay at anchor. When the Spanish saw them come near, the flames giving light all over the sea, they supposing those ships, besides the danger of fire, to have been also furnished with deadly engines, to make horrible destruction among them; lifting up a most hideous cry, some pull up anchors, some for haste cut their cables, they set up their sails, they apply their oars, and stricken with extreme terror, in great haste they fled most confusedly. Among them the Pretorian Galleass floating upon the seas, her rudder being broken, in great danger and fear drew towards Calais, and striking in the sand, was taken by Amias Preston, Thomas Gerard, and Harvey; Hugh Moncada the governor was slain, the soldiers and mariners were either killed or drowned; in her there was found great store of gold, which fell to be the prey of the English. The ship and ordnance went to the governor of Calais. The Spaniards report, that the duke, when he saw the fire ships coming, commanded all the fleet to heave up their anchors, but so as the danger being past, every ship might return again to his own station; and he himself returned, giving a sign to the rest by shooting off a gun; which was heard but by a few, for they were far off scattered some into the open ocean, some through fear were driven upon the shallows of the coast of Flanders. Over against Gravelling the Spanish fleet began to gather themselves together. But upon them came Drake and Fenner, and battered them with great ordnance: to these Fenton, Southwel, Beeston, Cross, Riman, and presently after the lord admiral, and Sheffield, came in. The Duke Medina, Leva, Oquenda, Ricaldus, and others, with much ado in getting themselves out of the shallows, sustained the English ships as well as they might, until most of their ships were pierced and torn; the galleon St. Matthew, governed by Diego Pimentellas, coming to aid Francis Toleton, being in the St. Philip, was pierced and shaken with the reiterated shots of Seimor and Winter, and driven to Ostend, and was at last taken by the Flushingers. The St. Philip came to the like end; so did the galleon of Biscay, and divers others. The last day of this month, the Spanish fleet striving to recover the straits again, were driven towards Zealand. The English left off pursuing them, as the Spaniards thought, because they saw them in a manner cast away; for they could not avoid the shallows of Zealand. But the wind turning, they got them out of the shallows, and then began to consult what were best for them to do. By common consent they resolved to return into Spain by the Northern Seas, for they wanted many necessaries, especially shot; their ships were torn, and they had no hope that the duke of Parma could bring forth his forces. And so they took the sea, and followed the course toward the north. The English navy followed, and sometimes the Spanish turned upon the English, insomuch that it was thought by many that they would turn back again. Queen Elizabeth caused an army to encamp at Tilbury. After the army had come thither, her majesty went in person to visit the camp, which then lay between the city of London and the sea, under the charge of the earl of Leicester, where placing herself between the enemy and her city, she viewed her army, passing through it divers times, and lodging in the borders of it, returned again and dined in the army. Afterwards when they were all reduced into battle, prepared as it were for fight, she rode round about with a leader's staff in her hand, only accompanied with the general, and three or four others attending upon her.[A] I could enlarge the description hereof with many more particulars of mine own observation, (says the author,) for I wandered, as many others did, from place to place, all the day, and never heard a word spoke of her, but in praising her for her stately person and princely behaviour, in praying for her long life, and earnestly desiring to venture their lives for her safety. In her presence they sung psalms of praise to Almighty God, for which she greatly commended them, and devoutly praised God with them. This that I write, you may be sure I do not with any comfort, but to give you these manifest arguments that neither this queen did discontent her people, nor her people show any discontent in any thing they were commanded to do for her service, as heretofore hath been imagined. This account was related by a popish spy, in a letter written here in England to Mendea. The copy of which letter was found upon Richard Leigh, a seminary priest in French and English: which priest was executed for high treason while the Spanish Armada was at sea. The same day whereon the last fight was, the duke of Parma, after his vows offered to the lady of Halla, came somewhat late to Dunkirk, and was received with very opprobrious language by the Spaniards, as if in favour of queen Elizabeth he had slipped the fairest opportunity that could be to do the service. He, to make some satisfaction, punished the purveyors that had not made provision of beer, bread, &c. which was not yet ready nor embarked, secretly smiling at the insolence of the Spaniards, when he heard them bragging that what way soever they came upon England, they would have an undoubted victory; that the English were not able to endure the sight of them. The English admiral appointed Seimor and the Hollanders to watch upon the coast of Flanders that the duke of Parma should not come out; whilst he himself close followed the Spaniards until they were past Edinburgh Frith. The Spaniards, seeing all hopes fail, fled amain; and so this great navy, being three years preparing with great expense, was within one month overthrown, and, after many were killed, being chased again, was driven about all England, by Scotland, the Oreades, and Ireland, tossed and damaged with tempests, much diminished, and went home without glory. There were not a hundred men of the English lost, and but one ship. Whereupon money was coined with a navy fleeing away in full sail, with this inscription, _Venit, Vidit, Fugit_. Others were coined with the ships on fire, the navy confounded, inscribed, in honour of the queen, _Dux Fæmina Facti_. As they fled, it is certain that many of their ships were cast away upon the shores of Scotland and Ireland. About seven hundred soldiers and mariners were cast away upon the Scottish shore, who, at the duke of Parma's intercession with the Scotch king, the queen of England consenting, were after a year sent into Flanders. But they that were cast upon the Irish shore came to more miserable fortunes, for some were killed by the wild Irish, and others were destroyed for fear they should join themselves with the wild Irish, (which cruelty queen Elizabeth much condemned,) and the rest being afraid, sick and hungry, with their disabled ships, committed themselves to the sea, and many were drowned. The queen went to public thanksgiving in St. Paul's church, accompanied by a glorious train of nobility, through the streets of London, which were hung with blue cloth, the companies standing on both sides in their liveries; the banners that were taken from the enemies were spread; she heard the sermon, and public thanks were rendered unto God with great joy. This public joy was augmented when Sir Robert Sidney returned from Scotland, and brought from the king assurances of his noble mind and affection to the queen, and to religion; which as in sincerity he had established, so he purposed to maintain with all his power. Sir Robert Sidney was sent to him when the Spanish fleet was coming, to congratulate and return thanks for his great affection towards the maintenance of the common cause, and to declare how ready she would be to help him if the Spaniards should land in Scotland; and that he might recal to memory with what strange ambition the Spaniards had gaped for all Britain, urging the pope to excommunicate him, to the end that he might be thrust from the kingdom of Scotland, and from the succession in England: and to give him notice of the threatening of Mendoza, and the pope's nuncio, who threatened his ruin if they could effect it: and therefore warned him to take special heed to the Scottish papists. The king pleasantly answered that he looked for no other benefit from the Spaniards, than that which Polyphemus promised to Ulysses, to devour him last after his fellows were devoured. It may not be improper here to subjoin a list of the different articles taken on board the Spanish ships, designed for the tormenting of the protestants, had their scheme taken effect. 1. The common soldiers' pikes, eighteen feet long, pointed with long sharp spikes, and shod with iron, which were designed to keep off the horse, to facilitate the landing of the infantry. 2. A great number of lances used by the Spanish officers. These were formerly gilt, but the gold is almost worn off by cleaning. 3. The Spanish ranceurs, made in different forms, which were intended either to kill the men on horseback, or pull them off their horses. 4. A very singular piece of arms, being a pistol in a shield, so contrived as to fire the pistol, and cover the body at the same time, with the shield. It is to be fired by a match-lock, and the sight of the enemy is to be taken through a little grate in the shield, which is pistol proof. 5. The banner, with a crucifix upon it, which was to have been carried before the Spanish general. On it is engraved the pope's benediction before the Spanish fleet sailed: for the pope came to the water side, and, on seeing the fleet, blessed it, and styled it _invincible_. 6. The Spanish cravats, as they are called. These are engines of torture, made of iron, and put on board to lock together the feet, arms and heads of Englishmen. 7. Spanish bilboes, made of iron likewise, to yoke the English prisoners two and two. 8. Spanish shot, which are of four sorts: pike-shot, star-shot, chain-shot, and link-shot, all admirably contrived, as well for the destruction of the masts and rigging of ships, as for sweeping the decks of their men. 9. Spanish spadas poisoned at the points, so that if a man received the slightest wound with one of them, certain death was the consequence. 10. A Spanish poll-axe, used in boarding of ships. 11. Thumb-screws, of which there were several chests full on board the Spanish fleet. The use they were intended for is said to have been to extort confession from the English where their money was hid. 12. The Spanish morning star; a destructive engine resembling the figure of a star, of which there were many thousands on board, and all of them with poisoned points; and were designed to strike at the enemy as they came on board, in case of a close attack. 13. The Spanish general's halberd, covered with velvet. All the nails of this weapon are double gilt with gold; and on its top is the pope's head, curiously engraved. 14. A Spanish battle-axe, so contrived, as to strike four holes in a man's head at once; and has besides a pistol in its handle, with a match-lock. 15. The Spanish general's shield, carried before him as an ensign of honour. On it are depicted, in most curious workmanship, the labours of Hercules, and other expressive allegories. When the Spanish prisoners were asked by some of the English what their intentions were, had their expedition succeeded, they replied, "To extirpate the whole from the island, at least all heretics (as they called the protestants,) and to send their souls to hell." Strange infatuation! Ridiculous bigotry! How prejudiced must the minds of those men be, who would wish to destroy their fellow-creatures, not only in this world, but, if it were possible, in that which is to come, merely because they refused to believe on certain subjects as the Spaniards themselves did. _A conspiracy by the Papists for the destruction of James I., the royal family, and both houses of Parliament; commonly known by the name of the Gunpowder Plot._ The papists (of which there were great numbers in England at the time of the intended Spanish invasion) were so irritated at the failure of that expedition, that they were determined, if possible, to project a scheme at home, that might answer the purposes, to some degree, of their blood-thirsty competitors. The vigorous administration of Elizabeth, however, prevented their carrying any of their iniquitous designs into execution, although they made many attempts with that view. The commencement of the reign of her successor was destined to be the era of a plot, the barbarity of which transcends every thing related in ancient or modern history. In order to crush popery in the most effectual manner in this kingdom, James soon after his succession, took proper measures for eclipsing the power of the Roman Catholics, by enforcing those laws which had been made against them by his predecessors. This enraged the papists to such a degree, that a conspiracy was formed, by some of the principal leaders, of the most daring and impious nature; namely, to blow up the king, royal family, and both houses of parliament, while in full session, and thus to involve the nation in utter and inevitable ruin. The cabal who formed the resolution of putting in practice this horrid scheme, consisted of the following persons:--Henry Garnet, an Englishman, who, about the year 1586, had been sent to England as superior of the English Jesuits; Catesby, an English gentleman; Tesmond, a Jesuit; Thomas Wright; two gentlemen of the name of Winter; Thomas Percy, a near relation of the earl of Northumberland; Guido Fawkes, a bold and enterprising soldier of fortune; Sir Edward Digby; John Grant, Esq.; Francis Tresham, Esq.; Robert Keyes and Thomas Bates, gentlemen. Most of these were men both of birth and fortune; and Catesby, who had a large estate, had already expended two thousand pounds in several voyages to the court of Spain, in order to introduce an army of Spaniards into England, for overturning the protestant government, and restoring the Roman Catholic religion; but, being disappointed in this project of an invasion, he took an opportunity of disclosing to Percy (who was his intimate friend, and who, in a sudden fit of passion, had hinted a design of assassinating the king) a nobler and more extensive plan of treason, such as would include a sure execution of vengeance, and, at one blow, consign over to destruction all their enemies. Percy assented to the project proposed by Catesby, and they resolved to impart the matter to a few more, and, by degrees, to all the rest of their cabal, every man being bound by an oath, and taking the sacrament (the most sacred rite of their religion), not to disclose the least syllable of the matter, or to withdraw from the association, without the consent of all persons concerned. These consultations were held in the spring and summer of the year 1604, and it was towards the close of that year that they began their operations; the manner of which, and the discovery, we shall relate with as much brevity as is consistent with perspicuity. It had been agreed that a few of the conspirators should run a mine below the hall in which the parliament was to assemble, and that they should choose the very moment when the king should deliver his speech to both houses, for springing the mine, and thus, by one blow cut off the king, the royal family, lords, commons, and all the other enemies of the catholic religion in that very spot where that religion has been most oppressed. For this purpose, Percy, who was at that time a gentleman-pensioner undertook to hire a house adjoining to the upper house of parliament with all diligence. This was accordingly done, and the conspirators expecting the parliament would meet on the 17th of February following, began, on the 11th of December, to dig in the cellar, through the wall of partition, which was three yards thick. There was seven in number joined in this labour: they went in by night, and never after appeared in sight, for, having supplied themselves with all necessary provisions, they had no occasion to go out. In case of discovery, they had provided themselves with powder, shot, and fire arms, and formed a resolution rather to die than be taken. On Candlemas-day, 1605, they had dug so far through the wall as to be able to hear a noise on the other side: upon which unexpected event, fearing a discovery, Guido Fawkes, (who personated Percy's footman,) was despatched to know the occasion, and returned with the favourable report, that the place from whence the noise came was a large cellar under the upper house of parliament, full of sea-coal which was then on sale, and the cellar offered to be let. On this information, Percy immediately hired the cellar, and bought the remainder of the coals: he then sent for thirty barrels of gunpowder from Holland, and landing them at Lambeth, conveyed them gradually by night to this cellar, where they were covered with stones, iron bars, a thousand billets, and five hundred fagots; all which they did at their leisure, the parliament being prorogued to the 5th of November. This being done, the conspirators next consulted how they should secure the duke of York,[B] who was too young to be expected at the parliament house, and his sister, the Princess Elizabeth, educated at Lord Harrington's, in Warwickshire. It was resolved, that Percy and another should enter into the duke's chamber, and a dozen more, properly disposed at several doors, with two or three on horseback at the court-gate to receive him, should carry him safe away as soon as the parliament-house was blown up; or, if that could not be effected, that they should kill him, and declare the princess Elizabeth queen, having secured her, under pretence of a hunting-match, that day. Several of the conspirators proposed obtaining foreign aid previous to the execution of their design; but this was over-ruled, and it was agreed only to apply to France, Spain, and other powers for assistance after the plot had taken effect; they also resolved to proclaim the princess Elizabeth queen, and to spread a report, after the blow was given, that the puritans were the perpetrators of so inhuman an action. All matters being now prepared by the conspirators, they, without the least remorse of conscience, and with the utmost impatience, expected the 5th of November. But all their counsels were blasted by a happy and providential circumstance. One of the conspirators, having a desire to save William Parker, Lord Monteagle, sent him the following letter: "My Lord, "Out of the love I bear to some of your friends, I have a care for your preservation; therefore I advise you, as you tender your life, to devise you some excuse to shift off your attendance at this parliament; for God and man have concurred to punish the wickedness of this time: and think not slightly of this advertisement, but retire yourself into the country, where you may expect the event with safety, for though there be no appearance of any stir, yet I say they shall receive a terrible blow, this parliament, and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This counsel is not to be contemned, because it may do you good, and can do you no harm; for the danger is past so soon (or as quickly) as you burn this letter; and I hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it, to whose holy protection I commend you." The Lord Monteagle was, for some time, at a loss what judgment to form of this letter, and unresolved whether he should slight the advertisement or not; and fancying it a trick of his enemies to frighten him into an absence from parliament, would have determined on the former, had his own safety been only in question: but apprehending the king's life might be in danger, he took the letter at midnight to the earl of Salisbury, who was equally puzzled about the meaning of it; and though he was inclined to think it merely a wild and waggish contrivance to alarm Monteagle, yet he thought proper to consult about it with the earl of Suffolk, lord chamberlain. The expression, "that the blow should come, without knowing who hurt them," made them imagine that it would not be more proper than the time of parliament, nor by any other way likely to be attempted than by gunpowder, while the king was sitting to that assembly: the lord chamberlain thought this the more probable, because there was a great cellar under the parliament-chamber, (as already mentioned,) never used for any thing but wood or coal, belonging to Wineyard, the keeper of the palace; and having communicated the letter to the earls of Nottingham, Worcester, and Northampton, they proceeded no farther till the king came from Royston, on the 1st of November. His majesty being shown the letter by the earls, who, at the same time acquainted him with their suspicions, was of opinion that either nothing should be done, or else enough to prevent the danger: and that a search should be made on the day preceding that designed for this execution of the diabolical enterprise. Accordingly, on Monday, the 4th of November, in the afternoon, the lord chamberlain, whose office it was to see all things put in readiness for the king's coming, accompanied by Monteagle, went to visit all places about the parliament-house, and taking a slight occasion to see the cellar, observed only piles of billets and fagots, but in greater number than he thought Wineyard could want for his own use. On his asking who owned the wood, and being told it belonged to one Mr. Percy, he began to have some suspicions, knowing him to be a rigid papist, and so seldom there, that he had no occasion for such a quantity of fuel; and Monteagle confirmed him therein, by observing that Percy had made him great professions of friendship. Though there was no other materials visible, yet Suffolk thought it was necessary to make a further search; and, upon his return to the king, a resolution was taken that it should be made in such a manner as should be effectual, without scandalizing any body, or giving any alarm. Sir Thomas Knevet, steward of Westminster, was accordingly ordered, under the pretext of searching for stolen tapestry hangings in that place, and other houses thereabouts, to remove the wood, and see if anything was concealed underneath. This gentleman going at midnight, with several attendants, to the cellar, met Fawkes, just coming out of it, booted and spurred, with a tinder-box and three matches in his pockets, and seizing him without any ceremony, or asking him any questions, as soon as the removal of the wood discovered the barrels of gunpowder, he caused him to be bound, and properly secured. Fawkes, who was a hardened and intrepid villain, made no hesitation of avowing the design, and that it was to have been executed on the morrow. He made the same acknowledgment at his examination before a committee of the council; and though he did not deny having some associates in this conspiracy, yet no threats of torture could make him discover any of them, he declaring that "he was ready to die, and had rather suffer ten thousand deaths, than willingly accuse his master, or any other." By repeated examinations, however, and assurances of his master's being apprehended, he at length acknowledged, "that whilst he was abroad, Percy had kept the keys of the cellar, had been in it since the powder had been laid there, and, in effect, that he was one of the principal actors in the intended tragedy." In the mean time it was found out, that Percy had come post out of the north on Saturday night, the 2d of November, and had dined on Monday at Sion-house, with the earl of Northumberland; that Fawkes had met him on the road, and that, after the lord chamberlain had been that evening in the cellar, he went, about six o'clock, to his master, who had fled immediately, apprehending the plot was detected. The news of the discovery immediately spreading, the conspirators fled different ways, but chiefly into Warwickshire, where Sir Everard Digby had appointed a hunting-match, near Dunchurch, to get a number of recusants together, sufficient to seize the princess Elizabeth; but this design was prevented by her taking refuge in Coventry; and their whole party, making about one hundred, retired to Holbeach, the seat of Sir Stephen Littleton, on the borders of Staffordshire, having broken open stables, and taken horses from different people in the adjoining counties. Sir Richard Walsh, high sheriff of Worcestershire, pursued them to Holbeach, where he invested them, and summoned them to surrender. In preparing for their defence, they put some moist powder before a fire to dry, and a spark from the coals setting it on fire, some of the conspirators were so burned in their faces, thighs, and arms, that they were scarcely able to handle their weapons. Their case was desperate, and no means of escape appearing, unless by forcing their way through the assailants, they made a furious sally for that purpose. Catesby (who first proposed the manner of the plot) and Percy were both killed. Thomas Winter, Grant, Digby, Rockwood, and Bates, were taken and carried to London, were the first made a full discovery of the conspiracy. Tresham, lurking about the city, and frequently shifting his quarters, was apprehended soon after, and having confessed the whole matter, died of the strangury, in the Tower. The earl of Northumberland, suspected on account of his being related to Thomas Percy, was, by way of precaution, committed to the custody of the archbishop of Canterbury, at Lambeth; and was afterwards fined thirty thousand pounds, and sent to the Tower, for admitting Percy into the band of gentlemen pensioners, without tending him the oath of supremacy. Some escaped to Calais, and arriving there with others, who fled to avoid a persecution which they apprehended on this occasion, were kindly received by the governor; but one of them declaring before him, that he was not so much concerned at his exile, as that the powder plot did not take effect, the governor was so much incensed at his glorying in such an execrable piece of iniquity, that, in a sudden impulse of indignation, he endeavoured to throw him into the sea. On the 27th of January, 1606, eight of the conspirators were tried and convicted, among whom was Sir Everard Digby, the only one that pleaded guilty to the indictment, though all the rest had confessed their guilt before. Digby was executed on the 30th of the same month, with Robert Winter, Grant, and Bates, at the west end of St. Paul's churchyard; Thomas Winter, Keyes, Rockwood, and Fawkes, were executed the following day in Old Palace yard. Garnet was tried on the 28th of March, "for his knowledge and concealment of the conspiracy; for administering an oath of secrecy to the conspirators, for persuading them of the lawfulness of the treason, and for praying for the success of the great action in hand at the beginning of the parliament." Being found guilty,[C] he received sentence of death, but was not executed till the 3d of May, when, confessing his own guilt, and the iniquity of the enterprise, he exhorted all Roman Catholics to abstain from the like treasonable practices in future. Gerard and Hall, two Jesuits, got abroad; and Littleton, with several others, were executed in the country. The Lord Monteagle had a grant of two hundred pounds a year in land, and a pension of five hundred pounds for life, as a reward for discovering the letter which gave the first hint of the conspiracy; and the anniversary of this providential deliverance was ordered to be for ever commemorated by prayer and thanksgiving. Thus was this diabolical scheme happily rendered abortive, and the authors of it brought to that condign punishment which their wickedness merited. In this affair Providence manifestly interposed in behalf of the protestants, and saved them from that destruction which must have taken place had the scheme succeeded according to the wishes of a bigoted, superstitious, and blood-thirsty faction. FOOTNOTES: [A] The queen made the following animated speech to the troops assembled at Tilbury: "My loving people, we have been persuaded by some, that are careful of our safety, to take heed how we commit ourselves to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery, but I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people.--Let tyrants fear: I have always so behaved myself, that under God, I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and good will of my subjects. And therefore I am come among you at this time, not as for my recreation or sport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live or die among you all, to lay down, for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honour and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart of a king, and of a king of England too; and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realms: To which rather than any dishonour should grow by me, I myself will take up arms; I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already, by your forwardness, that you have deserved rewards and crowns; and I do assure you, on the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you. In the mean time my lieutenant-general shall be in my stead, than whom never prince commanded a more noble and worthy subject; not doubting by your obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, and your valour in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over those enemies of my God, of my kingdom, and of my people." [B] Afterward Charles I. CHAPTER XV. RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE PROTESTANT RELIGION IN IRELAND; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE BARBAROUS MASSACRE OF 1641. The gloom of popery had overshadowed Ireland from its first establishment there till the reign of Henry VIII. when the rays of the gospel began to dispel the darkness, and afford that light which till then had been unknown in that island. The abject ignorance in which the people were held, with the absurd and superstitious notions they entertained, were sufficiently evident to many; and the artifices of their priests were so conspicuous, that several persons of distinction, who had hitherto been strenuous papists, would willingly have endeavoured to shake off the yoke, and embrace the protestant religion; but the natural ferocity of the people, and their strong attachment to the ridiculous doctrines which they had been taught, made the attempt dangerous. It was, however, at length undertaken, though attended with the most horrid and disastrous consequences. The introduction of the protestant religion into Ireland may be principally attributed to George Browne, an Englishman, who was consecrated archbishop of Dublin on the 19th of March, 1535. He had formerly been an Augustine friar, and was promoted to the mitre on account of his merit. After having enjoyed his dignity about five years, he, at the time that Henry VIII. was suppressing the religious houses in England, caused all the relics and images to be removed out of the two cathedrals in Dublin, and the other churches in his diocese; in the place of which he caused to be put up the Lord's prayer, the creed, and the ten commandments. A short time after this he received a letter from Thomas Cromwell, lord-privy seal, informing him that Henry VIII. having thrown off the papal supremacy in England, was determined to do the like in Ireland; and that he thereupon had appointed him (archbishop Browne) one of the commissioners for seeing this order put in execution. The archbishop answered, that he had employed his utmost endeavours at the hazard of his life, to cause the Irish nobility and gentry to acknowledge Henry as their supreme head, in matters both spiritual and temporal; but had met with a most violent opposition, especially from George, archbishop of Armagh; that this prelate had, in a speech to his clergy, laid a curse on all those who should own his highness'[D] supremacy: adding, that their isle, called in the Chronicles _Insula Sacra_, or the Holy Island, belonged to none but the bishop of Rome, and that the king's progenitors had received it from the pope. He observed likewise, that the archbishop and clergy of Armagh, had each despatched a courier to Rome; and that it would be necessary for a parliament to be called in Ireland, to pass an act of supremacy, the people not regarding the king's commission without the sanction of the legislative assembly. He concluded with observing, that the popes had kept the people in the most profound ignorance; that the clergy were exceedingly illiterate; that the common people were more zealous, in their blindness, than the saints and martyrs had been in the defence of truth at the beginning of the gospel; and that it was to be feared Shan O'Neal, a chieftain of great power in the northern part of the island, was decidedly opposed to the king's commission. In pursuance of this advice, the following year a parliament was summoned to meet at Dublin, by order of Leonard Grey, at that time lord-lieutenant. At this assembly archbishop Browne made a speech in which he set forth, that the bishops of Rome used, anciently, to acknowledge emperors, kings, and princes, to be supreme in their own dominions, and, therefore, that he himself would vote king Henry VIII. as supreme in all matters, both ecclesiastical and temporal. He concluded with saying, that whosoever should refuse to vote for this act, was not a true subject of the king. This speech greatly startled the other bishops and lords; but at length, after violent debates, the king's supremacy was allowed. Two years after this, the archbishop wrote a second letter to lord Cromwell, complaining of the clergy, and hinting at the machinations which the pope was then carrying on against the advocates of the gospel. This letter is dated from Dublin, in April, 1538; and among other matters, the archbishop says, "A bird may be taught to speak with as much sense as many of the clergy do in this country. These, though not scholars, yet are crafty to cozen the poor common people and to dissuade them from following his highness' orders. The country folk here much hate your lordship, and despitefully call you, in their Irish tongue, the Blacksmith's Son. As a friend, I desire your lordship to look well to your noble person. Rome hath a great kindness for the duke of Norfolk, and great favors for this nation, purposely to oppose his highness." A short time after this, the pope sent over to Ireland (directed to the Archbishop of Armagh and his clergy) a bull of excommunication against all who had, or should own the king's supremacy within the Irish nation; denouncing a curse on all of them, and theirs, who should not, within forty days, acknowledge to their confessors, that they had done amiss in so doing. Archbishop Browne gave notice of this in a letter, dated, Dublin, May, 1538. Part of the form of confession, or vow, sent over to these Irish papists, ran as follows; "I do farther declare him or her, father or mother, brother or sister, son or daughter, husband or wife, uncle or aunt, nephew or niece, kinsman or kinswoman, master or mistress, and all others, nearest or dearest relations, friend or acquaintance whatsoever, accursed, that either do or shall hold, for the time to come, any ecclesiastical or civil power above the authority of the mother church; or that do or shall obey, for the time to come, any of her the mother of churches' opposers or enemies, or contrary to the same, of which I have here sworn unto: so God, the Blessed Virgin, St. Peter, St. Paul, and the Holy Evangelists, help me, &c." This is an exact agreement with the doctrines promulgated by the councils of Lateran and Constance, which expressly declare, that no favour should be shown to heretics, nor faith kept with them; that they ought to be excommunicated and condemned, and their estates confiscated; and that princes are obliged, by a solemn oath, to root them out of their respective dominions. How abominable a church must that be, which thus dares to trample upon all authority! how besotted the people who regard the injunctions of such a church! In the archbishop's last-mentioned letter, dated May, 1538, he says, "His highness' viceroy of this nation is of little or no power with the old natives. Now both English and Irish begin to oppose your lordship's orders, and to lay aside their national quarrels, which I fear will (if any thing will) cause a foreigner to invade this nation." Not long after this, Archbishop Browne seized one Thady O'Brian, a Franciscan friar, who had in his possession a paper sent from Rome dated May, 1538, and directed to O'Neal. In this letter were the following words: "His holiness, Paul, now pope, and the council of the fathers, have lately found, in Rome, a prophecy of one St. Lacerianus, an Irish bishop of Cashel, in which he saith, that the mother church of Rome falleth, when, in Ireland, the catholic faith is overcome. Therefore, for the glory of the mother church, the honour of St. Peter, and your own secureness, suppress heresy, and his holiness' enemies." This Thady O'Brian, after farther examination and search made, was pilloried, and kept close prisoner, till the king's orders arrived in what manner he should be farther disposed of. But order coming over from England that he was to be hanged, he laid violent hands on himself in the castle of Dublin. His body was afterwards carried to Gallows-green, where, after being hanged up for some time, it was interred. After the accession of Edward VI. to the throne of England, an order was directed to Sir Anthony Leger, the lord-deputy of Ireland, commanding that the liturgy in English be forthwith set up in Ireland, there to be observed within the several bishoprics, cathedrals, and parish churches; and it was first read in Christ-church, Dublin, on Easter day, 1551, before the said Sir Anthony, Archbishop Browne, and others. Part of the royal order for this purpose was as follows: "Whereas, our gracious father, King Henry VIII. taking into consideration the bondage and heavy yoke that his true and faithful subjects sustained, under the jurisdiction of the bishop of Rome; how several fabulous stories and lying wonders misled our subjects; dispensing with the sins of our nations, by their indulgences and pardons, for gain; purposely to cherish all evil vices, as robberies, rebellions, theft, whoredoms, blasphemy, idolatry, &c. our gracious father hereupon dissolved all priories, monasteries, abbeys, and other pretended religious houses; as being but nurseries for vice or luxury, more than for sacred learning," &c. On the day after the common-prayer was first used in Christ-church, Dublin, the following wicked scheme was projected by the papists: In the church was left a marble image of Christ, holding a reed in his hand, with a crown of thorns on his head. Whilst the English service (the Common Prayer) was being read before the lord-lieutenant, the archbishop of Dublin, the privy-council, the lord-mayor, and a great congregation, blood was seen to run through the crevices of the crown of thorns, and to trickle down the face of the image. On this, some of the contrivers of the imposture cried aloud: "See how our Saviour's image sweats blood! But it must necessarily do this, since heresy is come into the church." Immediately many of the lower order of people, indeed the _vulgar of all ranks_, were terrified at the sight of so _miraculous_ and _undeniable_ an evidence of the divine displeasure; they hastened from the church, convinced that the doctrines of protestantism emanated from an infernal source, and that salvation was only to be found in the bosom of their own _infallible_ church. This incident, however ludicrous it may appear to the enlightened reader, had great influence over the minds of the ignorant Irish, and answered the ends of the impudent imposters who contrived it, so far as to check the progress of the reformed religion in Ireland very materially; many persons could not resist the conviction that there were many errors and corruptions in the Romish church, but they were awed into silence by this pretended manifestation of Divine wrath, which was magnified beyond measure by the bigoted and interested priesthood. We have very few particulars as to the state of religion in Ireland during the remaining portion of the reign of Edward VI. and the greater part of that of Mary. Towards the conclusion of the barbarous sway of that relentless bigot, she attempted to extend her inhuman persecutions to this island; but her diabolical intentions were happily frustrated in the following providential manner, the particulars of which are related by historians of good authority. Mary had appointed Dr. Cole (an agent of the blood-thirsty Bonner) one of the commissioners for carrying her barbarous intentions into effect. He having arrived at Chester with his commission, the mayor of that city, being a papist, waited upon him; when the doctor taking out of his cloak-bag a leathern case, said to him, "Here is a commission that shall lash the heretics of Ireland." The good woman of the house being a protestant, and having a brother in Dublin, named John Edmunds, was greatly troubled at what she heard. But watching her opportunity, whilst the mayor was taking his leave, and the doctor politely accompanying him down stairs, she opened the box, took out the commission, and in its stead laid a sheet of paper, with a pack of cards, and the _knave of clubs_ at top. The doctor, not suspecting the trick that had been played him, put up the box, and arrived with it in Dublin, in September, 1558. Anxious to accomplish the intentions of his "_pious_" mistress, he immediately waited upon Lord Fitz-Walter, at that time viceroy, and presented the box to him; which being opened, nothing was found in it but a pack of cards. This startling all the persons present, his lordship said, "We must procure another commission; and in the mean time let us shuffle the cards!" Dr. Cole, however, would have directly returned to England to get another commission; but waiting for a favourable wind, news arrived that queen Mary was dead, and by this means the protestants escaped a most cruel persecution. The above relation as we before observed, is confirmed by historians of the greatest credit, who add, that queen Elizabeth settled a pension of forty pounds per annum upon the above mentioned Elizabeth Edmunds, for having thus saved the lives of her protestant subjects. During the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. Ireland was almost constantly agitated by rebellions and insurrections, which, although not always taking their rise from the difference of religious opinions between the English and Irish, were aggravated and rendered more bitter and irreconcilable from that cause. The popish priests artfully exaggerated the faults of the English government, and continually urged to their ignorant and prejudiced hearers the lawfulness of killing the protestants, assuring them that all catholics who were slain in the prosecution of so _pious_ an enterprise, would be immediately received into everlasting felicity. The naturally ungovernable dispositions of the Irish, acted upon by these designing men, drove them into continual acts of barbarous and unjustifiable violence; and it must be confessed that the unsettled and arbitrary nature of the authority exercised by the English governors, was but little calculated to gain their affections. The Spaniards, too, by landing forces in the south, and giving every encouragement to the discontented natives to join their standard, kept the island in a continual state of turbulence and warfare. In 1601, they disembarked a body of 4000 men at Kinsale, and commenced what they called "_the holy war for the preservation of the faith in Ireland_;" they were assisted by great numbers of the Irish, but were at length totally defeated by the deputy, lord Mountjoy, and his officers. This closed the transactions of Elizabeth's reign with respect to Ireland; an interval of apparent tranquility followed, but the popish priesthood, ever restless and designing, sought to undermine by secret machinations, that government and that faith which they durst no longer openly attack. The pacific reign of James afforded them the opportunity of increasing their strength and maturing their schemes, and under his successor, Charles I. their numbers were greatly increased by titular Romish archbishops, bishops, deans, vicars-general, abbots, priests, and friars; for which reason, in 1629, the public exercise of the popish rites and ceremonies was forbidden. But notwithstanding this, soon afterwards, the Romish clergy erected a new popish university in the city of Dublin. They also proceeded to build monasteries and nunneries in various parts of the kingdom; in which places these very Romish clergy, and the chiefs of the Irish, held frequent meetings; and from thence, used to pass to and fro, to France, Spain, Flanders, Lorrain, and Rome; where the detestable plot of 1641 was hatching by the family of the O'Neals and their followers. A short time before the horrid conspiracy broke out, which we are now going to relate, the papists in Ireland had presented a remonstrance to the lords-justices of that kingdom, demanding the free exercise of their religion, and a repeal of all laws to the contrary, to which both houses of parliament in England, solemnly answered, that they would never grant any toleration to the popish religion in that kingdom. This farther irritated the papists to put in execution the diabolical plot concerted for the destruction of the protestants; and it failed not of the success wished for by its malicious and rancorous projectors. The design of this horrid conspiracy was, that a general insurrection should take place at the same time throughout the kingdom, and that all the protestants, without exception, should be murdered. The day fixed for this horrid massacre, was the 23d of October, 1641, the feast of Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuits; and the chief conspirators, in the principal parts of the kingdom, made the necessary preparations for the intended conflict. In order that this detested scheme might the more infallibly succeed, the most distinguished artifices were practised by the papists; and their behaviour in their visits to the protestants, at this time, was with more seeming kindness than they had hitherto shown, which was done the more completely to effect the inhuman and treacherous designs then meditating against them. The execution of this savage conspiracy was delayed till the approach of winter, that sending troops from England might be attended with greater difficulty. Cardinal Richelieu, the French minister, had promised the conspirators a considerable supply of men and money; and many Irish officers had given the strongest assurances that they would heartily concur with their catholic brethren, as soon as the insurrection took place. The day preceding that appointed for carrying this horrid design into execution, was now arrived, when, happily for the metropolis of the kingdom, the conspiracy was discovered by one Owen O'Connelly, an Irishman, for which most signal service the English parliament voted him 500_l._ and a pension of 200_l._ during his life. So very seasonably was this plot discovered, even but a few hours before the city and castle of Dublin were to have been surprised, that the lords-justices had but just time to put themselves, and the city, in a proper posture of defence. The lord M'Guire, who was the principal leader here, with his accomplices, were seized the same evening in the city; and in their lodgings were found swords, hatchets, pole-axes, hammers, and such other instruments of death as had been prepared for the destruction and extirpation of the protestants in that part of the kingdom. Thus was the metropolis happily preserved; but the bloody part of the intended tragedy was past prevention. The conspirators were in arms all over the kingdom early in the morning of the day appointed, and every protestant who fell in their way was immediately murdered. No age, no sex, no condition, was spared. The wife weeping for her butchered husband, and embracing her helpless children, was pierced with them, and perished by the same stroke. The old, the young, the vigorous, and the infirm, underwent the same fate, and were blended in one common ruin. In vain did flight save from the first assault, destruction was every where let loose, and met the hunted victims at every turn. In vain was recourse had to relations, to companions, to friends; all connexions were dissolved; and death was dealt by that hand from which protection was implored and expected. Without provocation, without opposition, the astonished English, living in profound peace, and, as they thought, full security, were massacred by their nearest neighbours, with whom they had long maintained a continued intercourse of kindness and good offices. Nay, even death was the slightest punishment inflicted by these monsters in human form; all the tortures which wanton cruelty could invent, all the lingering pains of body, the anguish of mind, the agonies of despair, could not satiate revenge excited without injury, and cruelly derived from no just cause whatever. Depraved nature, even perverted religion, though encouraged by the utmost license, cannot reach to a greater pitch of ferocity than appeared in these merciless barbarians. Even the weaker sex themselves, naturally tender to their own sufferings, and compassionate to those of others, have emulated their robust companions in the practice of every cruelty. The very children, taught by example, and encouraged by the exhortation of their parents, dealt their feeble blows on the dead carcasses of the defenceless children of the English. Nor was the avarice of the Irish sufficient to produce the least restraint on their cruelty. Such was their frenzy, that the cattle they had seized, and by rapine had made their own, were, because they bore the name of English, wantonly slaughtered, or, when covered with wounds, turned loose into the woods, there to perish by slow and lingering torments. The commodious habitations of the planters were laid in ashes, or levelled with the ground. And where the wretched owners had shut themselves up in the houses, and were preparing for defence, they perished in the flames together with their wives and children. Such is the general description of this unparalleled massacre; but it now remains, from the nature of our work, that we proceed to particulars. The bigoted and merciless papists had no sooner begun to imbrue their hands in blood, than they repeated the horrid tragedy day after day, and the protestants in all parts of the kingdom fell victims to their fury by deaths of the most unheard of cruelty. The ignorant Irish were more strongly instigated to execute the infernal business by the jesuits, priests, and friars, who, when the day for the execution of the plot was agreed on, recommended in their prayers, diligence in the great design, which they said would greatly tend to the prosperity of the kingdom, and to the advancement of the Catholic cause. They every where declared to the common people, that the protestants were heretics, and ought not to be suffered to live any longer among them; adding, that it was no more sin to kill an Englishman than to kill a dog; and that the relieving or protecting them was a crime of the most unpardonable nature. The papists having besieged the town and castle of Longford, and the inhabitants of the latter, who were protestants, surrendering on condition of being allowed quarter, the besiegers, the instant the towns-people appeared, attacked them in a most unmerciful manner, their priest, as a signal for the rest to fall on, first ripping open the belly of the English protestant minister; after which his followers murdered all the rest, some of whom they hung, others were stabbed or shot and great numbers knocked on the head with axes provided for the purpose. The garrison at Sligo was treated in like manner by O'Connor Slygah; who, upon the protestants quitting their holds, promised them quarter, and to convey them safe over the Curlew mountains, to Roscommon. But he first imprisoned them in a most loathsome jail, allowing them only grains for their food. Afterward, when some papists were merry over their cups, who were come to congratulate their wicked brethren for their victory over these unhappy creatures, those protestants who survived were brought forth by the White-friars, and were either killed, or precipitated over the bridge into a swift river, where they were soon destroyed. It is added, that this wicked company of White-friars went, some time after, in solemn procession, with holy water in their hands, to sprinkle the river; on pretence of cleansing and purifying it from the stains and pollution of the blood and dead bodies of the heretics, as they called the unfortunate protestants who were inhumanly slaughtered at this very time. At Kilmore, Dr. Bedell, bishop of that see, had charitably settled and supported a great number of distressed protestants, who had fled from their habitations to escape the diabolical cruelties committed by the papists. But they did not long enjoy the consolation of living together; the good prelate was forcibly dragged from his episcopal residence, which was immediately occupied by Dr. Swiney, the popish titular bishop of Kilmore, who said mass in the church the Sunday following, and then seized on all the goods and effects belonging to the persecuted bishop. Soon after this, the papists forced Dr. Bedell, his two sons, and the rest of his family, with some of the chief of the protestants whom he had protected, into a ruinous castle, called Lochwater, situated in a lake near the sea. Here he remained with his companions some weeks, all of them daily expecting to be put to death. The greatest part of them were stripped naked, by which means, as the season was cold, (it being in the month of December) and the building in which they were confined open at the top, they suffered the most severe hardships. They continued in this situation till the 7th of January, when they were all released. The bishop was courteously received into the house of Dennis O'Sheridan, one of his clergy, whom he had made a convert to the church of England; but he did not long survive this kindness. During his residence here, he spent the whole of his time in religious exercises, the better to fit and prepare himself and his sorrowful companions, for their great change as not but certain death was perpetually before their eyes. He was at this time in the 71st year of his age, and being afflicted with a violent ague caught in his late cold and desolate habitation on the lake, it soon threw him into a fever of the most dangerous nature. Finding his dissolution at hand, he received it with joy, like one of the primitive martyrs just hastening to his crown of glory. After having addressed his little flock, and exhorted them to patience, in the most pathetic manner, as they saw their own last day approaching, after having solemnly blessed his people, his family, and his children, he finished the course of his ministry and life together, on the 7th day of February, 1642. His friends and relations applied to the intruding bishop for leave to bury him, which was with difficulty obtained; he, at first telling them that the churchyard was holy ground, and should be no longer defiled with heretics: however, leave was at last granted, and though the church funeral service was not used at the solemnity, (for fear of the Irish papists) yet some of the better sort, who had the highest veneration for him while living, attended his remains to the grave. At his interment, they discharged a volley of shot, crying out, "Requiescat in pace ultimas Anglorum;" that is, May the last of the English rest in peace. Adding, that as he was one of the best so he should be the last English bishop found among them. His learning was very extensive; and he would have given the world a greater proof of it, had he printed all he wrote. Scarce any of his writings were saved; the papists having destroyed most of his papers and his library. He had gathered a vast heap of critical expositions of scripture, all which with a great trunk full of his manuscripts, fell into the hands of the Irish. Happily his great Hebrew MS. was preserved, and is now in the library of Emanuel college, Oxford. In the barony of Terawley, the papists, at the instigation of the friars, compelled above forty English protestants, some of whom were women and children, to the hard fate either of falling by the sword, or of drowning in the sea. These choosing the latter, were accordingly forced, by the naked weapons of their inexorable persecutors, into the deep, where, with their children in their arms, they first waded up to their chins, and afterwards sunk down and perished together. In the castle of Lisgool upwards of one hundred and fifty men, women, and children, were all burnt together; and at the castle of Moneah not less than one hundred were all put to the sword.--Great numbers were also murdered at the castle of Tullah, which was delivered up to M'Guire on condition of having fair quarter; but no sooner had that base villain got possession of the place, than he ordered his followers to murder the people, which was immediately done with the greatest cruelty. Many others were put to deaths of the most horrid nature, and such as could have been invented only by demons instead of men. Some of them were laid with the centre of their backs on the axle-tree of a carriage, with their legs resting on the ground on one side, and then arms and head on the other. In this position one of the savages scourged the wretched object on the thighs, legs, &c. while another set on furious dogs, who tore to pieces the arms and upper parts of the body; and in this dreadful manner were they deprived of their existence. Great numbers were fastened to horses' tails, and the beasts being set on full gallop by their riders, the wretched victims were dragged along till they expired. Others were hung on lofty gibbets, and a fire being kindled under them, they finished their lives, partly by hanging, and partly by suffocation. Nor did the more tender sex escape the least particle of cruelty that could be projected by their merciless and furious persecutors. Many women, of all ages, were put to deaths of the most cruel nature. Some, in particular, were fastened with their backs to strong posts, and being stripped to their waists, the inhuman monsters cut off their right breasts with shears, which, of course, put them to the most excruciating torments; and in this position they were left, till, from the loss of blood, they expired. Such was the savage ferocity of these barbarians, that even unborn infants were dragged from the womb to become victims to their rage. Many unhappy mothers were hung naked on the branches of trees, and their bodies being cut open, the innocent offsprings were taken from them, and thrown to dogs and swine. And to increase the horrid scene, they would oblige the husband to be a spectator before suffered himself. At the town of Issenskeath they hanged above a hundred Scottish protestants, showing them no more mercy than they did to the English. M'Guire, going to the castle of that town, desired to speak with the governor, when being admitted, he immediately burnt the records of the county, which were kept there. He then demanded £1000 of the governor, which having received, he immediately compelled him to hear mass, and to swear that he would continue so to do. And to complete his horrid barbarities, he ordered the wife and children of the governor to be hung before his face; besides massacring at least one hundred of the inhabitants. Upwards of one thousand men, women and children, were driven, in different companies, to Porterdown bridge, which was broken in the middle, and there compelled to throw themselves into the water, and such as attempted to reach the shore were knocked on the head. In the same part of the country, at least four thousand persons were drowned in different places. The inhuman papists, after first stripping them, drove them like beasts to the spot fixed on for their destruction; and if any, through fatigue, or natural infirmities, were slack in their pace, they pricked them with their swords and pikes; and to strike terror on the multitude, they murdered some by the way.--Many of these poor wretches, when thrown into the water, endeavoured to save themselves by swimming to the shore; but their merciless persecutors prevented their endeavors taking effect by shooting them in the water. In one place one hundred and forty English, after being driven for many miles stark naked, and in the most severe weather, were all murdered on the same spot, some being hanged, others burnt, some shot, and many of them buried alive; and so cruel were their tormentors, that they would not suffer them to pray before they robbed them of their miserable existence. Other companies they took under pretence of safe conduct, who, from that consideration, proceeded cheerfully on their journey; but when the treacherous papists had got them to a convenient spot, they butchered them all in the most cruel manner. One hundred and fifteen men, women, and children, were conducted, by order of Sir Phelim O'Neal, to Porterdown bridge, where they were all forced into the river, and drowned. One woman, named Campbell, finding no probability of escaping, suddenly clasped one of the chief of the papists in her arms, and held him so fast, that they were both drowned together. In Killoman they massacred forty-eight families, among whom twenty-two were burnt together in one house. The rest were either hanged, shot, or drowned. In Kilmore the inhabitants, which consisted of about two hundred families, all fell victims to their rage. Some of them sat in the stocks till they confessed where their money was; after which they put them to death. The whole county was one common scene of butchery, and many thousands perished, in a short time, by sword, famine, fire, water, and other the most cruel deaths, that rage and malice could invent. These bloody villains showed so much favour to some as to despatch them immediately; but they would by no means suffer them to pray. Others they imprisoned in filthy dungeons, putting heavy bolts on their legs, and keeping them there till they were starved to death. At Casel they put all the protestants into a loathsome dungeon, where they kept them together, for several weeks, in the greatest misery. At length they were released, when some of them were barbarously mangled, and left on the highways to perish at leisure; others were hanged, and some were buried in the ground upright, with their heads above the earth, and the papists, to increase their misery, treating them with derision during their sufferings. In the county of Antrim they murdered nine hundred and fifty-four protestants in one morning; and afterward about twelve hundred more in that county. At a town called Lisnegary, they forced twenty-four protestants into a house, and then setting fire to it, burned them together, counterfeiting their outcries in derision to the others. Among other acts of cruelty they took two children belonging to an English woman, and dashed out their brains before her face; after which they threw the mother into a river, and she was drowned. They served many other children in the like manner, to the great affliction of their parents, and the disgrace of human nature. In Kilkenny all the protestants, without exception, were put to death; and some of them in so cruel a manner, as, perhaps, was never before thought of. They beat an English woman with such savage barbarity, that she had scarce a whole bone left; after which they threw her into a ditch; but not satisfied with this, they took her child, a girl about six years of age and after ripping up its belly, threw it to its mother, there to languish till it perished. They forced one man to go to mass, after which they ripped open his body, and in that manner left him. They sawed another asunder, cut the throat of his wife, and after having dashed out the brains of their child, an infant, threw it to the swine, who greedily devoured it. After committing these, and several other horrid cruelties, they took the heads of seven protestants, and among them that of a pious minister, all which they fixed up at the market cross. They put a gag into the minister's mouth, then slit his cheeks to his ears, and laying a leaf of a Bible before it, bid him preach, for his mouth was wide enough. They did several other things by way of derision, and expressed the greatest satisfaction at having thus murdered and exposed the unhappy protestants. It is impossible to conceive the pleasure these monsters took in exercising their cruelty, and to increase the misery of those who fell into their hands, when they butchered them they would say, "Your soul to the devil." One of these miscreants would come into a house with his hands imbued in blood, and boast that it was English blood, and that his sword had pricked the white skins of the protestants, even to the hilt. When any one of them had killed a protestant, others would come and receive a gratification in cutting and mangling the body; after which they left it exposed to be devoured by dogs; and when they had slain a number of them they would boast, that the devil was beholden to them for sending so many souls to hell. But it is no wonder they should thus treat the innocent christians, when they hesitated not to commit blasphemy against God and his most holy word. In one place they burnt two protestant Bibles, and then said they had burnt hell-fire. In the church at Powerscourt they burnt the pulpit, pews, chests, and Bibles belonging to it. They took other Bibles, and after wetting them with dirty water, dashed them in the faces of the protestants, saying, "We know you love a good lesson; here is an excellent one for you; come to-morrow, and you shall have as good a sermon as this." Some of the protestants they dragged by the hair of their heads into the church, where they stripped and whipped them in the most cruel manner, telling them, at the same time, "That if they came to-morrow, they should hear the like sermon." In Munster they put to death several ministers in the most shocking manner. One, in particular, they stripped stark naked, and driving him before them, pricked him with swords and darts till he fell down, and expired. In some places they plucked out the eyes, and cut off the hands of the protestants, and in that manner turned them into the fields, there to wander out their miserable existence. They obliged many young men to force their aged parents to a river, where they were drowned; wives to assist in hanging their husbands; and mothers to cut the throats of their children. In one place they compelled a young man to kill his father, and then immediately hanged him. In another they forced a woman to kill her husband, then obliged the son to kill her, and afterward shot him through the head. At a place called Glaslow, a popish priest, with some others, prevailed on forty protestants to be reconciled to the church of Rome. They had no sooner done this, than they told them they were in good faith, and that they would prevent their falling from it, and turning heretics, by sending them out of the world, which they did by immediately cutting their throats. In the county of Tipperary upwards of thirty protestants, men, women, and children, fell into the hands of the papists, who, after stripping them naked, murdered them with stones, pole-axes, swords, and other weapons. In the county of Mayo about sixty protestants, fifteen of whom were ministers, were, upon covenant, to be safely conducted to Galway, by one Edmund Burke and his soldiers; but that inhuman monster by the way drew his sword, as an intimation of his design to the rest, who immediately followed his example, and murdered the whole, some of whom they stabbed, others were run through the body with pikes, and several were drowned. In Queen's county great numbers of protestants were put to the most shocking deaths. Fifty or sixty were placed together in one house, which being set on fire, they all perished in the flames. Many were stripped naked, and being fastened to horses by ropes placed round their middles, were dragged through bogs till they expired. Some were hung by the feet to tenter-hooks driven into poles; and in that wretched posture left till they perished. Others were fastened to the trunk of a tree, with a branch at top. Over this branch hung one arm, which principally supported the weight of the body; and one of the legs was turned up, and fastened to the trunk, while the other hung straight. In this dreadful and uneasy posture did they remain, as long as life would permit, pleasing spectacles to their blood-thirsty persecutors. At Clownes seventeen men were buried alive; and an Englishman, his wife, five children, and a servant maid, were all hung together and afterward thrown into a ditch. They hung many by the arms to branches of trees, with a weight to their feet; and others by the middle, in which postures they left them till they expired. Several were hung on windmills, and before they were half dead, the barbarians cut them in pieces with their swords. Others, both men, women, and children, they cut and hacked in various parts of their bodies, and left them wallowing in their blood to perish where they fell. One poor woman they hung on a gibbet, with her child, an infant about a twelve-month old, the latter of whom was hung by the neck with the hair of its mother's head, and in that manner finished its short but miserable existence. In the county of Tyrone no less than three hundred protestants were drowned in one day; and many others were hanged, burned, and otherwise put to death. Dr. Maxwell, rector of Tyrone, lived at this time near Armagh, and suffered greatly from these merciless savages. This person, in his examination, taken upon oath before the king's commissioners, declared, that the Irish papists owned to him, that they, at several times, had destroyed, in one place, 12,000 protestants, whom they inhumanly slaughtered at Glynwood, in their flight from the county of Armagh. As the river Bann was not fordable, and the bridge broken down, the Irish forced thither at different times, a great number of unarmed, defenceless protestants, and with pikes and swords violently thrust above one thousand into the river, where they miserably perished. Nor did the cathedral of Armagh escape the fury of these barbarians, it being maliciously set on fire by their leaders, and burnt to the ground. And to extirpate, if possible, the very race of those unhappy protestants, who lived in or near Armagh, the Irish first burnt all their houses, and then gathered together many hundreds of those innocent people, young and old, on pretence of allowing them a guard and safe conduct to Colerain; when they treacherously fell on them by the way, and inhumanly murdered them. The like horrid barbarities with those we have particularized, were practised on the wretched protestants in almost all parts of the kingdom; and, when an estimate was afterward made of the number who were sacrificed to gratify the diabolical souls of the papists, it amounted to one hundred and fifty thousand. But it now remains that we proceed to the particulars that followed. These desperate wretches, flushed and grown insolent with success, (though by methods attended with such excessive barbarities as perhaps not to be equalled) soon got possession of the castle of Newry, where the king's stores and ammunition were lodged; and, with as little difficulty, made themselves masters of Dundalk. They afterward took the town of Ardee, where they murdered all the protestants, and then proceeded to Drogheda. The garrison of Drogheda was in no condition to sustain a siege, notwithstanding which, as often as the Irish renewed their attacks they were vigorously repulsed by a very unequal number of the king's forces, and a few faithful protestant citizens under sir Henry Tichborne, the governor, assisted by the lord viscount Moore. The siege of Drogheda began on the 30th of November, 1641, and held till the 4th of March, 1642, when sir Phelim O'Neal, and the Irish miscreants under him were forced to retire. In the mean time ten thousand troops were sent from Scotland to the remaining protestants in Ireland, which being properly divided in the most capital parts of the kingdom, happily eclipsed the power of the Irish savages; and the protestants for a time lived in tranquility. In the reign of king James II. they were again interrupted, for in a parliament held at Dublin in the year 1689, great numbers of the protestant nobility, clergy, and gentry of Ireland, were attainted of high treason. The government of the kingdom was, at that time, invested in the earl of Tyrconnel, a bigoted papist, and an inveterate enemy to the protestants. By his orders they were again persecuted in various parts of the kingdom. The revenues of the city of Dublin were seized, and most of the churches converted into prisons. And had it not been for the resolution and uncommon bravery of the garrisons in the city of Londonderry, and the town of Inniskillin, there had not one place remained for refuge to the distressed protestants in the whole kingdom; but all must have been given up to king James, and to the furious popish party that governed him. The remarkable siege of Londonderry was opened on the 18th of April, 1689, by twenty thousand papists, the flower of the Irish army. The city was not properly circumstanced to sustain a siege, the defenders consisting of a body of raw undisciplined protestants, who had fled thither for shelter, and half a regiment of lord Mountjoy's disciplined soldiers, with the principal part of the inhabitants, making in all only seven thousand three hundred and sixty-one fighting men. The besieged hoped, at first, that their stores of corn, and other necessaries, would be sufficient; but by the continuance of the siege their wants increased; and these became at last so heavy, that for a considerable time before the siege was raised, a pint of coarse barley, a small quantity of greens, a few spoonfuls of starch, with a very moderate proportion of horse flesh, were reckoned a week's provision for a soldier. And they were, at length, reduced to such extremities, that they ate dogs, cats, and mice. Their miseries increasing with the siege, many, through mere hunger and want, pined and languished away, or fell dead in the streets. And it is remarkable, that when their long expected succours arrived from England, they were upon the point of being reduced to this alternative, either to preserve their existence by eating each other, or attempting to fight their way through the Irish, which must have infallibly produced their destruction. These succours were most happily brought by the ship Mountjoy of Derry, and the Phoenix of Colerain, at which time they had only nine lean horses left with a pint of meal to each man. By hunger, and the fatigues of war, their seven thousand three hundred and sixty-one fighting men, were reduced to four thousand three hundred, one-fourth part of whom were rendered unserviceable. As the calamities of the besieged were great, so likewise were the terrors and sufferings of their protestant friends and relations; all of whom (even women and children) were forcibly driven from the country thirty miles round, and inhumanly reduced to the sad necessity of continuing some days and nights without food or covering, before the walls of the town; and were thus exposed to the continual fire both of the Irish army from without, and the shot of their friends from within. But the succours from England happily arriving put an end to their affliction; and the siege was raised on the 31st of July, having been continued upwards of three months. The day before the siege of Londonderry was raised, the Inniskillers engaged a body of six thousand Irish Roman catholics, at Newton, Butler, or Crown-Castle, of whom near five thousand were slain. This, with the defeat at Londonderry, dispirited the papists, and they gave up all farther attempts to persecute the protestants. The year following, viz. 1690; the Irish took up arms in favour of the abdicated prince, king James II. but they were totally defeated by his successor king William the Third. That monarch, before he left the country, reduced them to a state of subjection, in which they have ever since continued; and it is to be hoped will so remain as long as time shall be. By a report made in Ireland, in the year 1731, it appeared that a great number of ecclesiastics had, in defiance of the laws, flocked into that kingdom: that several convents had been opened by jesuits, monks, and friars; that many new and pompous mass-houses had been erected in some of the most conspicuous parts of their great cities, where there had not been any before; and that such swarms of vagrant, immoral Romish priests had appeared, that the very papists themselves considered them as a burthen. But notwithstanding all this, the protestant interest at present stands upon a much stronger basis than it did a century ago. The Irish, who formerly led an unsettled and roving life, in the woods, bogs, and mountains, and lived on the depredation of their neighbours, they who, in the morning seized the prey, and at night divided the spoil, have, for many years past, become quiet and civilized. They taste the sweets of English society, and the advantages of civil government. They trade in our cities, and are employed in our manufactories. They are received also into English families; and treated with great humanity by the protestants. The heads of their clans, and the chiefs of the great Irish families, who cruelly oppressed and tyrannized over their vassals, are now dwindled in a great measure to nothing; and most of the ancient popish nobility and gentry of Ireland have renounced the Romish religion. It is also to be hoped, that inestimable benefits will arise from the establishment of protestant schools in various parts of the kingdom, in which the children of the Roman catholics are instructed in religion and reading, whereby the mist of ignorance is dispelled from their eyes, which was the great source of the cruel transactions that have taken place, at different periods, in that kingdom. In order to preserve the protestant interest in Ireland upon a solid basis, it behooves all in whom that power is invested, to discharge it with the strictest assiduity and attention; for should it once again lose ground, there is no doubt but the papists would take those advantages they have hitherto done, and thousands might yet fall victims to their malicious bigotry. FOOTNOTES: [C] Although Garnet was convicted for this horrible crime, yet the bigoted papists were so besotted as to look upon him as an object of devotion; they fancied that miracles were wrought by his blood; and regarded him as a martyr! Such is the deadening and perverting influence of popery. [D] The king of England was at that time called _highness_, not _majesty_, as at present. CHAPTER XVI. THE RISE, PROGRESS, PERSECUTIONS, AND SUFFERINGS OF THE QUAKERS. In treating of these people in a historical manner, we are obliged to have recourse to much tenderness. That they differ from the generality of protestants in some of the capital points of religion cannot be denied, and yet, as protestant dissenters, they are included under the description of the toleration act. It is not our business to inquire whether people of similar sentiments had any existence in the primitive ages of Christianity: perhaps, in some respects, they had not, but we are to write of them not as what they were, but what they now are. That they have been treated by several writers in a very contemptuous manner, is certain; that they did not deserve such treatment, is equally certain. The appellation _Quakers_, was bestowed upon them as a term of reproach, in consequence of their apparent convulsions which they laboured under when they delivered their discourses, because they imagined they were the effect of divine inspiration. It is not our business, at present, to inquire whether the sentiments of these people are agreeable to the gospel, but this much is certain, that the first leader of them, as a separate body, was a man of obscure birth, who had his first existence in Leicestershire, about the year 1624. In speaking of this man we shall deliver our own sentiments in a historical manner, and joining these to what have been said by the Friends themselves, we shall endeavour to furnish out a complete narrative. He was descended of honest and respected parents, who brought him up in the national religion: but from a child he appeared religious, still, solid, and observing, beyond his years, and uncommonly knowing in divine things. He was brought up to husbandry, and other country business, and was particularly inclined to the solitary occupation of a shepherd; "an employment," says our author, "that very well suited his mind in several respects, both for its innocency and solitude; and was a just emblem of his after ministry and service." In the year 1646, he entirely forsook the national church, in whose tenets he had been brought up, as before observed; and in 1647, he travelled into Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire, without any set purpose of visiting particular places, but in a solitary manner he walked through several towns and villages, which way soever his mind turned. "He fasted much," said Sewell, "and walked often in retired places, with no other companion than his Bible." "He visited the most retired and religious people in those parts," says Penn, "and some there were, short of few, if any, in this nation, who waited for the consolation of Israel night and day; as Zacharias, Anna, and Simeon, did of old time." To these he was sent, and these he sought out in the neighbouring counties, and among them he sojourned till his more ample ministry came upon him. At this time he taught, and was an example of silence, endeavouring to bring them from self-performances; testifying of, and turning them to the light of Christ within them, and encouraging them to wait in patience, and to feel the power of it to stir in their hearts, that their knowledge and worship of God might stand in the power of an endless life which was to be found in the light, as it was obeyed in the manifestation of it in man: for in the word was life, and that life is the light of men. Life in the word, light in men; and life in men too, as the light is obeyed; the children of the light living by the life of the word, by which the word begets them again to God, which is the generation and new birth, without which there is no coming into the kingdom of God, and to which whoever comes is greater than John: that is, than John's dispensation, which was not that of the kingdom, but the consummation of the legal, and forerunning of the gospel times, the time of the kingdom. Accordingly several meetings were gathering in those parts; and thus his time was employed for some years. In the year 1652, "he had a visitation of the great work of God in the earth, and of the way that he was to go forth, in a public ministry, to begin it." He directed his course northward, "and in every place where he came, if not before he came to it, he had his particular exercise and service shown to him, so that the Lord was his leader indeed." He made great numbers of converts to his opinions, and many pious and good men joined him in his ministry. These were drawn forth especially to visit the public assemblies to reprove, reform, and exhort them; sometimes in markets, fairs, streets, and by the highway-side, "calling people to repentance, and to return to the Lord, with their hearts as well as their mouths; directing them to the light of Christ within them, to see, examine, and to consider their ways by, and to eschew the evil, and to do the good and acceptable will of God." They were not without opposition in the work they imagined themselves called to, being often set in the stocks, stoned, beaten, whipped and imprisoned, though, as our author observes, honest men of good report, that had left wives, children, houses, and lands, to visit them with a living call to repentance. But these coercive methods rather forwarded than abated their zeal, and in those parts they brought over many proselytes, and amongst them several magistrates, and others of the better sort. They apprehended the Lord had forbidden them to pull off their hats to any one, high or low, and required them to speak to the people, without distinction, in the language of thou and thee. They scrupled bidding people good-morrow, or good-night, nor might they bend the knee to any one, even in supreme authority. Both men and woman went in a plain and simple dress, different from the fashion of the times. They neither gave nor accepted any titles of respect or honour, nor would they call any man master on earth. Several texts of scripture they quoted in defence of these singularities; such as, Swear not at all. How can ye believe who receive honour one of another, and seek not the honour which comes from God only? &c. &c. They placed the basis of religion in an inward light, and an extraordinary impulse of the Holy Spirit. In 1654, their first separate meeting in London was held in the house of Robert Dring, in Watling-street, for by that time they spread themselves into all parts of the kingdom, and had in many places set up meetings or assemblies, particularly in Lancashire, and the adjacent parts, but they were still exposed to great persecutions and trials of every kind. One of them in a letter to the protector, Oliver Cromwell, represents, though there are no penal laws in force obliging men to comply with the established religion, yet the Quakers are exposed upon other accounts; they are fined and imprisoned for refusing to take an oath; for not paying their tithes; for disturbing the public assemblies, and meeting in the streets, and places of public resort; some of them have been whipped for vagabonds, and for their plain speeches to the magistrate. Under favour of the then toleration, they opened their meetings at the Bull and Mouth, in Aldersgate-street, where women, as well as men, were moved to speak. Their zeal transported them to some extravagancies, which laid them still more open to the lash of their enemies, who exercised various severities upon them throughout the next reign. Upon the suppression of Venner's mad insurrection, the government, having published a proclamation, forbidding the Anabaptists, Quakers, and Fifth Monarchy Men, to assemble or meet together under pretence of worshipping God, except it be in some parochial church, chapel, or in private houses, by consent of the persons there inhabiting, all meetings in other places being declared to be unlawful and riotous, &c. &c. the Quakers thought it expedient to address the king thereon, which they did in the following words: "_O king Charles!_ "Our desire is, that thou mayest live for ever in the fear of God, and thy council. We beseech thee and thy council, to read these following lines in tender bowels, and compassion for our souls, and for your good. "And this consider, we are about four hundred imprisoned, in and about this city, of men and women from their families, besides, in the county jails, about ten hundred; we desire that our meetings may not be broken up, but that all may come to a fair trial, that our innocency may be cleared up. "London, 16th day, eleventh month, 1660." On the 28th of the same month, they published the declaration referred to in their address, entitled, "A declaration from the harmless and innocent people of God, called Quakers, against all sedition, plotters, and fighters in the world, for removing the ground of jealousy and suspicion, from both magistrates and people in the kingdom, concerning wars and fightings." It was presented to the king the 21st day of the eleventh month, 1660, and he promised them upon his royal word, that they should not suffer for their opinions, as long as they lived peaceably; but his promises were very little regarded afterward. In 1661, they assumed courage to petition the house of Lords for a toleration of their religion, and for a dispensation from taking the oaths, which they held unlawful, not from any disaffection to the government, or a belief that they were less obliged by an affirmation, but from a persuasion that all oaths were unlawful; and that swearing upon the most solemn occasions was forbidden in the New Testament. Their petition was rejected, and instead of granting them relief, an act was passed against them, the preamble to which set forth, "That whereas several persons have taken up an opinion that an oath, even before a magistrate, is unlawful, and contrary to the word of God: and whereas, under pretence of religious worship, the said persons do assemble in great numbers in several parts of the kingdom, separating themselves from the rest of his majesty's subjects, and the public congregations and usual places of divine worship; be it therefore enacted, that if any such persons, after the 24th of March, 1661-2, shall refuse to take an oath when lawfully tendered, or persuade others to do it, or maintain in writing or otherwise, the unlawfulness of taking an oath; or if they shall assemble for religious worship, to the number of five or more, of the age of fifteen, they shall for the first offence forfeit five pounds; for the second, ten pounds; and for the third shall abjure the realm, or be transported to the plantations: and the justices of peace at their open sessions may hear and finally determine in the affair." This act had a most dreadful effect upon the Quakers, though it was well known and notorious that these conscientious persons were far from sedition or disaffection to the government. George Fox, in his address to the king, acquaints him, that three thousand and sixty-eight of their friends had been imprisoned since his majesty's restoration; that their meetings were daily broken up by men with clubs and arms, and their friends thrown into the water, and trampled under foot till the blood gushed out, which gave rise to their meeting in the open streets. A relation was printed, signed by twelve witnesses, which says, that more than four thousand two hundred Quakers were imprisoned; and of them five hundred were in and about London, and the suburbs; several of whom were dead in the jails. However, they even gloried in their sufferings, which increased every day; so that in 1665, and the intermediate years, they were harassed without example. As they persisted resolutely to assemble, openly, at the Bull and Mouth, before mentioned, the soldiers, and other officers, dragged them from thence to prison, till Newgate was filled with them, and multitudes died of close confinement, in that and other jails. Six hundred of them, says an account published at this time, were in prison, merely for religion's sake, of whom several were banished to the plantations. In short, says Mr. Neale, the Quakers gave such full employment to the informers, that they had less leisure to attend the meetings of other dissenters. Yet, under all these calamities, they behaved with patience and modesty towards the government, and upon occasion of the Rye-house plot in 1682, thought proper to declare their innocence of that sham plot, in an address to the king, wherein, appealing to the Searcher of all hearts, they say, their principles do not allow them to take up defensive arms, much less to avenge themselves for the injuries they received from others: that they continually pray for the king's safety and preservation; and therefore take this occasion humbly to beseech his majesty to compassionate their suffering friends, with whom the jails are so filled, that they want air, to the apparent hazard of their lives, and to the endangering an infection in divers places. Besides, many houses, shops, barns, and fields are ransacked, and the goods, corn, and cattle swept away, to the discouraging trade and husbandry, and impoverishing great numbers of quiet and industrious people; and this, for no other cause, but for the exercise of a tender conscience in the worship of Almighty God, who is sovereign Lord and King of men's consciences. On the accession of James II. they addressed that monarch honestly and plainly, telling him, "We are come to testify our sorrow for the death of our good friend Charles, and our joy for thy being made our governor. We are told thou art not of the persuasion of the church of England, no more than we; therefore we hope thou wilt grant us the same liberty which thou allowest thyself, which doing, we wish thee all manner of happiness." When James, by his dispensing power, granted liberty to the dissenters, they began to enjoy some rest from their troubles; and indeed it was high time, for they were swelled to an enormous amount. They, the year before this, to them one of glad release, in a petition to James for a cessation of their sufferings, set forth, "that of late above one thousand five hundred of their friends, both men and women, and that now there remain one thousand three hundred and eighty-three; of which two hundred are women, many under sentence of præmunire; and more than three hundred near it, for refusing the oath of allegiance, because they could not swear. Three hundred and fifty have died in prison since the year 1680; in London, the jail of Newgate has been crowded, within these two years sometimes with near 20 in a room, whereby several have been suffocated, and others, who have been taken out sick, have died of malignant fevers within a few days. Great violences, outrageous distresses, and woful havock and spoil, have been made upon people's goods and estates, by a company of idle, extravagant, and merciless informers, by persecutions on the conventicle-act, and others, also on _qui tam_ writs, and on other processes, for twenty pounds a month, and two-thirds of their estates seized for the king. Some had not a bed to rest on, others had no cattle to till the ground, nor corn for feed or bread, nor tools to work with, the said informers and bailiffs in some places breaking into houses, and making great waste and spoil, under pretence of serving the king and the church. Our religious assemblies have been charged at common law with being rioters and disturbers of the public peace, whereby great numbers have been confined in prison without regard to age, and many confined in holes and dungeons. The seizing for £20 a month has amounted to many thousands, and several who have employed some hundreds of poor people in manufactures, are disabled to do so any more, by reason of long imprisonment. They spare neither widow nor fatherless, nor have they so much as a bed to lie on. The informers are both witnesses and prosecutors, to the ruin of great numbers of sober families; and justices of the peace have been threatened with the forfeiture of one hundred pounds, if they do not issue out warrants upon their informations." With this petition they presented a list of their friends in prison, in the several counties, amounting to four hundred and sixty. During the reign of king James II. these people were, through the intercession of their friend Mr. Penn, treated with greater indulgence than ever they had been before. They were now become extremely numerous in many parts of the country, and the settlement of Pennsylvania taking place soon after, many of them went over to America. There they enjoyed the blessings of a peaceful government, and cultivated the arts of honest industry. As the whole colony was the property of Mr. Penn, so he invited people of all denominations to come and settle with him. A universal liberty of conscience took place; and in this new colony the natural rights of mankind were, for the first time, established. These Friends are, in the present age, a very harmless, inoffensive body of people; but of that we shall take more notice hereafter. By their wise regulations, they not only do honour to themselves, but they are of vast service to the community. It may be necessary here to observe, that as the Friends, commonly called Quakers, will not take an oath in a court of justice, so their affirmation is permitted in all civil affairs; but they cannot prosecute a criminal, because, in the English courts of justice, all evidence must be upon oath. _An account of the persecution of Friends, commonly called Quakers in the United States._ About the middle of the seventeenth century, much persecution and suffering were inflicted on a sect of protestant dissenters, commonly called Quakers: a people which arose at that time in England some of whom sealed their testimony with their blood. For an account of the above people, see Sewell's, or Gough's history of them. The principal points upon which their conscientious nonconformity rendered them obnoxious to the penalties of the law, were, 1. The Christian resolution of assembling publicly for the worship of God, in a manner most agreeable to their consciences. 2. Their refusal to pay tithes, which they esteemed a Jewish ceremony, abrogated by the coming of Christ. 3. Their testimony against wars and fighting, the practice of which they judged inconsistent with the command of Christ: "Love your enemies," &c. Matt. v. 44. 4. Their constant obedience to the command of Christ: "Swear not at all," &c. Matt. v. 34. 5. Their refusal to pay rates or assessments for building and repairing houses for a worship which they did not approve. 6. Their use of the proper and Scriptural language, "thou," and "thee," to a single person: and their disuse of the custom of uncovering their heads, or pulling off their hats, by way of homage to man. 7. The necessity many found themselves under, of publishing what they believed to be the doctrine of truth; and sometimes even in the places appointed for the public national worship. Their conscientious noncompliance in the preceding particulars, exposed them to much persecution and suffering, which consisted in prosecutions, fines, cruel beatings, whippings, and other corporeal punishments; imprisonment, banishment, and even death. To relate a particular account of their persecutions and sufferings, would extend beyond the limits of this work: we shall therefore refer, for that information, to the histories already mentioned, and more particularly to Besse's Collection of their sufferings; and shall confine our account here, mostly to those who sacrificed their lives, and evinced, by their disposition of mind, constancy, patience, and faithful perseverance, that they were influenced by a sense of religious duty. Numerous and repeated were the persecutions against them; and sometimes for transgressions or offences which the law did not contemplate or embrace. Many of the fines and penalties exacted of them, were not only unreasonable and exorbitant, but as they could not consistently pay them, were sometimes distrained to several times the value of the demand; whereby many poor families were greatly distressed, and obliged to depend on the assistance of their friends. Numbers were not only cruelly beaten and whipped in a public manner, like criminals, but some were branded and others had their ears cut off. Great numbers were long confined in loathsome prisons; in which some ended their days in consequence thereof. Many were sentenced to banishment; and a considerable number were transported. Some were banished on pain of death; and four were actually executed by the hands of the hangman, as we shall here relate, after inserting copies of some of the laws of the country where they suffered. _"At a General Court held at Boston, the 14th of October, 1656._ "Whereas, there is a cursed sect of heretics, lately risen up in the world, which are commonly called Quakers, who take upon them to be immediately sent from God, and infallibly assisted by the Spirit, to speak and write blasphemous opinions, despising government, and the order of God, in the church and commonwealth, speaking evil of dignities, reproaching and reviling magistrates and ministers, seeking to turn the people from the faith, and gain proselytes to their pernicious ways: this court taking into consideration the premises, and to prevent the like mischief, as by their means is wrought in our land, doth hereby order, and by authority of this court, be it ordered and enacted, that what master or commander of any ship, bark, pink, or ketch, shall henceforth bring into any harbour, creek, or cove, within this jurisdiction, any Quaker or Quakers, or other blasphemous heretics, shall pay, or cause to be paid, the fine of one hundred pounds to the treasurer of the country, except it appear he want true knowledge or information of their being such; and, in that case, he hath liberty to clear himself by his oath, when sufficient proof to the contrary is wanting: and, for default of good payment, or good security for it, shall be cast into prison, and there to continue till the said sum be satisfied to the treasurer as aforesaid. And the commander of any ketch, ship, or vessel, being legally convicted, shall give in sufficient security to the governor, or any one or more of the magistrates, who have power to determine the same, to carry them back to the place whence he brought them; and, on his refusal so to do, the governor or one or more of the magistrates, are hereby empowered to issue out his or their warrants to commit such master or commander to prison, there to continue, till he give in sufficient security to the content of the governor, or any of the magistrates, as aforesaid. And it is hereby further ordered and enacted, that what Quaker soever shall arrive in this country from foreign parts, or shall come into this jurisdiction from any parts adjacent, shall be forthwith committed to the house of correction; and, at their entrance, to be severely whipped, and by the master thereof be kept constantly to work, and none suffered to converse or speak with them, during the time of their imprisonment, which shall be no longer than necessity requires. And it is ordered, if any person shall knowingly import into any harbour of this jurisdiction, any Quakers' books or writings, concerning their devilish opinions, shall pay for such book or writing, being legally proved against him or them the sum of five pounds; and whosoever shall disperse or conceal any such book or writing, and it be found with him or her, or in his or her house and shall not immediately deliver the same to the next magistrate; shall forfeit or pay five pounds, for the dispersing or concealing of any such book or writing. And it is hereby further enacted, that if any person within this colony, shall take upon them to defend the heretical opinions of the Quakers, or any of their books or papers, shall be fined for the first time forty shillings; if they shall persist in the same, and shall again defend it the second time, four pounds; if notwithstanding they again defend and maintain the said Quakers' heretical opinions, they shall be committed to the house of correction till there be convenient passage to send them out of the land, being sentenced by the court of Assistants to banishment. Lastly, it is hereby ordered, that what person or persons soever, shall revile the persons of the magistrates or ministers, as is usual with the Quakers, such person or persons shall be severely whipped or pay the sum of five pounds. "This is a true copy of the court's order, as attests "EDWARD RAWSON, Sec." "_At a General Court held at Boston, the 14th of October, 1657._ "As an addition to the late order, in reference to the coming or bringing of any of the cursed sect of the Quakers into this jurisdiction, it is ordered, that whosoever shall from henceforth bring, or cause to be brought, directly or indirectly, any known Quaker or Quakers, or other blasphemous heretics, into this jurisdiction, every such person shall forfeit the sum of one hundred pounds to the country, and shall by warrant from any magistrate be committed to prison, there to remain till the penalty be satisfied and paid; and if any person or persons within this jurisdiction, shall henceforth entertain and conceal any such Quaker or Quakers, or other blasphemous heretics, knowing them so to be, every such person shall forfeit to the country forty shillings for every hours' entertainment and concealment of any Quaker or Quakers, &c. as aforesaid, and shall be committed to prison as aforesaid, till the forfeiture be fully satisfied and paid. And it is further ordered, that if any Quaker or Quakers shall presume, after they have once suffered what the law requires, to come into this jurisdiction, every such male Quaker shall, for the first offence, have one of his ears cut off, and be kept at work in the house of correction, till he can be sent away at his own charge; and for the second offence, shall have his other ear cut off; and every woman Quaker, that has suffered the law here, that shall presume to come into this jurisdiction, shall be severely whipped, and kept at the house of correction at work, till she be sent away at her own charge, and so also for her coming again, she shall be alike used as aforesaid. And for every Quaker, he or she, that shall a third time herein again offend, they shall have their tongues bored through with a hot iron, and be kept at the house of correction close to work, till they be sent away at their own charge. And it is further ordered, that all and every Quaker arising from among ourselves, shall be dealt with, and suffer the like punishment as the law provides against foreign Quakers. "EDWARD RAWSON, Sec." _"An Act made at a General Court, held at Boston, the 20th of October, 1658._ "Whereas, there is a pernicious sect, commonly called Quakers, lately risen, who by word and writing have published and maintained many dangerous and horrid tenets, and do take upon them to change and alter the received laudable customs of our nation, in giving civil respect to equals, or reverence to superiors; whose actions tend to undermine the civil government, and also to destroy the order of the churches, by denying all established forms of worship, and by withdrawing from orderly church fellowship, allowed and approved by all orthodox professors of truth, and instead thereof, and in opposition thereunto, frequently meeting by themselves, insinuating themselves into the minds of the simple, or such as are at least affected to the order and government of church and commonwealth, whereby divers of our inhabitants have been infected, notwithstanding all former laws, made upon the experience of their arrogant and bold obtrusions, to disseminate their principles amongst us, prohibiting their coming into this jurisdiction, they have not been deterred from their impious attempts to undermine our peace, and hazard our ruin. "For prevention thereof, this court doth order and enact, that any person or persons, of the cursed sect of the Quakers, who is not an inhabitant of, but is found within this jurisdiction, shall be apprehended without warrant, where no magistrate is hand, by any constable commissioner, or select-man, and conveyed from constable to constable, to the next magistrate, who shall commit the said person to close prison, there to remain (without bail) until the next court of Assistants, where they shall have legal trial. And being convicted to be of the sect of the Quakers, shall be sentenced to banishment, on pain of death. And that every inhabitant of this jurisdiction, being convicted to be of the aforesaid sect, either by taking up, publishing, or defending the horrid opinions of the Quakers, or the stirring up mutiny, sedition, or rebellion against the government, or by taking up their abusive and destructive practices, viz. denying civil respect to equals and superiors, and withdrawing from the church assemblies; and instead thereof, frequenting meetings of their own, in opposition to our church order; adhering to, or approving of any known Quaker, and the tenets and practices of Quakers, that are opposite to the orthodox received opinions of the godly; and endeaving to disaffect others to civil government and church order, or condemning the practice and proceedings of this court against the Quakers, manifesting thereby their complying with those, whose design is to overthrow the order established in church and state: every such person, upon conviction before the said court of Assistants, in manner aforesaid, shall be committed to close prison for one month, and then, unless they choose voluntarily to depart this jurisdiction, shall give bond for their good behaviour and appear at the next court, where, continuing obstinate, and refusing to retract and reform the aforesaid opinions, they shall be sentenced to banishment, upon pain of death. And any one magistrate, upon information given him of any such person, shall cause him to be apprehended, and shall commit any such person to prison, according to his discretion, until he come to trial as aforesaid." It appears there were also laws passed in both of the then colonies of New-Plymouth and New-Haven, and in the Dutch settlement at New-Amsterdam, now New-York, prohibiting the people called Quakers, from coming into those places, under severe penalties; in consequence of which, some underwent considerable suffering. The two first who were executed were William Robinson, merchant, of London, and Marmaduke Stevenson, a countryman, of Yorkshire. These coming to Boston, in the beginning of September, were sent for by the court of Assistants, and there sentenced to banishment, on pain of death. This sentence was passed also on Mary Dyar, mentioned hereafter, and Nicholas Davis, who were both at Boston. But William Robinson, being looked upon as a teacher, was also condemned to be whipped severely; and the constable was commanded to get an able man to do it. Then Robinson was brought into the street, and there stripped; and having his hands put through the holes of the carriage of a great gun, where the jailer held him, the executioner gave him twenty stripes, with a three-fold cord-whip. Then he and the other prisoners were shortly after released, and banished, as appears from the following warrant: "You are required by these, presently to set at liberty William Robinson, Marmaduke Stevenson, Mary Dyar, and Nicholas Davis, who, by an order of the court and council, had been imprisoned, because it appeared by their own confession, words, and actions, that they are Quakers: wherefore, a sentence was pronounced against them, to depart this jurisdiction, on pain of death; and that they must answer it at their peril, if they, or any of them, after the 14th of this present month, September, are found within this jurisdiction, or any part thereof. "EDWARD RAWSON" "Boston, September 12, 1659." Though Mary Dyar and Nicholas Davis left that jurisdiction for that time, yet Robinson and Stevenson, though they departed the town of Boston, could not yet resolve (not being free in mind) to depart that jurisdiction, though their lives were at stake. And so they went to Salem, and some places thereabout, to visit and build up their friends in the faith. But it was not long before they were taken, and put again into prison at Boston, and chains locked to their legs. In the next month, Mary Dyar returned also. And as she stood before the prison, speaking with one Christopher Holden, who was come thither to inquire for a ship bound for England, whither he intended to go, she was also taken into custody. Thus, they had now three persons, who, according to their law, had forfeited their lives. And, on the 20th of October, these three were brought into court, where John Endicot and others were assembled. And being called to the bar, Endicot commanded the keeper to pull off their hats; and then said, that they had made several laws to keep the Quakers from amongst them, and neither whipping, nor imprisoning, nor cutting off ears, nor banishing upon pain of death, would keep them from amongst them. And further, he said, that he or they desired not the death of any of them. Yet, notwithstanding, his following words, without more ado, were, "Give ear, and hearken to your sentence of death." Sentence of death was also passed upon Marmaduke Stevenson, Mary Dyar, and William Edrid. Several others were imprisoned, whipped, and fined. We have no disposition to justify the Pilgrims for these proceedings, but we think, considering the circumstances of the age in which they lived, their conduct admits of much palliation. The following remarks of Mr. Hawes, in his tribute to the memory of the Pilgrims, are worthy of serious consideration. "It is alleged that they enacted laws which were oppressive to other denominations, and, moreover, that they were actually guilty of persecution. This, indeed, is a serious charge, and to some extent must be admitted to be true. And yet whoever candidly examines the facts in the case, will find abundant evidence that our fathers, in this respect, were far from being sinners above all who have dwelt on the earth. Many of the laws that are complained of were enacted when there were few or none of any other denomination in the land. They were designed to protect and support their own ecclesiastical and civil order; and not to operate at all as persecuting or oppressive enactments against christians belonging to other sects. It is also true that most of those persons who are said to have been persecuted and oppressed, suffered not so much for their religious opinions, as for their offences against the state. Some of them outraged all decency and order, and committed such acts as would unquestionably, at the present day, subject a man to imprisonment, if not to severer punishment. "This, according to Winthrop, was the ground of the sentence of banishment, passed on Roger Williams. 'He broached and divulged divers new opinions against the authority of magistrates, as also wrote letters of defamation both of the magistrates and churches.'"--_Winthrop's Hist. of N. E. edit. by Savage, vol. 1, p. 167._ "For a particular account of the causes for which Mr. Williams was banished, see Hutchinson's History of Massachusetts, vol. 1, p. 41; Dwight's Travels, vol. 1, p. 142; Magnalia, vol. 2, p. 430. As for the laws subsequently enacted against the Baptists and Quakers, no one most certainly can justify them. They were oppressive and wrong. But let no one reproach, too severely, the memory of our fathers, in this matter, till he is certain, that _in similar circumstances_, he would have shown a better temper. "It is allowed that they were culpable; but we do not concede, that in the present instance, they stood alone, or that they merited all the censure bestowed on them. 'Laws similar to those of Massachusetts were passed elsewhere against the Quakers and also against the Baptists, particularly in Virginia. If no execution took place here, it was not owing to the moderation of the church.'"--_Jefferson Virg. Query, XVIII._ "The prevalent opinion among most sects of christians, at that day, that toleration is sinful, ought to be remembered; nor should it be forgotten, that the first Quakers in New England, besides speaking and writing what was deemed blasphemous, reviled magistrates and ministers, and disturbed religious assemblies; and that the tendency of their opinions and practices was to the subversion of the commonwealth in the period of its infancy."--_Holmes' Am. Annals. Hutch. vol. 1, p. 180-9._ "It should be added, that in Massachusetts the law which enacted that all Quakers returning into the state after banishment, should be punished with death, and under which four persons were executed, met with great, and at first, successful opposition. The deputies, who constituted the popular branch of the legislature, at first rejected it; but afterwards, on reconsideration, concurred with the magistrates, (by whom it was originally proposed,) by a majority of only one."--_Chr. Spect. 1830, p. 266._ "The fathers of New England, endured incredible hardships in providing for themselves a home in the wilderness; and to protect themselves in the undisturbed enjoyment of rights, which they had purchased at so dear a rate, they sometimes adopted measures which, if tried by the more enlightened and liberal views of the present day, must at once be pronounced altogether unjustifiable. But shall they be condemned without mercy for not acting up to principles which were unacknowledged and unknown throughout the whole of christendom? Shall they alone be held responsible for opinions and conduct which had become sacred by antiquity, and which were common to christians of all other denominations? Every government then in existence assumed to itself the right to legislate in matters of religion; and to restrain heresy by penal statutes. This right was claimed by rulers, admitted by subjects, and is sanctioned by the names of Lord Bacon and Montesquieu, and many others equally famed for their talents and learning. It is unjust then, to 'press upon one poor persecuted sect, the sins of all christendom?' The fault of our fathers was the fault of the age; and though this cannot justify, it certainly furnishes an extenuation of their conduct. As well might you condemn them for not understanding the art of navigating by steam, as for not understanding and acting up to the principles of religious toleration. At the same time, it is but just to say, that imperfect as were their views of the rights of conscience, they were nevertheless far in advance of the age to which they belonged; and it is to them more than to any other class of men on earth, the world is indebted for the more rational views that now prevail on the subject of civil and religious liberty." CHAPTER XVII. PERSECUTIONS OF THE FRENCH PROTESTANTS IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE, DURING THE YEARS 1814 AND 1820. The persecution in this protestant part of France continued with very little intermission from the revocation of the edict of Nantes, by Louis XIV. till a very short period previous to the commencement of the late French revolution. In the year 1785, M. Rebaut St. Etienne and the celebrated M. de la Fayette were among the first persons who interested themselves with the court of Louis XVI., in removing the scourge of persecution from this injured people, the inhabitants of the south of France. Such was the opposition on the part of the catholics and the courtiers, that it was not till the end of the year 1790, that the protestants were freed from their alarms. Previously to this, the catholics at Nismes in particular, had taken up arms; Nismes then presented a frightful spectacle; armed men ran through the city, fired from the corners of the streets, and attacked all they met with swords and forks. A man named Astuc was wounded and thrown into the aqueduct; Baudon fell under the repeated strokes of bayonets and sabres, and his body was also thrown into the water; Boucher, a young man only 17 years of age, was shot as he was looking out of his window; three electors wounded, one dangerously; another elector wounded, only escaped death by repeatedly declaring he was a catholic; a third received four sabre wounds, and was taken home dreadfully mangled. The citizens that fled were arrested by the catholics upon the roads, and obliged to give proofs of their religion before their lives were granted. M. and Madame Vogue, were at their country house, which the zealots broke open, where they massacred both, and destroyed their dwelling. M. Blacher, a protestant seventy years of age, was cut to pieces with a sickle; young Pyerre, carrying some food to his brother, was asked, "Catholic or protestant?" "Protestant," being the reply, a monster fired at the lad, and he fell. One of the murderer's companions said, "you might as well have killed a lamb." "I have sworn," replied he, "to kill four protestants for my share, and this will count for one." However, as these atrocities provoked the troops to unite in defence of the people, a terrible vengeance was retaliated upon the catholic party that had used arms, which with other circumstances, especially the toleration exercised by Napoleon Buonaparte, kept them down completely till the year 1814, when the unexpected return of the ancient government rallied them all once more round the old banners. _The arrival of King Louis XVIII. at Paris._ This was known at Nismes on the 13th of April, 1814. In a quarter of an hour, the white cockade was seen in every direction, the white flag floated on the public buildings, on the splendid monuments of antiquity, and even on the tower of Mange, beyond the city walls. The protestants, whose commerce had suffered materially during the war, were among the first to unite in the general joy, and to send in their adhesion to the senate, and the legislative body; and several of the protestant departments sent addresses to the throne, but unfortunately, M. Froment was again at Nismes at the moment when many bigots being ready to join him, the blindness and fury of the sixteenth century rapidly succeeded the intelligence and philanthropy of the nineteenth. A line of distinction was instantly traced between men of different religious opinions; the spirit of the old catholic church was again to regulate each person's share of esteem and safety. The difference of religion was now to govern every thing else; and even catholic domestics who had served protestants with zeal and affection, began to neglect their duties, or to perform them ungraciously, and with reluctance. At the fetes and spectacles that were given at the public expense, the absence of the protestants was charged on them as a proof of their disloyalty; and in the midst of the cries of "_Vive le Roi_," the discordant sounds of "_A bas le Maire_," down with the mayor, were heard. M. Castletan was a protestant; he appeared in public with the prefect M. Ruland, a catholic, when potatoes were thrown at him, and the people declared that he ought to resign his office. The bigots of Nismes even succeeded in procuring an address to be presented to the king, stating that there ought to be in France but one God, one king, and one faith. In this they were imitated by the catholics of several towns. _The History of the Silver Child._ About this time, M. Baron, counsellor of the Cour Royale of Nismes, formed the plan of dedicating to God a silver child, if the Duchess d'Angouleme would give a prince to France. This project was converted into a public religious vow, which was the subject of conversation both in public and private, whilst persons, whose imaginations were inflamed by these proceedings, run about the streets crying _Vivent les Bourbons_, or the Bourbons forever. In consequence of this superstitious frenzy, it is said that, at Alais, women were advised and instigated to poison their protestant husbands, and at length it was found convenient to accuse them of political crimes. They could no longer appear in public without insults and injuries. When the mobs met with protestants, they seized them, and danced round them with barbarous joy, and amidst repeated cries of _Vive le Roi_, they sung verses, the burden of which was, "We will wash our hands in protestant blood, and make black puddings of the blood of Calvin's children." The citizens who came to the promenades for air and refreshment, from the close and dirty streets, were chased with shouts of _Vive le Roi_, as if those shouts were to justify every excess. If protestants referred to the charter, they were directly assured it would be of no use to them, and that they had only been managed to be more effectually destroyed. Persons of rank were heard to say in the public streets, "All the Huguenots must be killed; this time their children must be killed, that none of the accursed race may remain." Still, it is true, they were not murdered, but cruelly treated, protestant children could no longer mix in the sports of catholics, and were not even permitted to appear without their parents. At dark their families shut themselves up in their apartments; but even then stones were thrown against their windows. When they arose in the morning, it was not uncommon to find gibbets drawn on their doors or walls; and in the streets the catholics held cords already soaped before their eyes, and pointed out the instruments by which they hoped and designed to exterminate them. Small gallows or models were handed about, and a man who lived opposite to one of the pastors, exhibited one of these models in his window, and made signs sufficiently intelligible when the minister passed. A figure representing a protestant preacher was also hung up on a public crossway, and the most atrocious songs were sung under his window. Towards the conclusion of the carnival, a plan had even been formed to make a caricature of the four ministers of the place, and burn them in effigy; but this was prevented by the mayor of Nismes, a protestant. A dreadful song presented to the prefect, in the country dialect, with a false translation, was printed by his approval, and had a great run before he saw the extent of the error into which he had been betrayed. The sixty-third regiment of the line was publicly censured and insulted, for having, according to order, protected protestants. In fact, the protestants seemed to be as sheep destined for the slaughter. _Napoleon's Return from the Isle of Elba._ Soon after this event, the duke d'Angouleme was at Nismes, and remained there some time; but even his influence was insufficient to bring about a reconciliation between the catholics and the protestants of that city. During the hundred days betwixt Napoleon's return from the Isle of Elba, and his final downfall, not a single life was lost in Nismes, not a single house was pillaged; only four of the most notorious disturbers of the peace were punished, or rather prevented from doing mischief, and even this was not an act of the protestant but the _arrete_ of the catholic prefect, announced every where with the utmost publicity. Some time after, when M. Baron, who proposed the vow of the silver child in favour of the Duchess d'Angouleme, who was considered as the chief of the catholic royalists, was discovered at the bottom of an old wine tun, the populace threw stones at his carriage, and vented their feelings in abusive language. The protestant officers protected him from injury. _The Catholic arms at Beaucaire._ In May, 1815, a federative association, similar to those of Lyons, Grenoble, Paris, Avignon, and Montpelier, was desired by many persons at Nismes; but this federation terminated here after an ephemeral and illusory existence of fourteen days. In the mean while a large party of catholic zealots were in arms at Beaucaire, and who soon pushed their patroles so near the walls of Nismes, "as to alarm the inhabitants." These catholics applied to the English off Marseilles for assistance, and obtained the grant of 1000 muskets, 10,000 cartouches, &c. General Gilly, however, was soon sent against these partizans, who prevented them from coming to extremes, by granting them an armistice; and yet when Louis XVIII. had returned to Paris, after the expiration of Napoleon's reign of a hundred days, and peace and party spirit seemed to have been subdued, even at Nismes, bands from Beaucaire joined Trestaillon in this city, to glut the vengeance they had so long premeditated. General Gilly had left the department several days: the troops of the line left behind had taken the white cockade, and waited farther orders, whilst the new commissioners had only to proclaim the cessation of hostilities, and the complete establishment of the king's authority. In vain, no commissioners appeared, no despatches arrived to calm and regulate the public mind; but towards evening the advanced guard of the banditti, to the amount of several hundreds, entered the city, undesired but unopposed. As they marched without order or discipline, covered with clothes or rags of all colours, decorated with cockades not _white_, but _white_ and _green_, armed with muskets, sabres, forks, pistols and reaping hooks, intoxicated with wine, and stained with the blood of the protestants whom they had murdered on their route, they presented a most hideous and appalling spectacle. In the open place in the front of the barracks, this banditti was joined by the city armed mob, headed by Jaques Dupont, commonly called Trestaillon. To save the effusion of blood, this garrison of about 500 men consented to capitulate, and marched out sad and defenceless; but when about fifty had passed, the rabble commenced a tremendous fire on their confiding and unprotected victims; nearly all were killed or wounded, and but very few could re-enter the yard before the garrison gates were again closed. These were again forced in an instant, and all were massacred who could not climb over roofs, or leap into the adjoining gardens. In a word, death met them in every place and in every shape and this catholic massacre rivalled in cruelty, and surpassed in treachery, the crimes of the September assassins of Paris and the Jacobinical butcheries of Lyons and Avignon. It was marked, not only by the fervour of the revolution, but by the subtlety of the league, and will long remain a blot upon the history of the second restoration. _Massacre and Pillage at Nismes._ Nismes now exhibited a most awful scene of outrage and carnage, though many of the protestants had fled to the Convennes and the Gardonenque. The country houses of Messrs. Rey, Guiret, and several others, had been pillaged, and the inhabitants treated with wanton barbarity. Two parties had glutted their savage appetites on the farm of Madame Frat: the first, after eating, drinking, and breaking the furniture, and stealing what they thought proper, took leave by announcing the arrival of their comrades, "compared with whom," they said, "they should be thought merciful." Three men and an old woman were left on the premises: at the sight of the second company two of the men fled. "Are you a catholic?" said the banditti to the old woman. "Yes." "Repeat, then, your Pater and Ave." Being terrified she hesitated, and was instantly knocked down with a musket. On recovering her senses, she stole out of the house, but met Ladet, the old _valet de ferme_, bringing in a salad which the depredators had ordered him to cut. In vain she endeavoured to persuade him to fly. "Are you a protestant?" they exclaimed; "I am." A musket being discharged at him, he fell wounded, but not dead. To consummate their work, the monsters lighted a fire with straw and boards, threw their yet living victim into the flames, and suffered him to expire in the most dreadful agonies. They then ate their salad, omelet, &c. The next day, some labourers, seeing the house open and deserted, entered and discovered the half consumed body of Ladet. The prefect of the Gard, M. Darbaud Jouques, attempting to palliate the crimes of the catholics, had the audacity to assert that Ladet was a catholic; but this was publicly contradicted by two of the pastors at Nismes. Another party committed a dreadful murder at St. Cezaire, upon Imbert la Plume, the husband of Suzon Chivas. He was met on returning from work in the fields. The chief promised him his life, but insisted that he must be conducted to the prison at Nismes. Seeing, however, that the party was determined to kill him, he resumed his natural character, and being a powerful and courageous man advanced and exclaimed, "You are brigands--fire!" Four of them fired, and he fell, but he was not dead; and while living they mutilated his body and then passing a cord round it, drew it along, attached to a cannon of which they had possession. It was not till after eight days that his relatives were apprized of his death. Five individuals of the family of Chivas, all husbands and fathers, were massacred in the course of a few days. Near the barracks at Nismes is a large and handsome house, the property of M. Vitte, which he acquired by exertion and economy. Besides comfortable lodgings for his own family, he let more than twenty chambers, mostly occupied by superior officers and commissaries of the army. He never inquired the opinion of his tenants, and of course his guests were persons of all political parties; but, under pretence of searching for concealed officers, his apartments were overrun, his furniture broken, and his property carried off at pleasure. The houses of Messrs. Lagorce, most respectable merchants and manufacturers M. Matthieu, M. Negre, and others, shared the same fate: many only avoided by the owners paying large sums as commutation money, or escaping into the country with their cash. _Interference of Government against the Protestants._ M. Bernis, extraordinary royal commissioner, in consequence of these abuses, issued a proclamation which reflects disgrace on the authority from whence it emanated. "Considering," it said, "that the residence of citizens in places foreign to their domicile, can only be prejudicial to the _communes_ they have left, and to those to which they have repaired, it is ordered, that those inhabitants who have quitted their residence since the commandment of July, return home by the 28th at the latest, otherwise they shall be deemed accomplices of the evil-disposed persons who disturb the public tranquility, and their property shall be placed under provisional _sequestration_." The fugitives had sufficient inducements to return to their hearths, without the fear of sequestration. They were more anxious to embrace their fathers, mothers, wives, and children, and to resume their ordinary occupations, than M. Bernis could be to insure their return. But thus denouncing men as criminals who fled for safety from the sabres of assassins, was adding oil to the fire of persecution. Trestaillon, one of the chiefs of the brigands, was dressed in complete uniform and epaulettes which he had stolen; he wore a sabre at his side, pistols in his belt, a cockade of white and green, and a sash of the same colours on his arm. He had under him, Truphemy, Servan, Aime, and many other desperate characters. Some time after this M. Bernis ordered all parties and individuals, armed or unarmed, to abstain from searching houses, without either an order, or the presence of an officer. On suspicion of arms being concealed, the commandant of the town was ordered to furnish a patrol to make search and seizure; and all persons carrying arms in the streets, without being on service, were to be arrested. Trestaillon, however, who still carried arms, was not arrested till some months after, and then not by these authorities, but by General La Garde, who was afterwards assassinated by one of his comrades. On this occasion it was remarked, that "the system of specious and deceptive proclamations was perfectly understood, and had long been practised in Languedoc; it was _not too late_ to persecute the protestants simply for their religion. Even in the good times of Louis XIV. there was public opinion enough in Europe to make that arch tyrant have recourse to the meanest stratagems." The following single specimen of the plan pursued by the authors of the Dragonades may serve as a key to all the plausible proclamations which, in 1815, covered the perpetration of the most deliberate and extensive crimes:-- _Letters from Louvois to Marillac._ "The king rejoices to learn from your letters, that there are so many conversions in your department; and he desires that you would continue your efforts, and employ the same means that have been hitherto so successful. His majesty has ordered me to send a regiment of cavalry, the greatest part of which he wishes to be quartered upon the protestants, but he does not think it _prudent_ that they should be all lodged with them; that is to say, of twenty-six masters, of which a company is composed, if, by a judicious distribution, ten ought to be received by the protestants, give them twenty, and put them all on the rich, making this pretence, that when there are not soldiers enough in a town for all to have some, the poor ought to be exempt, and the rich burdened. His majesty has also thought proper to order, that all converts be exempted from lodging soldiers for two years. This will occasion numerous conversions if you take care that it is rigorously executed, and that in all the distributions and passage of troops, by far the greatest number are quartered on the rich protestants. His majesty particularly enjoins that your orders on this subject, either by yourself or your sub-delegates, be given by word of mouth to the mayors and sheriffs, without letting them know that his majesty intends by these means to force to become converts, and only explaining to them, that you give these orders on the information you have received, that in these places the rich are excepted by their influence, to the prejudice of the poor." The merciless treatment of the women, in this persecution at Nismes, was such as would have disgraced any savages ever heard of. The widows Rivet and Bernard, were forced to sacrifice enormous sums; and the house of Mrs. Lecointe was ravaged, and her goods destroyed. Mrs. F. Didier had her dwelling sacked and nearly demolished to the foundation. A party of these bigots visited the widow Perrin, who lived on a little farm at the windmills; having committed every species of devastation, they attacked even the sanctuary of the dead, which contained the relics of her family. They dragged the coffins out, and scattered the contents over the adjacent grounds. In vain this outraged widow collected the bones of her ancestors and replaced them: they were again dug up; and, after several useless efforts, they were reluctantly left spread over the surface of the fields. Till the period announced for the sequestration of the property of the fugitives by _authority_, murder and plunder were the daily employment of what was called the army of Beaucaire, and the catholics of Nismes. M. Peyron, of Brossan, had all his property carried off; his wine, oil, seed, grain, several score of sheep, eight mules, three carts, his furniture and effects, all the cash that could be found and he had only to congratulate himself that his habitation was not consumed, and his vineyards rooted up. A similar process against several other protestant farmers, was also regularly carried on during several days. Many of the protestants thus persecuted were well known as staunch royalists; but it was enough for their enemies to know that they belonged to the reformed communion; these fanatics were determined not to find either royalists or citizens worthy the common protection of society. To accuse, condemn, and destroy a protestant, was a matter that required no hesitation. The house of M. Vitte, near the barracks at Nismes, was broken open, and every thing within the walls demolished. A Jew family of lodgers was driven out, and all their goods thrown out of the windows. M. Vitte was seized, robbed of his watch and money, severely wounded, and left for dead. After he had been fourteen hours in a state of insensibility, a commissary of police, touched by his misfortunes, administered some cordials to revive him; and, as a measure of safety, conducted him to the citadel, where he remained many days, whilst his family lamented him as dead. At length, as there was not the slightest charge against him, he obtained his liberation from M. Vidal; but when the Austrians arrived, one of the aids-de-camp, who heard of his sufferings and his respectability, sought him out, and furnished an escort to conduct his family to a place of safety. Dalbos, the only city beadle who was a protestant, was dragged from his home and led to prison. His niece threw herself on the neck of one of them and begged for mercy; the ruffian dashed her to the ground. His sister was driven away by the mob; and he being shot, his body remained a long time exposed to the insults of the rabble. _Royal Decree in favour of the Persecuted._ At length the decree of Louis XVIII., which annulled all the extraordinary powers conferred either by the king, the princes, or subordinate agents, was received at Nismes, and the laws were now to be administered by the regular organs, and a new prefect arrived to carry them into effect; but in spite of proclamations, the work of destruction, stopped for a moment, was not abandoned, but soon renewed with fresh vigour and effect. On the 30th of July, Jacques Combe, the father of a family, was killed by some of the national guards of Rusau, and the crime was so public, that the commander of the party restored to the family the pocket-book and papers of the deceased. On the following day tumultuous crowds roamed about the city and suburbs, threatening the wretched peasants; and on the 1st of August they butchered them without opposition. About noon on the same day, six armed men, headed by Truphemy, the butcher, surrounded the house of Monot, a carpenter; two of the party, who were smiths, had been at work in the house the day before, and had seen a protestant who had taken refuge there, M. Bourillon, who had been a lieutenant in the army, and had retired on a pension. He was a man of an excellent character, peaceable and harmless, and had never served the emperor Napoleon. Truphemy not knowing him, he was pointed out partaking of a frugal breakfast with the family. Truphemy ordered him to go along with him, adding, "Your friend, Saussine, is already in the other world." Truphemy placed him in the middle of his troop, and artfully ordered him to cry _Vive l'Empereur_: he refused, adding, he had never served the emperor. In vain did the women and children of the house intercede for his life, and praise his amiable and virtuous qualities. He was marched to the Esplanade and shot, first by Truphemy and then by the others. Several persons attracted by the firing, approached, but were threatened with a similar fate. After some time the wretches departed, shouting _Vive le Roi_. Some women met them, and one of them appeared affected, said one, "I have killed seven to-day, for my share and if you say a word, you shall be the eighth." Pierre Courbet, a stocking weaver, was torn from his loom by an armed band, and shot at his own door. His eldest daughter was knocked down with the butt end of a musket; and a poignard was held at the breast of his wife while the mob plundered her apartments. Paul Heraut, a silk weaver, was literally cut in pieces, in the presence of a large crowd, and amidst the unavailing cries and tears of his wife and four young children. The murderers only abandoned the corpse to return to Heraut's house and secure every thing valuable. The number of murders on this day could not be ascertained. One person saw six bodies at the _Cours Neuf_, and nine were carried to the hospital. If murder some time after, became less frequent for a few days, pillage and forced contributions were actively enforced. M. Salle d'Hombro, at several visits was robbed of 7000 francs; and on one occasion, when he pleaded the sacrifices he had made, "Look," said a bandit, pointing to his pipe, "this will set fire to your house; and this," brandishing his sword, "will finish you." No reply could be made to these arguments. M. Feline, a silk manufacturer, was robbed of 32,000 francs in gold, 3000 francs in silver, and several bales of silk. The small shopkeepers were continually exposed to visits and demands of provisions, drapery, or whatever they sold; and the same hands that set fire to the houses of the rich, and tore up the vines of the cultivator, broke the looms of the weaver, and stole the tools of the artizan. Desolation reigned in the sanctuary and in the city. The armed bands, instead of being reduced, were increased; the fugitives, instead of returning received constant accessions, and their friends who sheltered them were deemed rebellious. Those protestants who remained, were deprived of all their civil and religious rights, and even the advocates and huissiers entered into a resolution to exclude all of "the pretended reformed religion" from their bodies. Those who were employed in selling tobacco were deprived of their licenses. The protestant deacons who had the charge of the poor were all scattered. Of five pastors only two remained; one of these was obliged to change his residence, and could only venture to administer the consolations of religion, or perform the functions of his ministry, under cover of the night. Not content with these modes of torment, calumnious and inflamatory publications charged the protestants with raising the proscribed standard in the communes, and invoking the fallen Napoleon; and, of course, as unworthy the protection of the laws and the favour of the monarch. Hundreds after this were dragged to prison without even so much as a _written order_; and though an official newspaper, bearing the title of the _Journal du Gard_, was set up for five months, while it was influenced by the prefect, the mayor, and other functionaries, the word _charter_ was never once used in it. One of the first numbers, on the contrary, represented the suffering protestants as "Crocodiles only weeping from rage and regret that they had no more victims to devour; as persons who had surpassed Danton, Marat, and Robespierre, in doing mischief: and as having prostituted their daughters to the garrison to gain it over to Napoleon." An extract from this article, stamped with the crown and the arms of the Bourbons, was hawked about the streets, and the vender was adorned with the medal of the police. _Petition of the Protestant Refugees._ To these reproaches it is proper to oppose the petition which the Protestant Refugees in Paris presented to Louis XVIII. in behalf of their brethren at Nismes. "We lay at your feet, sire, our acute sufferings. In your name our fellow-citizens are slaughtered, and their property laid waste. Misled peasants, in pretended obedience to your orders, had assembled at the command of a commissioner appointed by your august nephew. Although ready to attack us, they were received with the assurances of peace. On the 15th of July, 1815, we learnt your majesty's entrance into Paris, and the white flag immediately waved on our edifices. The public tranquility had not been disturbed, when armed peasants introduced themselves. The garrison capitulated, but were assailed on their departure, and almost totally massacred. Our national guard was disarmed, the city filled with strangers, and the houses of the principal inhabitants, professing the reformed religion, were attacked and plundered. We subjoin the list. Terror has driven from our city the most respectable inhabitants. "Your majesty has been deceived if there has not been placed before you the picture of the horrors which make a desert of your good city of Nismes. Arrests and proscriptions are continually taking place, and difference of _religious_ opinions is the real and only cause. The calumniated protestants are the defenders of the throne. Your nephew has beheld our children under his banners; our fortunes have been placed in his hands. Attacked without reason, the protestants have not, even by a just resistance, afforded their enemies the fatal pretext for calumny. Save us, sire! extinguish the brand of civil war; a single act of your will would restore to political existence a city interesting for its population and its manufactures. Demand an account of their conduct from the chiefs who have brought our misfortunes upon us. We place before your eyes all the documents that have reached us. Fear paralizes the hearts, and stifles the complaints of our fellow-citizens. Placed in a more secure situation, we venture to raise our voice in their behalf," &c. &c. _Monstrous outrage upon Females._ At Nismes it is well known that the women wash their clothes either at the fountains, or on the banks of streams. There is a large basin near the fountain, where numbers of women may be seen every day, kneeling at the edge of the water, and beating the clothes with heavy pieces of wood in the shape of battledoors. This spot became the scene of the most shameful and indecent practices. The catholic rabble turned the women's petticoats over their heads, and so fastened them as to continue their exposure, and their subjection to a newly invented species of chastisement; for nails being placed in the wood of the _battoirs_ in the form of _fleur-de-lis_, they beat them till the blood streamed from their bodies, and their cries rent the air. Often was death demanded as a commutation of this ignominious punishment, but refused with a malignant joy. To carry their outrage to the highest possible degree, several who were in a state of pregnancy were assailed in this manner. The scandalous nature of these outrages prevented many of the sufferers from making them public, and, especially, from relating the most aggravating circumstances. "I have seen," says M. Durand, "a catholic avocat, accompanying the assassins in the fauxbourg Bourgade, arm a battoir with sharp nails in the form of _fleur-de-lis_; I have seen them raise the garments of females, and apply, with heavy blows, to the bleeding body this _battoir_ or battledoor, to which they gave a name which my pen refuses to record. The cries of the sufferers--the streams of blood--the murmurs of indignation which were suppressed by fear--nothing could move them. The surgeons who attended on those women who are dead, can attest, by the marks of their wounds, the agonies which they must have endured, which, however horrible, is most strictly true." Nevertheless, during the progress of these horrors and obscenities, so disgraceful to France and the catholic religion, the agents of government had a powerful force under their command, and by honestly employing it they might have restored tranquility. Murder and robbery, however, continued, and were winked at, by the catholic magistrates, with very few exceptions; the administrative authorities, it is true, used words in their proclamations, &c. but never had recourse to actions to stop the enormities of the persecutors, who boldly declared that, on the 24th, the anniversary of St. Bartholomew, they intended to make a general massacre. The members of the reformed church were filled with terror, and, instead of taking part in the election of deputies, were occupied as well as they could in providing for their own personal safety. _Arrival of the Austrians at Nismes._ About this time, a treaty between the French court and the allied sovereigns, prohibited the advance of the foreign troops beyond the line of territory already occupied, and traced by the course of the Loire, and by the Rhone, below the Ardeche. In violation of this treaty, 4000 Austrians entered Nismes on the 24th of August; under pretence of making room for them, French troops, bearing the _feudal_ title of Royal Chasseurs, followed by the murdering bands of the Trestaillons and Quatretaillons, who continued their march to Alais, where a fair was to be held, and carried disorder and alarm into all the communes on that route. Nothing now was heard but denunciations of fusillading, burning, razing, and annihilating; and while the catholics were feasting and murdering at Nismes, the flames of the country houses of the protestants, rising one hundred feet in the air, rendered the spectacle still more awful and alarming. Unfortunately, some of the peasants, falsely charged with the murder of two protestants, were brought to Nismes while the prefect was celebrating the fete of St. Louis. At a splendid dinner given to the Austrian commanders, and even without quitting the table, it appears, that the French prefect placed the fate and fortune of these unfortunate prisoners at the disposal of Count Stahremberg, who, of course, believing the representations made to him ordered the accused to be immediately shot. To mortify and exhaust the protestant communes, the Austrians were directed to occupy them, where they completely disarmed the inhabitants without the least opposition. In fact, these foreigners were soon undeceived. They expected to meet the most perfidious and brutal enemies in arms, and in open rebellion against their king; but, on the contrary, they found them all in peace, and experienced the most kind and respectful treatment; and though their duty was a most vexatious and oppressive one, they performed it in general with moderation. On this account they could not refrain from expressing their astonishment at the reports made to them by the authorities at Nismes, declaring, "They had found a population suffering great misfortunes, but no rebels; and that compassion was the only feeling that prevailed in their minds." The commander himself was so convinced of the good disposition of the people of the Cevennes, that he visited those districts without an escort, desiring, he said, to travel in that country as he would in his own. Such confidence was a public reproach on the authorities at Nismes, and a sentence of condemnation on all their proceedings. As the persecution of the protestants was spreading into other departments, strong and forcible representations were secretly printed and made to the king. All the ordinary modes of communication had been stopped; the secrecy of letters violated, and none circulated but those relative to private affairs. Sometimes these letters bore the postmark of places very distant, and arrived without signatures, and enveloped in allegorical allusions. In fact, a powerful resistance on the part of the outraged protestants was at length apprehended, which, in the beginning of September excited the proclamation of the king, on which it was observed, "that if his majesty had been correctly and fully informed of all that had taken place, he surely would not have contented himself with announcing his severe displeasure to a _misled people, who took justice into their own hands, and avenged the crimes committed against royalty_." The proclamation was dictated as though there had not been a protestant in the department; it assumed and affirmed throughout the guilt of the sufferers; and while it deplored the atrocious outrages endured by the followers of the duke d'Angouleme, (outrages which never existed,) the plunder and massacre of the reformed were not even noticed. Still disorders kept pace with the proclamations that made a show of suppressing them, and the force of the catholic faction also continued to increase. The catholic populace, notwithstanding the decrees of the magistrates, were allowed to retain the arms they had illegally seized, whilst the protestants in the departments were disarmed. The members of the reformed churches wished at this period to present another memorial to the government, descriptive of the evils they still suffered, but this was not practicable. On the 26th of September, the president of the consistory wrote as follows: "I have only been able to assemble two or three members of the consistory pastors or elders. It is impossible to draw up a memoir, or to collect facts; so great is the terror, that every one is afraid to speak of his own sufferings, or to mention those he has been compelled to witness." _Outrages committed in the Villages, &c._ We now quit Nismes to take a view of the conduct of the persecutors in the surrounding country. After the re-establishment of the royal government, the local authorities were distinguished for their zeal and forwardness in supporting their employers, and, under pretence of rebellion, concealment of arms, non-payment of contributions, &c. troops, national guards, and armed mobs, were permitted to plunder, arrest, and murder peaceable citizens, not merely with impunity, but with encouragement and approbation. At the village of Milhaud, near Nismes, the inhabitants were frequently forced to pay large sums to avoid being pillaged. This, however, would not avail at Madame Teulon's: On Sunday, the 16th of July, her house and grounds were ravaged; the valuable furniture removed or destroyed, the hay and wood burnt, and the corpse of a child, buried in the garden, taken up and dragged round a fire made by the populace. It was with great difficulty that M. Teulon escaped with his life. M. Picherol, another protestant, had deposited some of his effects with a catholic neighbour; this house was attacked, and though all the property of the latter was respected, that of his friend was seized and destroyed. At the same village, one of a party doubting whether M. Hermet, a tailor, was the man they wanted, asked, "Is he a protestant?" this he acknowledged. "Good," said they, and he was instantly murdered. In the Canton of Vauvert, where there was a consistory church, 80,000 francs were extorted. In the communes of Beauvoisin and Generac similar excesses were committed by a handful of licentious men, under the eye of the catholic mayor and to the cries of "Vive le Roi." St. Gilles was the scene of the must unblushing villainy. The protestants, the most wealthy of the inhabitants, were disarmed, whilst their houses were pillaged. The mayor was appealed to:--the mayor laughed and walked away. This officer had, at his disposal, a national guard of several hundred men, organised by his own orders. It would be wearisome to read the lists of the crimes that occurred during many months. At Clavisson the mayor prohibited the protestants the practice of singing the psalms commonly used in the temple, that, as he said, the catholics might not be offended or disturbed. At Sommieres, about ten miles from Nismes, the catholics made a splendid procession through the town, which continued till evening and was succeeded by the plunder of the protestants. On the arrival of foreign troops at Sommieres, the pretended search for arms was resumed; those who did not possess muskets were even compelled to buy them on purpose to surrender them up, and soldiers were quartered on them at six francs per day till they produced the articles in demand. The protestant church which had been closed, was converted into barracks for the Austrians. After divine service had been suspended for six months at Nismes, the church, by the protestants called the Temple, was re-opened, and public worship performed on the morning of the 24th of December. On examining the belfry, it was discovered that some persons had carried off the clapper of the bell. As the hour of service approached, a number of men, women, and children, collected at the house of M. Ribot, the pastor, and threatened to prevent the worship. At the appointed time, when he proceeded towards the church, he was surrounded; the most savage shouts were raised against him; some of the women seized him by the collar; but nothing could disturb his firmness, or excite his impatience: he entered the house of prayer, and ascended the pulpit; stones were thrown in and fell among the worshippers; still the congregation remained calm and attentive, and the service was concluded amidst noise, threats, and outrage. On retiring many would have been killed but for the chasseurs of the garrison, who honourably and zealously protected them. From the captain of these chasseurs, M. Ribot soon after received the following letter. "_January 2, 1816._ "I deeply lament the prejudices of the catholics against the _protestants_, who they pretend do not love the king. Continue to act as you have hitherto done, and time and your conduct will convince the catholics to the contrary: should any tumult occur similar to that of Saturday last inform me. I preserve my reports of these acts, and if the agitators prove incorrigible, and forget what they owe to the best of kings and the _charter_, I will do my duty and inform the government of their proceedings. Adieu, my dear sir; assure the consistory of my esteem, and of the sense I entertain of the moderation with which they have met the provocations of the evil-disposed at Sommieres. I have the honor to salute you with respect. SUVAL DE LAINE." Another letter to this worthy pastor from the Marquis de Montlord, was received on the 6th of January, to encourage him to unite with all good men who believe in God to obtain the punishment of the assassins, brigands, and disturbers of public tranquility, and to read the instructions he had received from government to this effect publicly. Notwithstanding this, on the 20th of January, 1816, when the service in commemoration of the death of Louis XVI. was celebrated, a procession being formed, the National Guards fired at the white flag suspended from the windows of the protestants, and concluded the day by plundering their houses. In the Commune of Angargues, matters were still worse; and in that of Fontanes, from the entry of the king in 1815, the catholics broke all terms with the protestants; by day they insulted them, and in the night broke open their doors, or marked them with chalk to be plundered or burnt. St. Mamert was repeatedly visited by these robberies; and at Montmiral, as lately as the 16th of June, 1816, the protestants were attacked, beaten, and imprisoned, for daring to celebrate the return of a king who had sworn to preserve religious liberty and to maintain the charter. In fact, to continue the relation of the scenes that took place in the different departments of the south of France, would be little better than a repetition of those we have already described, excepting a change of names: but the most sanguinary of all seems that which was perpetrated at Uzes, at the latter end of August, and the burning of several protestants places of worship. These shameful persecutions continued till after the dissolution of the Chamber of Deputies at the close of the year 1816. After a review of these anti-protestant proceedings, the British reader will not think of comparing them with the riots of London in 1780, or with those of Birmingham about 1793; as it is evident that where governments possess absolute power, such events could not have been prolonged for many months and even for years over a vast extent of country, had it not been for the systematic and powerful support of the higher department of the state. _Farther account of the proceedings of the Catholics at Nismes._ The excesses perpetrated in the country it seems did not by any means divert the attention of the persecutors from Nismes. October, 1815, commenced without any improvement in the principles or measures of the government, and this was followed by corresponding presumption on the part of the people. Several houses in the Quartier St. Charles were sacked, and their wrecks burnt in the streets amidst songs, dances, and shouts of Vive le Roi. The mayor appeared, but the merry multitude pretended not to know him, and when he ventured to remonstrate, they told him, "his presence was unnecessary, and that he might retire." During the 16th of October, every preparation seemed to announce a night of carnage; orders for assembling and signals for attack were circulated with regularity and confidence; Trestaillon reviewed his satellites, and urged them on to the perpetration of crimes, holding with one of those wretches the following dialogue: _Satellite._ "If all the protestants, without one exception, are to be killed, I will cheerfully join; but as you have so often deceived me, unless they are all to go I will not stir." _Trestaillon._ "Come along, then, for this time not a single man shall escape." This horrid purpose would have been executed had it not been for General La Garde, the commandant of the department. It was not till ten o'clock at night that he perceived the danger; he now felt that not a moment could be lost. Crowds were advancing through the suburbs, and the streets were filling with ruffians, uttering the most horrid imprecations. The generale sounded at eleven o'clock, and added to the confusion that was now spreading through the city. A few troops rallied round the Count La Garde, who was wrung with distress at the sight of the evil which had arrived at such a pitch. Of this M. Durand, a catholic advocate, gave the following account: "It was near midnight, my wife had just fallen asleep; I was writing by her side, when we were disturbed by a distant noise; drums seemed crossing the town in every direction. What could all this mean! To quiet her alarm, I said it probably announced the arrival or departure of some troops of the garrison. But firing and shouts were immediately audible; and on opening my window I distinguished horrible imprecations mingled with cries of _vive le Roi!_ I roused an officer who lodged in the house, and M. Chancel, Director of the Public Works. We went out together, and gained the Boulevarde. The moon shone bright, and almost every object was nearly as distinct as day; a furious crowd was pressing on vowing extermination, and the greater part half naked, armed with knives, muskets, sticks, and sabres. In answer to my inquiries I was told the massacre was general, that many had been already killed in the suburbs. M. Chancel retired to put on his uniform as captain of the _Pompiers_; the officers retired to the barracks, and anxious for my wife I returned home. By the noise I was convinced that persons followed. I crept along in the shadow of the wall, opened my door, entered, and closed it, leaving a small aperture through which I could watch the movements of the party whose arms shone in the moonlight. In a few moments some armed men appeared conducting a prisoner to the very spot where I was concealed. They stopped, I shut my door gently, and mounted on an alder tree planted against the garden wall. What a scene! a man on his knees imploring mercy from wretches who mocked his agony, and loaded him with abuse. In the name of my wife and children, he said, spare me! What have I done? Why would you murder me for nothing? I was on the point of crying out and menacing the murderers with vengeance. I had not long to deliberate, the discharge of several fusils terminated my suspense; the unhappy supplicant, struck in the loins and the head, fell to rise no more. The backs of the assassins were towards the tree; they retired immediately, reloading their pieces. I descended and approached the dying man, uttering some deep and dismal groans. Some National Guards arrived at the moment, I again retired and shut the door. "I see," said one, "a dead man." "He sings still," said another. "It will be better," said a third, "to finish him and put him out of his misery." Five or six muskets were fired instantly, and the groans ceased. On the following day crowds came to inspect and insult the deceased. A day after a massacre was always observed as a sort of fete, and every occupation was left to go and gaze upon the victims. This was Louis Lichare, the father of four children; and four years after the event, M. Durand verified this account by his oath upon the trial of one of the murderers." _Attack upon the Protestant Churches._ Some time before the death of general La Garde, the duke d'Angouleme had visited Nismes, and other cities in the south, and at the former place honoured the members of the protestant consistory with an interview, promising them protection, and encouraging them to reopen their temple so long shut up. They have two churches at Nismes, and it was agreed that the small one should be preferred on this occasion, and that the ringing of the bell should be omitted, general La Garde declared that he would answer with his head for the safety of his congregation. The protestants privately informed each other that worship was once more to be celebrated at ten o'clock, and they began to assemble silently and cautiously. It was agreed that M. Juillerat Chasseur should perform the service, though such was his conviction of danger that he entreated his wife, and some of his flock, to remain with their families. The temple being opened only as a matter of form, and in compliance with the orders of the duke d'Angouleme, this pastor wished to be the only victim. On his way to the place he passed numerous groupes who regarded him with ferocious looks. "This is the time," said some, "to give them the last blow." "Yes," added others, "and neither women nor children must be spared." One wretch, raising his voice above the rest, exclaimed, "Ah, I will go and get my musket, and ten for my share." Through these ominous sounds M. Juillerat pursued his course, but when he gained the temple the sexton had not the courage to open the door, and he was obliged to do it himself. As the worshippers arrived they found strange persons in possession of the adjacent streets, and upon the steps of the church, vowing their worship should not be performed, and crying, "Down with the protestants! kill them! kill them!" At ten o'clock the church being nearly filled, M. J. Chasseur commenced the prayers; a calm that succeeded was of short duration. On a sudden the minister was interrupted by a violent noise, and a number of persons entered, uttering the most dreadful cries, mingled with _Vive le Roi!_ but the gens-d'armes succeeded in excluding these fanatics, and closing the doors. The noise and tumult without now redoubled, and the blows of the populace trying to break open the doors, caused the house to resound with shrieks and groans. The voice of the pastors who endeavoured to console their flock, was inaudible; they attempted in vain to sing the 42d psalm. Three quarters of an hour rolled heavily away. "I placed myself," says Madame Juillerat, "at the bottom of the pulpit, with my daughter in my arms; my husband at length joined and sustained me; I remembered that it was the anniversary of my marriage; after six years of happiness, I said, I am about to die with my husband and my daughter; we shall be slain at the altar of our God, the victims of a sacred duty, and heaven will open to receive us and our unhappy brethren. I blessed the Redeemer, and without cursing our murderers, I awaited their approach." M. Oliver, son of a pastor, an officer in the royal troops of the line, attempted to leave the church, but the friendly sentinels at the door advised him to remain besieged with the rest. The national guards refused to act, and the fanatical crowd took every advantage of the absence of general La Garde, and of their increasing numbers. At length the sound of martial music was heard, and voices from without called to the besieged, "Open, open and save yourselves." Their first impression was a fear of treachery, but they were soon assured that a detachment returning from mass was drawn up in front of the church to favour the retreat of the protestants. The door was opened, and many of them escaped among the ranks of the soldiers, who had driven the mob before them; but this street, as well as others through which the fugitives had to pass, was soon filled again. The venerable pastor, Olivier Desmond, between 70 and 80 years of age, was surrounded by murderers; they put their fists in his face, and cried, "Kill the chief of brigands." He was preserved by the firmness of some officers, among whom was his own son; they made a bulwark round him with their bodies, and amidst their naked sabres conducted him to his house. M. Juillerat, who had assisted at divine service with his wife at his side and his child in his arms, was pursued and assailed with stones, his mother received a blow on the head, and her life was some time in danger. One woman was shamefully whipped, and several wounded and dragged along the streets; the number of protestants more or less ill treated on this occasion amounted to between seventy and eighty. _Murder of General La Garde._ At length a check was put to these excesses by the report of the murder of Count La Garde, who, receiving an account of this tumult, mounted his horse, and entered one of the streets, to disperse a crowd. A villain seized his bridle; another presented the muzzle of a pistol close to his body, and exclaimed, "Wretch, you make me retire!" He immediately fired. The murderer was Louis Boissin, a serjeant in the national guard; but, though known to every one, no person endeavoured to arrest him, and he effected his escape. As soon as the general found himself wounded, he gave orders to the gendarmerie to protect the protestants, and set off on a gallop to his hotel; but fainted immediately on his arrival. On recovering, he prevented the surgeon from searching his wound till he had written a letter to the government, that, in case of his death, it might be known from what quarter the blow came, and that none might dare to accuse the protestants of this crime. The probable death of this general produced a small degree of relaxation on the part of their enemies, and some calm; but the mass of the people had been indulged in licentiousness too long to be restrained even by the murder of the representative of their king. In the evening they again repaired to the temple, and with hatchets broke open the door; the dismal noise of their blows carried terror into the bosom of the protestant families sitting in their houses in tears. The contents of the poor's box, and the clothes prepared for distribution, were stolen; the minister's robes rent in pieces; the books torn up or carried away; the closets were ransacked, but the rooms which contained the archives of the church, and the synods, was providentially secured; and had it not been for the numerous patrols on foot, the whole would have become the prey of the flames, and the edifice itself a heap of ruins. In the mean while, the fanatics openly ascribed the murder of the general to his own self-devotion, and said "that it was the will of God." Three thousand francs were offered for the apprehension of Boissin; but it was well known that the protestants dared not arrest him, and that the fanatics would not. During these transactions, the systems of forced conversions to catholicism was making regular and fearful progress. _Interference of the British Government._ To the credit of England, the reports of these cruel persecutions carried on against our protestant brethren in France, produced such a sensation on the part of the government as determined them to interfere; and now the persecutors of the protestants made this spontaneous act of humanity and religion the pretext for charging the sufferers with a treasonable correspondence with England; but in this state of their proceedings, to their great dismay, a letter appeared, sent some time before to England by the duke of Wellington, stating "that much information existed on the events of the south." The ministers of the three denominations in London, anxious not to be misled, requested one of their brethren to visit the scenes of persecution, and examine with impartiality the nature and extent of the evils they were desirous to relieve. The Rev. Clement Perot undertook this difficult task, and fulfilled their wishes with a zeal, prudence, and devotedness, above all praise. His return furnished abundant and incontestible proof of a shameful persecution, materials for an appeal to the British Parliament, and a printed report which was circulated through the continent, and which first conveyed correct information to the inhabitants of France. Foreign interference was now found eminently useful; and the declarations of tolerance which it elicited from the French government, as well as the more cautious march of the catholic persecutors, operated as decisive and involuntary acknowledgments of the importance of that interference, which some persons at first censured and despised but though the stern voice of public opinion in England and elsewhere produced a reluctant suspension of massacre and pillage, the murderers and plunderers were still left unpunished, and even caressed and rewarded for their crimes; and whilst protestants in France suffered the most cruel and degrading pains and penalties for alleged trifling crimes, _catholics_, covered with blood, and guilty of numerous and horrid murders, were acquitted. Perhaps the virtuous indignation expressed by some of the more enlightened catholics against these abominable proceedings, had no small share in restraining them. Many innocent protestants had been condemned to the galleys and otherwise punished, for supposed crimes, upon the oaths of wretches the most unprincipled and abandoned. M. Madier de Montgau, judge of the _cour royale_ of Nismes, and president of the _cour d'assizes_ of the Gard and Vaucluse, upon one occasion felt himself compelled to break up the court, rather than take the deposition of that notorious and sanguinary monster Truphemy: "In a hall," says he, "of the Palace of Justice, opposite that in which I sat, several unfortunate persons persecuted by the faction were upon trial, every deposition tending to their crimination was applauded with the cries of '_Vive le Roi_.' Three times the explosion of this atrocious joy became so terrible, that it was necessary to send for reinforcements from the barracks, and two hundred soldiers were often unable to restrain the people. On a sudden the shouts and cries of '_Vive le Roi_' redoubled: a man arrives, caressed, applauded, borne in triumph--it is the horrible Truphemy; he approaches the tribunal--he comes to depose against the prisoners--he is admitted as a witness--he raises his hand to take the oath! Seized with horror at the sight, I rush from my seat, and enter the hall of council; my colleagues follow me; in vain they persuade me to resume my seat; 'No!' exclaimed I, 'I will not consent to see that wretch admitted to give evidence in a court of justice in the city which he has filled with murders; in the palace, on the steps of which he has murdered the unfortunate Bourillon. I cannot admit that he should kill his victims by his testimonies no more than by his poignards. He an accuser! he a witness! No, never will I consent to see this monster rise, in the presence of magistrates, to take a sacrilegious oath, his hand still reeking with blood.' These words were repeated out of doors; the witness trembled; the factious also trembled; the factious who guided the tongue of Truphemy as they had directed his arm, who dictated calumny after they had taught him murder. These words penetrated the dungeons of the condemned, and inspired hope; they gave another courageous advocate the resolution to espouse the cause of the persecuted; he carried the prayers of innocence and misery to the foot of the throne; there he asked if the evidence of a Truphemy was not sufficient to annul a sentence. The king granted a full and free pardon." _Perjury in the case of General Gilly, &c._ This catholic system of subornation and perjury was carried to such an infamous degree, that twenty-six witnesses were found to sign and swear, that on the 3d of April, 1815, general Gilly, with his own hand and _before their eyes_, took down the white flag at Nismes; though it was proved that at the time when the tri-coloured flag was raised in its room, the general was fifteen leagues from Nismes, and that he did not arrive there till _three_ days after that event. Before tribunals thus constructed, even innocence had not the least chance for protection. General Gilly knew better than to appear before them, and was condemned to death for contempt of court. But when he left Nismes, he thought either of passing into a foreign country, or of joining the army of the Loire; and it was long supposed that he had actually escaped. As it was impossible to gain any point, or find any security, his only hope was in concealment, and a friend found him an asylum in the cottage of a peasant; but that peasant was a protestant, and the general was a catholic: however, he did not hesitate; he confided in this poor man's honour. This cottage was in the canton of Anduze; the name of its keeper, Perrier; he welcomed the fugitive, and did not even ask his name: it was a time of proscription, and his host would know nothing of him, it was enough that he was unfortunate, and in danger. He was disguised and he passed for Perrier's cousin. The general is naturally amiable, and he made himself agreeable, sat by the fire, ate potatoes, and contented himself with miserable fare. Though subject to frequent and many painful alarms, he preserved his retreat several months, and often heard the visiters of his host boast of the concealment of general Gilly, or of being acquainted with the place of his retreat. Patrols were continually searching for arms in the houses of protestants; and often in the night the general was obliged to leave his mattress, half naked, and hide himself in the fields. Perrier, to avoid these inconveniences, made an under-ground passage, by which his guest could pass to an outhouse. The wife of Perrier could not endure that one who had seen better days should live as her family did, on vegetables and bread, and occasionally bought meat to regale the melancholy stranger. These unusual purchases excited attention; it was suspected that Perrier had some one concealed; nightly visits were more frequent. In this state of anxiety he often complained of the hardness of his lot. Perrier one day returned from market in a serious mood; and after some inquiries from his guest, he replied, "Why do you complain? you are fortunate compared with the poor wretches whose heads were cried in the market to-day. Bruguier, the pastor, at 2400 francs; Bresse, the mayor, at the same, and general Gilly at 10,000!"--"Is it possible?" "Aye, it is certain." Gilly concealed his emotion, a momentary suspicion passed his mind; he appeared to reflect. "Perrier," said he, "I am weary of life; you are poor and want money: I know Gilly and the place of his concealment; let us denounce him; I shall, no doubt, obtain my liberty, and you shall have the 10,000 francs." The old man stood speechless, and as if petrified. His son, a gigantic peasant, 27 years of age, who had served in the army, rose from his chair, in which he had listened to the conversation, and in a tone not to be described, said, "Sir, hitherto we thought you unfortunate, but honest; we have respected your sorrow, and kept your secret; but since you are one of those wretched beings who would inform of a fellow creature, and insure his death to save yourself, there is the door; and if you do not retire, I will throw you out of the window." Gilly hesitated; the peasant insisted; the general wished to explain, but he was seized by the collar. "Suppose I should be general Gilly," said the fugitive. The soldier paused. "And it is even so," continued he, "denounce me, and the 10,000 francs are yours." The soldier threw himself on his neck; the family were dissolved in tears; they kissed his hands, his clothes, protested they would never let him leave them, and that they would die rather than he should be arrested. In their kindness he was more secure than ever; but their cottage was more suspected, and he was ultimately obliged to seek another asylum. The family refused any indemnity for the expense he had occasioned them, and it was not till long after that he could prevail upon them to accept an acknowledgement of their hospitality and fidelity. In 1820, when the course of justice was more free, general Gilly demanded a trial; there was nothing against him; and the duke d'Angouleme conveyed to Madame Gilly the permission of the king for the return of her husband to the bosom of his country. But, even when the French government was resolved to bring the factions of the department of the Gard, under the laws, the same men continued to exercise the public functions. The society, called _Royale_, and its secret committee, maintained a power superior to the laws. It was impossible to procure the condemnation of an assassin though the evidence against him was incontestible, and for whom, in other times, there would have been no hope. The Truphemys, and others of his stamp, appeared in public, wearing immense mustachios, and white cockades embroidered with green. Like the brigands of Calabria, they had two pistols and a poignard at their waists. Their appearance diffused an air of melancholy mixed with indignation. Even amidst the bustle of the day there was the silence of fear, and the night was disturbed by atrocious songs, or vociferations like the sudden cry of ferocious wild beasts. _Ultimate resolution of the Protestants at Nismes._ With respect to the conduct of the protestants, these highly outraged citizens, pushed to extremities by their persecutors, felt at length that they had only to choose the manner in which they were to perish. They unanimously determined that they would die fighting in their own defence. This firm attitude apprised their butchers that they could no longer murder with impunity. Every thing was immediately changed. Those, who for four years had filled others with terror, now felt it in their turn. They trembled at the force which men, so long resigned, found in despair, and their alarm was heightened when they heard that the inhabitants of the Cavennes, persuaded of the danger of their brethren, were marching to their assistance. But, without waiting for these reinforcements, the protestants appeared at night in the same order and armed in the same manner as their enemies. The others paraded the Boulevards, with their usual noise and fury, but the protestants remained silent and firm in the posts they had chosen. Three days these dangerous and ominous meetings continued; but the effusion of blood was prevented by the efforts of some worthy citizens distinguished by their rank and fortune. By sharing the dangers of the protestant population, they obtained the pardon of an enemy who now trembled while he menaced. But though the protestants were modest in their demands, only asking present safety, and security for the future, they did not obtain above half of their requests. The dissolution of the National Guard at Nismes was owing to the prudence and firmness of M. Laine. The re-organization of the _Cour Royale_ was effected by M. Pasquier, then Keeper of the Seals; and these measures certainly ensured them a present safety but no more. M. Madier de Montgau, the generous champion of the protestants at Nismes, was officially summoned before the Court of Cassation at Paris, over which M. de Serre, Keeper of the Seals, presided, to answer for an alleged impropriety of conduct as a magistrate, in making those public appeals to the Chamber which saved the protestants, and increased the difficulties of renewing those persecutions of which he complained. The French attorney general demanded the erasure of his name from the list of magistrates, but this the court refused. Unfortunately since the law of elections in France has been changed, two of the bitterest enemies of the protestants had been chosen Deputies at Nismes. The future, therefore, is not without its dangers, and the condition of the persecuted may fluctuate with the slightest political alteration; but which, it is to be hoped, may be prevented from any acts that may again disgrace the catholic religion, by the powerful expression of the public mind, actuated with better principles, or by the interference of the protestant influence in this or other countries. Happily, since the year 1820, no fresh complaints have issued from the south of France on the score of religion. CHAPTER XVIII. ASAAD SHIDIAK. NARRATIVE OF THE CONVERSION, IMPRISONMENT, AND SUFFERINGS OF ASAAD SHIDIAK, A NATIVE OF PALESTINE, WHO HAS BEEN CONFINED FOR SEVERAL YEARS IN THE CONVENT OF MT. LEBANON. The following narrative illustrates two points. 1st. The usefulness of Christian Missions. 2d. The unchanging persecuting spirit of the papal church. The subject of the following narrative has now been in confinement about five years; during which time he has suffered almost every indignity and vexation which the malice of his enemies could impose upon him. Up to the present time, however, he has remained steadfast in his adherence to the principles of the gospel. We give the narrative of his trials and sufferings in the simple and affecting language of the missionaries, which excited such powerful interest in the bosoms of Christians, at the time of its first publication. The principal facts are taken from the Missionary Herald published by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. _Biographical Notices of Asaad Shidiak._ The following account of the remarkable convert from the Maronite Roman Catholic church, whose name has, of late, appeared frequently on the pages of the Missionary Herald, is compiled chiefly from the journal of Mr. Bird, American Missionary in Syria. The other matter which is inserted, is derived from authentic sources, and is designed to connect, or to illustrate the extracts from the journal, or to render the biography more complete and satisfactory. _His early History._ Asaad Shidiak was born in the district north of Beyroot, called Kesruan, where, and at Hadet, a small village five miles south-east of Beyroot, his family have ever since lived. This family now consists of the widowed mother, five sons, (of whom Asaad is the third) and two or three daughters. At about the age of 16, he entered the college of Ain Warka, and spent a year and a half in studying grammar, (Arabic and Syriac,) logic and theology. After this he passed two years teaching theology to the monks of a convent near Hadet. He has also been some considerable time scribe to the bishop of Beyroot, and to the patriarch, the latter of whom was a teacher in the college when Asaad was a student. During the late rebellion, headed by the shekh Besir, a mere complimentary letter of Asaad's to one of the disaffected party, being intercepted, and shown to the emir Beshir, his suspicion was excited, and he wrote immediately to the patriarch, in whose employ he then was, to dismiss him from his service. The letter of Asaad was produced, and though it was seen to contain nothing exceptionable, the patriarch thought proper to dismiss him without ceremony. _Connexion with Mr. King._ The dispensations of Providence often seem afflictive when they happen, and most kind and benevolent afterwards, when their design is perceived. So it was in the case of Asaad. Being thus cast out upon the world, by those who ought to have befriended him, he applied to Mr. King for employment as his instructer in Syriac, and was accepted. Though a young man, Mr. King pronounced him to be one of the most intelligent natives of the country, whom he had met with on Mount Lebanon. From morning until night, for several weeks, they were together, and hours were spent by them, almost every day, in discussing religious subjects, and upon a mind so candid, so shrewd, so powerful in its conceptions, and so comprehensive in its surveys, as that of Asaad, an impression favorable to protestant christianity could not but be made. Having completed his engagements with Mr. King, he, at the recommendation of Mr. Fisk, set up a school in Beyroot, for teaching Arabic grammatically, but soon found himself obliged to relinquish it, at the command of his patriarch. He was also forbidden, as is stated by Mr. Bird, to give any further instruction to the _Bible-men_, as the missionaries are called, because the patriarch "had received fresh instructions from Rome to _persecute_ these men _by every means in his power_, so long as one of them should remain in the country." When Mr. King was about to leave Syria, he wrote the farewell letter to his friends in that country. The letter was designed, by the writer, to show the reasons which prevented his becoming a member of the Roman catholic church. This letter Asaad attempted to answer but his answer, so far from being satisfactory to himself, was the occasion of raising strong doubts in his mind, as to the general correctness of the Romish faith. _Connexion with Mr. Bird._ Under the influence of these doubts, which seem to have distressed him greatly, he entered the service of Mr. Bird as his instructer in Arabic. His doubts continued to increase; for he now began in earnest the study of the Bible and of his own heart, and made constant progress in the knowledge of both. At length he became a protestant in faith, and, as there is reason to believe, a truly pious man. Immediately he commenced reformer; and though young, his matured judgment, his vigorous intellect, his intrepidity, and his acquisitions, great for his age and his nation, soon drew towards him the general attention. _Visits his Relations._ On the 12th of November, 1825,--says Mr. Bird--Shidiak received a letter from the patriarch, in which he threatens him, with his brother Tannoos and another Maronite youth, with immediate excommunication, unless they cease from all connexion with the Bible-men. 15. After mature deliberation it was thought advisable, for the present, that he should go home to his friends in Hadet, until the fever of alarm and opposition should subside a little. _His return to Mr. Bird._ _Dec. 12._ Shidiak returned, after nearly a month's absence, to continue with me for a year, risking whatever obloquy and violence might come upon him. He has just been obliged to give up an advantageous contract of marriage, into which he had some months ago entered, because, since suspicions were afloat that he is heretical in his notions, the father of the girl required him to bring a letter from the patriarch, specifying what office he would give him. He now gives up all intentions of marriage. For his greater security, I am to procure for him the usual written protection of the English consul, which shall insure to him, while in my immediate employ, all the safety and liberty of an English resident. _Progress of His Opinions._ 13. Spent most of the day in conversation with Asaad on the subject of religion. He had lately been much in company with the emir Sulman, and observed, that his prejudices against christianity were evidently much softened. 14. Conversed with Asaad on the books of the Apocrypha.[E] He seemed satisfied with the proofs that they were not given by inspiration of God. He is now searching the scriptures with such an intensity of interest, as to leave him neither time nor relish for any thing else. We have a copy of the Arabic bible, printed at Rome, at the end of which is an appendix which he has discovered to contain a copious list of popish doctrines, with their appropriate references to scripture proofs. These proofs he has found so weak, that he expresses his astonishment how such doctrines could be inferred from them; and nothing has occurred of late, which has more strengthened his conviction that the church of Rome is radically wrong. What seems to have affected him most sensibly, is, the expression he has found, "We are under obligation to kill heretics."--Proof,--'False prophets God commanded to be slain. Jehu and Elijah killed the worshippers and prophets of Baal.' This passage he shows to all who visit him, priests and people, and calls upon them to judge whether such sweeping destruction is according to the spirit of the gospel. In this country, where the pope cannot do all he could wish, the right of murdering every one who differs from him, has not been so publicly asserted of late, and some, when they hear it, are a little startled. But most of the good children of "the church" are soon quieted again, by the recollection, that their kind and compassionate "mother" _means_ well, even in murder. The common mode of reasoning, is, in this case, inverted. It is not said, "the action is right, therefore the church does it;" but, "the church does it, therefore it is right." _Jan. 1, 1826._ Twelve or fourteen individuals were present at the Arabic service at Mr. Goodell's. After this service, we questioned Asaad closely with regard to the state of his heart, and were rather disappointed at the readiness, with which he replied, that he thought he was born again. For ourselves, we chose rather to suspend our opinion. He can hardly be supposed to have acquired yet, even _speculatively_, very clear notions of what is regeneration; and it would seem quite as consistent with christian humility, and with a true knowledge of his sinfulness, if he should speak of himself with more doubt and caution. In the evening, an acquaintance of his, one who has heretofore expressed great friendship to him, and to us; who had said that there was no true religion to be found in the whole country, and pretended to lament very much that the patriarch and priests had so much sway; came to give Asaad a last serious admonition. "This," said he, "is the last time I intend ever to say a word to you on the subject of religion. I wish, therefore, before you go any further, that you would pause and think whether you can meet all the reproach of the world, and all the opposition of the patriarch and priests." Asaad replied, that he had made up his mind to meet all these things. "And now," said he, "if, as you say, you intend never to hold any more conversation with me on the subject of religion, I have one request to make of you, and that is, that you will go, and make the subject of religion a matter of serious prayer and inquiry, and see where the path of life is; I then leave you with your conscience and with God." After relating the substance of this conversation to us, Asaad remarked, that these people reminded him of the late patriarch such an one, who had a moderate share of understanding, but was ambitious to appear very well. This patriarch had a bishop who was really an acute and learned man, and whose opinions were always received with the greatest deference on all matters relative to religion. The bishop being on a visit one day at the patriarch's, the latter called him to his presence, and proposed to him the interpretation of a passage of scripture. The bishop gave the explanation according to the best of his judgment. "No," said his holiness, "that is not the meaning of the passage;" and proposed to have a second. When the bishop had again given his opinions and reasons, the patriarch answered as before, "That is not the meaning of the passage." In a third and fourth case, the bishop was equally unfortunate, all his arguments being swept away by the single sage remark of his holiness, "That is not the meaning of the passage." At last the bishop, in a fit of discouragement, said, "Your holiness has put me upon the solution of a number of questions, in all which, it seems, I have been _wrong_. I would now thank your holiness to tell me what is _right_." The patriarch being startled at the new ground he was on, changed the conversation. "So," said Asaad, "these people can all tell me I am mistaken; but when I ask them what is _right_, they are silent." Asaad has often remarked, that he is full of anxiety, and finds no rest for the sole of his foot. In many things he sees the Romish church to be wrong, and in some things he thinks _we_ are so. Our apparent tranquility of mind, as to our religious views, is a matter of surprise to him. This evening he conversed on the subject with more than usual feeling. "I seem," said he, "to be alone among men. There is nobody like me, and I please nobody. I am not quite in harmony with the English in my views, and therefore do not please _you_. My own countrymen are in so much error, I cannot please _them_. _God_ I have no reason to think I please; nor do I please _myself_. What shall I do?" It was not altogether unpleasant to hear these professions of diffidence in himself, and I endeavoured to turn off his attention from all other sources of consolation than that of the "Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost." Asaad observed, that whatever might be said, and whatever might be true, of our _object_, in coming to this country he saw that the _doctrines_ we taught were according to truth, and he was more than ever determined to hold to them. Asaad says, that wherever he goes, and to whomsoever he addresses himself on the subject of religion, people say, "Ah, it is very well for you to go about and talk in this manner: you have, no doubt, been well paid for it all." These insinuations wear upon his spirit, and he sometimes says, "O that I were in some distant land, where nobody had ever known me, and I knew nobody, that I might be able to fasten men's attention to the truth, without the possibility of their flying off to these horrid suspicions." He wishes also to have another interview with the patriarch, that he may tell him his whole heart, and see what he will say. The patriarch is not, he says, of a bad disposition by nature, and perhaps if he could be persuaded that he was neither acting from revenge nor from love of money, but simply from a conviction of the truth, he would be softened in his feelings, and something might be done with him to the benefit of religion. He desired, among other things, to propose, that an edition of the New Testament should be printed under the patriarch's inspection at Schooair, the expense of which, (if he chose) should be borne by the English.[F] _Visits the Patriarch._ 6. For some time, we had been looking daily for a regular excommunication to be published by the patriarch's order against Asaad; but instead of this, a letter arrived from his holiness to-day, brought by his own brother, priest Nicholas, containing his apostolic blessing, inviting him to an interview, and promising him a situation in some office. The messenger said, that the patriarch, his brother, had heard that the English had given Asaad 40 purses, (2000 dollars) to unite him with them, and that he had thought of giving Asaad the same sum, that no obstacle might remain to his leaving them. "This money," said he, "with which the English print books, and hire men into their service is but the pelf of the man of sin, and could you but be present to hear what the people say of you, through the whole country, for your associating with the English, you would never be in their company again." When we were informed of what occurred between this priest and Asaad, and of Asaad's intention to go and see the patriarch, we all expressed our fears that he would be ill-treated, but he did not anticipate it. He said, he had known an instance of a vile infidel and blasphemer, who was simply excommunicated, and that it was not the custom of the Maronites to kill, as we suggested, on account of religion. We assured him that he had not yet learned how much men hate the truth, and that his church would not feel herself half as much in danger from an open blasphemer, as from an active lover of the gospel. But he was so confident that good would result from such a visit, that we ceased from urging our objections, and commended him to the will of God. It was during this visit, that most of the conversations happened which are so admirably narrated in the public statement made by himself, which will be found in the sequel. He manifested throughout, as the reader will discover, the spirit of the early christian confessors. He denied the infallibility of popes and councils; asserted and defended the great doctrines of the gospel, and besought, that the scriptures might be circulated, and read, and be made the only standard of faith, and rule of practice, and that evangelists might be sent through the land. Against such a formidable innovator, the patriarch and his bishops rose up in wrath, and Asaad was threatened with imprisonment and death. Two days after his departure, he thus wrote to Mr. Bird. "I am now at Der Alma, (convent of Alma,) and thanks to God, I arrived in good health. But as yet I have not seen the patriarch. I pray God the Father, and his only Son Jesus Christ our Lord, that he would establish me in his love, that I may never exchange it for any created thing--that neither death, nor life, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor riches, nor honour, nor dignity, nor office, nor any thing in creation, shall separate me from this love. I hope you will pray to God for me; which request I also make to all the brethren and sisters, (all the saints,) after giving them, especially Mr. Goodell, abundant salutations." 24. Heard that Asaad had been sent to the Armenian convent Bzumar, to confess, and that he would probably be sent to Aleppo as a priest. Another said, he was seen at the college of Ain Warka. _Is forcibly detained._ _Feb. 22._ Fearing for the safety of Asaad, since hearing that he has not written to his friends, we this morning sent a messenger with a short note, to find him, and ascertain his state. 23. The messenger returned, saying, that he yesterday went to the village, where he understood the patriarch was, and found that he had just gone with a train of twenty men, and Asaad in company, to Der Alma. In the morning, he rose, went to that convent, and chanced to find Asaad alone. After some conversation, in which they were providentially not interrupted, Asaad handed him a hasty line, and he returned. The line was as follows: "Much respected brother,--Your note has reached me, and has added another proof to the many I have had already, of your kind regard to me. I now beseech you once more, to pray for me, that I may be delivered from the dark devices of men. I find myself reduced to quite an extremity. One or more of three things are before me; either to be thought mad, or to commit sin, or to offer up my life I call upon God for deliverance. I cannot now write fully, but the bearer will tell you of all." The messenger said, that the emir of that district had threatened to send him to Bteddeen, to be imprisoned. Asaad replied, that he was ready to go to prison and to death. He was engaged in daily disputations with the patriarch and others. His countenance wore a shade of melancholy, and his eyes were red with weeping. When it was proposed by the messenger to interfere with English authority for his rescue, he said such a course might exasperate his enemies, and cost him his life: it would be better to wait a while, and leave it for Providence to open a way for his escape. This assurance of his steadfastness was like a cordial to our spirits, and was not without a good influence on some that are about us. By the grace of God, he will witness a good confession before the dignitaries both of church and state, and by the same grace, he may open the eyes of some of them to the truth as it is in Jesus. To him that was with Daniel and with the three children in their dangers, we commend him. 24. Called on the consul to inquire what could be done for the protection or relief of Asaad. He recommended a course of moderation and forbearance, and said it was not customary to extend English protection to natives, when abroad on their own business. 26. Two young emirs from Hadet called. I asked one of them "Where is Asaad Shidiak at present?" He replied, "He is with the patriarch." "And is he contented there?" "Not very well contented. But what should he do, poor fellow, necessity is laid upon him." This remark proves to us, that it is not a secret among the priests and emirs, that Asaad is detained against his will. _March 1._ A youth called this morning, and said Asaad Shidiak sent me salutation. He showed me a line he had received from Asaad the day before, saying, "If you will pass this way about midnight, I will go with you to Beyroot." Owing to some circumstance, the young man did not go to the convent, and now he proposed to take a horse, by which Asaad may escape to-night. As we had not perfect confidence in the youth, we did nothing, but having ascertained his plan, left him to go on as he chose. In the evening, we had a season of prayer, particularly on his account. _Escapes and returns to Beyroot._ 2. Rose early, and repaired to the room, where Asaad would have been, had he come; but there were no tidings from him. Little expectation remained of his coming to-day, and we were not without our fears that the attempt had miscarried. It was not long, however, before it was announced, that Asaad was at the door. The meeting was one of great joy and thanksgiving to us all.--After a little rest and refreshment, he gave us a brief account of his escape. He had not seen the youth, who had undertaken to befriend him, but finding he did not call the night before, as he expected, he resolved not to wait another day. Therefore, at about twelve o'clock last night, having written a paper and left it on his bed, with the quotation, "Come out of her my people," &c. he set off on foot, committing himself to God for strength and protection. The darkness was such, that he often found himself out of his road, sometimes miring in mud, and sometimes wading in rivers. After some hours of weariness and anxiety, he came to the shore of the sea, where he found a large boat thrown up, under which he cast himself, and obtained a little rest. After this, he continued his walk without interruption, till he reached Beyroot. In the course of the forenoon, a messenger came from the neighbouring shekh, or sheriff, requesting Asaad to come and see him; adding, that if he did not come, he would watch an opportunity to take his life. The messenger came a second time, and returned without accomplishing his object. We afterwards wrote a line to the shekh to say, that if he would favour us with a call in person and take a cup of coffee, he could have the privilege of an interview with Asaad. Just as the note was sent, the consul providentially came in, and the shekh found him ready to give him a seasonable reprimand for presuming to threaten a person under English protection. The shekh declared, that he had never sent such a message; that the man who brought it was but an ass, and said it from his own brain; that having heard of Asaad's arrival, he merely wished to see whether the reports respecting his insanity were true or false; that Asaad was his bosom friend, his own son, and that whatever he had was his; and that as for church, and priests, and patriarch, he cared for none of them. Towards evening, the youth already mentioned entered the house, ready to faint with excessive fear and fatigue. He had fled from the mountains in all haste, under the absurd apprehension, that he should be suspected and taken up as an accomplice with Asaad. Having thrown himself upon a seat, and taken a little breath, he began to relate what had happened. He was at the convent, when it was first discovered that Asaad had fled. The patriarch and his train were occupied in the religious services of the morning, so that no great sensation was at first apparent among them. One individual spoke boldly in favour of Asaad, saying, "Why should he not leave you? What inducement had he to remain here? What had he here to do? What had he to enjoy? Books he had none; friendly society none; conversation against religion abundant; insults upon his opinions and his feelings abundant. Why should he not leave you?" Others, especially the great ones, pitied the poor maniac, (as they called him,) and sent in quest of him to every direction, lest peradventure, he might be found starving in some cavern, or floating in the sea, or dashed in pieces at the bottom of a precipice. On learning of Asaad all that had passed during his absence, we requested him to write a statement of the facts somewhat in the form of a journal. We wished this not only for our own information, but to produce it to those who shall inquire on the subject of Asaad's lunacy hereafter. _Public Statement of Asaad Shidiak._ _Beyroot, March 1826._ Respected Brethren and Friends,--Since many have heard a report, that I have become insane; and others, that I have become a heretic; I have wished to write an account of myself in few words, and then let every reflecting man judge for himself, whether I am mad, or am slandered; whether following after heresy, or after the truth of the orthodox faith. Every serious man of understanding will concede, that true religion is not that of compulsion, nor that which may be bought and sold; but that which proceeds from attending to the word of God, believing it, and endeavouring to walk according to it to the glory of God, and that every one, whose object is solely contention, and who does not obey the truth, but follows after unrighteousness, is far distant from the true religion. This is the standard, by which I would be judged by every one who reads this narrative. About eight or nine months ago, I was employed, by an American by the name of J. King, in teaching him the Syriac language. At that time, I was very fond of engaging with him in disputatious conversations, to prove him to be in error; but with none but worldly motives, to display my talents and knowledge, and acquire the praise of men. After this, I applied myself to reading of the word of God with intense interest. Now this person wrote a farewell letter to his friends, in which he excuses himself from uniting himself with the Roman Catholic church. After reading this letter, I found, in the Holy scriptures, many passages, which made against the opinions of the writer. These passages I selected, and from them and other evidences, composed a reply to him. But when I was copying the first rough draught of the same, and had arrived to the answer to the last of the objections, which he said prevented his becoming a member of the Roman Catholic church, viz: that the Roman Catholic church teaches, that it is wrong for the common people to possess or read the word of God but that they ought to learn from the popes and councils, I observed the writer brings a proof against the doctrine from the prophet Isaiah, viz: "To the law and to the testimony, if they speak not according to my word, it is because there is no light in them." While I was endeavouring to explain this passage also, according to the views of the Roman Catholic church, with no other object than the praise of men, and other worldly motives, I chanced to read the 29th chapter of Isaiah, from the 15th verse to the end. I read, and was afraid. I meditated upon the chapter a long while, and feared that I was doing what I did, with a motive far different from the only proper one, viz. the glory and the pleasure of God. I therefore threw by my paper without finishing the copy, and applied myself diligently to the reading of the prophecy of Isaiah. I had wished to find, in the prophets, plain proofs, by which to establish, beyond contradiction, that Jesus Christ is the Messiah, so long expected from ancient days; proofs that might be made use of in answer to Moslems and Jews. While I was thus searching, I found various passages, that would _bear_ an explanation according to my views, but did not find them sufficient to enforce conviction on others, until I finally came to the 52d chapter 14th verse, and onward to the end of the next chapter. On finding this testimony, my heart rejoiced, and was exceeding glad, for it removed many dark doubts from my _own_ mind also. From that time, my desire to read the New Testament, that I might discover the best means of acting according to the doctrines of Jesus, was greatly increased. I endeavoured to divest myself of all selfish bias, and loved more and more to inquire into religious subjects. I saw, and continue to see, many of the doctrines of the Roman Catholic church, which I could not believe, and which I found opposed to the truths of the Gospel; and I wished much to find some of her best teachers to explain them to me, that I might see how they proved them from the Holy scriptures. As I was reading an appendix to a copy of the sacred scriptures, printed at Rome by the Propaganda, and searching out the passages referred to, for proving the duty of worshipping saints, and other similar doctrines, I found that these proofs failed altogether of establishing the points in question, and that to infer such doctrines from such premises, was even worthy of ridicule. Among other things, in this appendix, I found the very horrible _Neronian_ doctrines, _that it is our duty to destroy heretics_. Now every one knows, that whoever does not believe that the pope is infallible, is a heretic in his opinions. This doctrine is not merely that it is _allowable_ to kill heretics, but that we are _bound_ to do it. From this I was the more established in my convictions against the doctrines of the pope, and saw that they were the doctrines of the ravenous beast, and not of the gentle lamb. After I had read this, I asked one of the priests in Beyroot respecting this doctrine, and he assured me, that it was even so as I had read. I then wished to go to some place, though it might be a distant country, that I might find some man of the Roman Catholic church sufficiently learned to prove the doctrine above alluded to. After this, as I was at Beyroot teaching a few Greek youths the Arabic grammar, I received a letter from his holiness the Maronite patriarch, saying, that if I did not cease from all assistance whatever to the English, and that if I did not leave them within one day, I should, _ipso facto_, fall under the heaviest excommunication. Thinking, as I did, that obeying my superiors, in all things not sinful, was well and good, I did not delay to leave, and so went to my friends at Hadet; but still thinking very much on the subject of religion, so that some people thought me melancholy. I loved exceedingly to converse on religious subjects, indeed I took no pleasure in any worldly concerns, and found all worldly possessions vain. After this, I received a second letter from his holiness the patriarch, in which he said thus: "After we had written you the first letter, we wrote you a second; see that you act according to it. And if you fulfil all that was commanded in it, and come up to us when we come to Kesran, we will provide you a situation." But I saw that nothing, in which I was accustomed to take delight, pleased me any longer. I returned again, after some time, to Beyroot; and after I had been there no long time, Hoory Nicolas arrived, brother to his holiness the rev. patriarch, with a request from the latter, to come and see him, which I hastened to do. Hoory Nicolas then began to converse with me, in the way of reprimand, for being in connexion with the English. I replied that, as we ought not to deny the unity of God, because the Musselmans believe it, so we ought not to hate the gospel because the English love it. He then began to tell me of the wish of his holiness, the rev. patriarch, that I should come out to him, and of his great love to me; and said that he (the patriarch) had heard, that I had received thirty or forty purses of money from the English; and he assured me of their readiness not to suffer this to be any hindrance to my coming out from them. Now if my object were money, as some seemed to think, I had then a fair opportunity to tell him a falsehood, and say, "I indeed received from the English that sum, but I have expended so and so, and cannot leave them unless I restore the whole." In this way I might have contrived to take what I wished. Yet I did not so answer him, but declared to him the truth, how much wages I had received, and which was nothing extraordinary. He then gave me a paper from his holiness the patriarch, in which he says, "You will have received from us an answer, requesting that when we come to Alma, you will come up and see us. We expect your presence, and, if God please, we will provide you some proper situation, with an income that shall be sufficient for your sustenance. Delay not your coming, lest the present happy opportunity should pass by." Knowing, as I did, that many people supposed my object, in continuing with the English, to be gain, I did not delay fulfilling the request of his reverence, hoping to remove this suspicion, and to enjoy an opportunity of speaking the truth without being hired to do it. So, about the 7th of January, I left Beyroot, with Hoory Nicolas, and arrived at Der Alma the same night. His holiness, the patriarch, was not there. On the next day, when he came, I met him, and saluted him in the road. In the evening he called me into his chamber, and began to ask me questions, that he might discover what I was; and I answered him telling him the whole truth, although this course was opposed to my personal convenience. At this he seemed surprised, for he must have perceived it was contrary to what he had been accustomed to see in me. Afterwards, when I declared to him, that I never had before been a believer, according to the true living faith, he was probably still more astonished. He then asked me if I believed as the Romish church believed. I again told him the truth, that I did not. He asked then what was my faith, and I answered to the following purport, "True and living faith must be divine, connected with hope, love and repentance, and that all these virtues are the gift of God &c.; that I believed the truth as God had inspired it; and that it would be but a lie, if I should say that I believed as the Romish church does, while in fact I do not. I must have proofs." After some conversation like this, he told me that this doctrine of mine was heretical, and that as long as I remained in this state of opinion, he would suffer no one to have intercourse with me in buying and selling, &c. This prohibition of his brought to my mind the words in the Revelation, xiii, 17.[G] Then he gave me to understand, that if, after three days, I did not get back out of this state, I must no more enter the church. At other times, he wished me to swear by the eucharist and by the gospel, that my faith was like the faith of the Roman catholic church. He asked me if I was a Bible man; I replied, "I do not follow the opinions of the Bible men; but if you think me a Bible man on account of the opinions I have advanced, very well." The sum of what I said was, that without evidence I could not believe what the Romish church believes. From that time, after three days, I did not enter the church for a space. Some time passed again, and the patriarch inquired of me my faith. I then explained to him what I believed respecting the unity and trinity of God, and that the Messiah was one person with two natures, and that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and Son. Then arose a disputation about, who is the Vicar that Christ has appointed to explain his law. I answered in substance as I afterwards did in writing, that by reason, and learning, and prayer to God, with purity of motive, we may know, from the holy scriptures, every thing necessary to our salvation. This was the purport of my reply, which perhaps was not expressed with sufficient clearness, or perhaps I was not able to say it in the manner that was appropriate, for such a tumult and storm were excited in the company that they seemed to me to be intent on overcoming me by dint of vociferation, rather than by argument, and to drown my voice, rather than to understand my opinions. When, after some days, came bishop Abdalla Blabul and Padre Bernardus of Gzir, the patriarch one day called me to them in his chamber, and asked me what I wished, whether money or office, or whatever it might be, promising to gratify me, speaking of his love to me and of his great interest in my welfare. These professions I know to be sincere, but they are according to the world, and not according to the Gospel. I assured him that I wanted nothing of the things he had mentioned; that I was submissive and obedient to him; and that if he thought of me, that I had taken money of the English, he was welcome to shut me up in my chamber as to a prison, and take from me every thing that I possessed; that I wished from them merely my necessary food and clothing, and that I would give them this assurance in writing. The bishop and priest then begged me, in presence of the patriarch, to say that my faith was like that of the Romish church. I replied, that I feared to tell a falsehood by saying a thing, while actually, in my reason, I did not believe it. "But," said they, "the patriarch here will absolve you from the sin of the falsehood." I turned to the Patriarch and put the question whether he would so absolve me. He answered, that he would. I said, "What the law of nature itself condemns, it is out of the power of any man to make lawful." He then again asked me what I wished to do. I said, I wish to go and see the Armenian patriarch Gregory, and inquire of him what I ought to do. He consented, and requested me, when I had done this, to return to him, to which I agreed. I was accompanied by a priest from the station of the patriarch to the College of Ain Warka, where I found Hoory Joseph Shaheen, with whom I conversed a considerable time, and with great pleasure; for I found that for himself, he did not believe that the pope was infallible in matters of faith, that is to say, unless in concert with the congregated church. I then began to confess to him: but when I saw that he held steadfastly some opinions for no other reason than that the church so believed, and without bringing any proper evidence of the fact, viz. from councils or from the fathers, and burst out upon me with exceeding bitter words, saying, "Know that the church neither deceives, nor is deceived, and be quiet;" and when I wished him to instruct me according to the word of God, with the simple object of glorifying God and fulfilling his will, I saw that he was not disposed to support any opinion because it was according to the word of God, but because so thought the church; and I saw him also ready to retain these opinions, although I should bring the strongest evidences against them from the holy Scriptures. He told me that it was impossible for him to teach any thing contrary to the council of Trent. So I found I could not receive his system, because, though you should shew him that it was wrong, he would not give it up, lest with it he should be obliged to give up his office. I therefore told him, you are bound, i. e. shut up as between walls, by the doctrines of the pope and the council of Trent. In conversation on the images, he would have proved their propriety from Baronius' church history. We found this author quoting the sacred scriptures to prove that our Saviour sent a picture of himself to the king of Abgar. I declared that it was false, in so far as he stated that the _Gospel_ made any such statement, and on that account I could not believe the story. To this he gave me no answer. After this, as we were reading the book, and found a statement respecting the bishops collected in Constantinople, to the number of 313; that they decreed the abolition of the use of images, because it was idolatrous, and that in the clearest terms,--I asked him the question, "If an assembly composed of the bishops of the church were infallible, how is it that this council is said to have committed an error?" About this time, I heard that a certain individual wished to converse with me on the subject of religion, which rejoiced me exceedingly, and I was impatient for an interview. He came on a Sabbath day to Ain Warka, for the study of the Arabic grammar, according to his custom, and we had a short conversation together on works unlawful on the Sabbath day, and other subjects. He then excused himself from further conversation for want of time; but promised that when we should meet again, he hoped to have a sufficient opportunity to dwell on these subjects at large. I continued at Ain Warka the whole week, reading with the rest at prayers and confessing to Hoory Joseph above mentioned; and on the next Lord's day, the Armenian priest aforesaid came again, and I fully expected to have time and opportunity to ascertain his opinions; but I was disappointed again; for he wished to have the dispute carried on in writing, and to have an assistant with him, with other conditions. In these circumstances I failed of my object; but was on the whole more inclined than before to receive the doctrines of the Romish church; since the priest had promised to bring his evidence, on all points, from the word of God, that they (the papists) were walking in light and not in darkness. At this time one informed me that his holiness, bishop Jacob, superior of the convent of Bzumar, wished to see me. And because Hoory Joseph, at first told me that this state in which I had fallen was a temptation of Satan, and at one time shewed me that it was usual for people, when they came to the age of manhood, to be tempted on the subject of their religion, and at another, assured me, that this was a state of delirium:--and again, because I had heard formerly that this bishop Jacob had himself been delirious, and that he was a man of information, I wished very much to see him; and on the same day I went to Hoory Joseph and declared to him plainly my opinions, and shewed him that the beast mentioned in the Revelation was a figure, as the lamb evidently was, and how dreadful must be the torments of those who worship the image of the beast. I then disclosed to him my intention of going up to the convent of Bzumar, where were the patriarch Gregory, bishop Jacob, and the Armenian priest already mentioned. I set off the same day, and on my arrival saluted the patriarch, and on the same night reasoned on the subjects of faith, hope and love. It appeared that the patriarch's opinion was, that a man may be possessed of living faith, faith unto salvation, although he should feel nothing in his heart. I answered him with a quotation from St. Paul, "With the heart man believeth unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation." But this did not convince him. He explained the _heart_ to mean the _will_. It then appeared to me that he was not a true believer, and from that time forward I could not believe him, as I would believe a real Christian, but I wished to hear his worldly arguments. On the following day, I asked him how it can he said, that the pope was infallible if there were no proofs of the fact to be brought. I asked him if this pretension of the pope was that of an apostle, or a prophet? if an apostle, or a prophet, he could not be believed without miracles, and that we christians were not to believe any one, though he were to bring down fire from Heaven.[H] His replies to me were weak; and after considerable conversation on what is the church of Christ, on the ignorance that is pardonable, &c. he began to prove that if the pope is not infallible, then there is _no religion_, _no gospel_, and even _no God_. But I observed all his proofs so weak, that I could not be convinced, and I fell into deep perplexity as to what I should do. For sometimes I greatly endeavoured to submit my judgment to his rules and opinions, and made these efforts until my very head would ache. The next day I asked him what was that _great city_, ruling over the kings of the earth, mentioned in the Rev. xvii, 18? After he had brought his book of commentaries, he answered that it was Rome, which is also called spiritual Babylon, or Babel, and after wishing me to yield to his opinion or that of the book, he said nothing more. From this time I was with the patriarch every day for three or four hours, and his best advice to me was, to pray to St. Antony of Padua, together with one repetition of the Lord's prayer, and one of Hail Mary, &c. every day for three days. When I was thus in doubt from the weakness of their proofs, one of the monks said to me, "If you wish to know _good tobacco_, ask the patriarch." I hoped that this priest would explain to me those doctrines of the Romish church, which I could not believe; so I went into his chamber and questioned him very particularly on all points. He expressed his wish that we might discuss together all the points one by one, but on condition that the patriarch Joseph should appoint him to do so. He told me he had in his possession a book refuting the opinions of Luther and Calvin. I begged permission to read it; but he refused, telling me that the doctrines of the church all remained unrefuted. He wished me to go down to the patriarch Joseph on this business. So after a stay of four days from my arrival, I departed for Ain Warka according to my promise to Hoory Joseph. Here I found one of my friends of whom I had heard that he had been very much astonished at my connexion with the Bible men. After I had seen him, and had conversed with him a little on some points, he would no longer hear me, fearing among other things lest he should be crazed. When we touched on the subject of the great city above mentioned, he told me that he had seen a book of commentaries on the Revelation, which made the city clearly to be Rome. At this I wondered greatly, since the meaning was so clear that not even the teachers of the Romish church herself could deny it. I then finished my confession to Hoory Joseph Shaheen, and about sunset the same day, went down to the patriarch to the convent Alma. He requested me again to write a paper stating that my faith was according to the faith of the Romish church. From this I excused myself, begging that such a thing might not be required of me, for the council of Trent had added nothing to the rule of faith, which was established by that of Nice, which begins, "I believe in one God," &c. A short space after, I gave him my advice, with modest arguments, and mild suggestions, on his duty to cause the gospel to be preached in the church among the Maronite people; and offered him the opinion that this should be done by the priests in the vulgar language, every Sabbath day, for the space of one or two hours; and if this should appear too burthensome to the people, to take off from them some of the feast days. After this, I remained silent in my chamber near to his own; and as there came to me a few of the deacons of the patriarch, and others, I read to them at their request in the New Testament printed in Rome. But in a little time after, I entered my room, and found in it none of all the books that had been there, neither New Testament nor any other, and I knew that the patriarch had given the order for this purpose, for he reproved me for reading the gospel to them, but he could accuse me of no false or erroneous explanations, or that I taught them any thing heretical. One day after this, he called me to his presence and began to threaten me in a most unusual manner. I said, "What do you wish of me, your reverence? What have I done, and what would you have me do? What is my sin, except that I conversed with some individuals, shewing them the errors of the church of Rome?" Then he requested me again, to say, that I believed as did that church, and said, grasping me firmly by the chin, "see how I will take you if you do not repent." I begged him to appoint some one to shew me the truth, by way of discussion, but he would not, and continued expressing his own sentiment, that we are bound to hold fast to the church, even to such a length, that if she should even reject the gospel, we should reject it too. And here I wish to say a word to every reader that regards and loves the truth; how does such doctrine appear to you? and how could I believe in all which the Romish church holds, without _knowing_ all of it? and how could I say, without a lie, that I believe, when I do not believe? When I saw the patriarch breaking out with an exceeding loud and unusual voice, I was afraid that I should be found among "_the fearful_," (Rev. xxi. 8.) and rose to depart. When I reached the door, I turned and said to him, "I will hold fast the religion of Jesus Christ, and I am ready for the sake of it to shed my blood; and though you should all become infidels, yet will not I;" and so left the room. One of my friends told me, that he had suggested to the patriarch the grand reason why I did not believe in the pope, which was, that among other doctrines of his, he taught, that he could not commit an error, and that now, though a pope should see any one of his predecessors had erred, he could not say this, for fear that _he_ also should appear to be an unbeliever. This friend also told me, that the patriarch wondered how I should pretend that I held to the Christian religion, and still converse in such abusive terms against it; and _I_ also wondered, that after he saw this, he should not be willing so much as to ask me, in mildness, and self-possession, and forbearance, _for what reasons_ I was unwilling to receive the doctrines of the pope, or to say I believed as he did; but he would not consent that the above mentioned Armenian priest should hold a discussion with me, and more than this, laid every person, and even his own brother, under excommunication, if he should presume to dispute or converse with me on the subject of religion. Under this prohibition from conversation, and this bereavement of books, from what quarter could I get the necessary evidence to believe in their opinion? Another cause I had of wonder, which was, that not one of all with whom I conversed, after he saw me to be heretical and declining from the truth, thought proper to advise me to use the only means of becoming strong in the faith, viz. prayer to God the Most High, and searching his Holy Word, which a child may understand. I wondered, too, that they should ridicule me, and report me abroad as one mad and after all this, be so fearful to engage in a dispute with the madman, lest he should vanquish them in argument, or spoil their understandings, or turn them away from the truth. After some time came the bishop of Beyroot. I gave him the usual salutation, and was greatly rejoiced to see him, as I knew the excellency of his understanding, and his quickness of apprehension, and hoped that, after some discussion between us, he would explain the truth, and that he would rest on clear evidence to support his views. But in this case also, I was disappointed; for one day, when I asked him a question, and during the whole short conversation which followed, whenever I began to bring evidence against him, he was angry, and finally drove me from my chamber in a fury, and that with no other cause, as he pretended, than that he did not wish to converse with a heretic. Some time after this, Hoory Joseph Shaheen came down to the convent of Alma, and I endeavoured to get him to unite with me in persuading the patriarch to send out among the people preachers of the gospel, or that there should be preaching in the churches as before mentioned. But he would not co-operate with me in this, and I was again disappointed. Then, when the patriarch and the bishop of Beyroot wished to dispute with me, I expressed the hope that the discussion might be in meekness, and without anger. It was concluded that the discussion should be in writing, that no one afterwards should be able to alter what he had once said. They then commenced by asking me questions; the first question was, in amount, this, "Has the Messiah given us a new law?" At first, I did not grant that he had, strictly speaking, given us a new law, and quoted the words of John, that "the law was given by Moses, but grace and truth came by Jesus Christ;" but when I afterwards saw that by "_a new law_," they meant merely the gospel, or the New Testament, I answered in the affirmative. They then asked me if there was not to be found in this new law some obscurities. I answered, "Yes." They then asked me, Suppose any difference of sentiment should arise between the teachers of Christianity, how are we to distinguish the truth from the error? I answered thus;--"We have no other means of arriving at the truth, than searching the word of God, with learning, and reason, and inquiry of learned spiritual teachers, with purity of motive, and with disinterestedness of inclination. If the obscurities of the word of God cannot be understood by these means, our ignorance is excusable, and will not prevent our salvation. If the passages, which still remain obscure, concern faith, it is sufficient for a man to say, I believe according as the truth is in itself before God, or I believe in the thing as God inspired it to the writer. And if the obscurity respects our practice, after making use of the means above mentioned, if that branch of our practice be forbidden, or under a doubt, desist from it, but if it is not forbidden, do it, and _Blessed is he that condemneth not himself in the thing which he alloweth._" After I had given them this answer, they brought no evidence to prove any error in it, and moreover afterwards never put to me any question to writing. Once, as I was walking with the bishop of Beyroot, he began to tell me how much they all felt for me; and how unwilling they should be to put me in chains to die a lingering death; and that were it not for the sympathy and their love towards me, there were people who had conversed with them, who were ready to take my life. Some further conversation passed, and I began to introduce the subject of religion, and to ask how we could believe in the pope that he was infallible. He quoted for proof the words of our Saviour, _Thou art Peter, &c._ I asked him if it was proper to suppose that all things bestowed on Peter, were also given to the pope? If so, why does not the pope speak with tongues; and why is he not secure from the evil effects of poison, &c.? He answered, that these last things were not necessary. "But how do you prove it necessary," said I, "that the pope should not err? Is it not sufficient if any one has doubts, to ask his teacher who is not infallible? if you say _yes_, then the opinion of the fallible man will answer. But if you say _no_, and that we _must_ go to the pope, what must become of the man who dies before the answer of the pope can reach him?" He then resorted to another mode of proof, saying, "Is it not desirable that the pope should be infallible?" I assured him I wished he might be so. "Well, is not God able to render him so?" "Yes, He is able to do all things." He wished to infer his point from these two premises. But I said, "your reasoning with regard to the _pope_, may be applied to all the bishops of the church; for it is desirable that they should all be infallible, and God is able to make them so." He said, "No, for the bishops feeling less their need of the pope, would not look to him, or submit to him as their head, and then there would be divisions and contentions in the church." But why, said I, did not divisions and contentions arise among the apostles? Were they not all infallible as well as Peter? He would not say they _were_ infallible. I told him, that was an opinion that could not be believed, that the pope was infallible, and the apostles not; for it was well known to all, that the Holy Spirit descended upon the apostles in a peculiar manner. I asked him again, how it could be made to appear that divisions would be produced if all bishops were infallible, for if they were all of one opinion, as they of course would be, their union must be the more perfect. We conversed farther at some length, when he concluded by saying, "You are possessed of a devil." The next day, as the patriarch and the bishop of Beyroot were seated under a tree without the convent, I went out to them, and said, "Your holiness sent to me to come hither for employment, and I came, and have remained here a considerable time. What do you wish me to do for you, for I cannot remain here in idleness?" He said, "What do you wish to do?" If your holiness pleases, that I teach in the school of Ain Warka, I will do that. "No, I cannot have you go to Ain Warka, to corrupt the minds of those who are studying science, and to contradict my opinions." But I will instruct in grammar. "No, the youths of the college are now attending to _moral_ science." Well, I only beg you will let me know what I am to do, and if you have no employment for me, I wish to return home. The bishop here broke in upon the conversation, saying, I will not suffer you to go back among my flock to deceive them, and turn them away to heresy. Will you then debar me, said I, from my home? If so, let me know where I shall go, what I shall do? The bishop then said to the patriarch, "Indeed I will not suffer this man to go abroad among my people, for he is even attempting to make heretics of us also." Yes replied the patriarch, it will not do after this, to afford him a residence in any part of the land. The bishop then turned to me, in the bitterest anger and rage, reviling me and saying, "If you go among my people again, I will send and take your life, though it be in the bosom of your own house." I said, "Well, what would you have me to do, and what will you do with me? If you wish to kill me, or shut me up in prison, or give me up to the government, or whatever it may be, I wish to know it." "You must wait here till spring or summer," said the patriarch, "and then we shall see how you are." I answered him in the words of that christian who was given by his judge ten days to deliberate whether he would worship an image: "_Consider the time already past, and do what you please._" I asked the bishop his reasons for wishing to kill me. What evil had I done? He was filled with high and bitter indignation, saying, "What, miscreant! Shall we let you go forth to corrupt my flock for me? Is not what has passed enough?" I rose and said to them, "God at least is with me," and left them. The patriarch sent after me his nephew, requesting me, in soothing words to return, and saying that he would do what I wished. But when I contemplated the hardness of heart manifested by the bishop, I could not restrain myself from reproving him, hoping that he would grow mild. I said, therefore, "Our Lord Jesus Christ said, _out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh_, and that Satan, who was in his heart, wished to kill me, for Satan was a murderer from the beginning." I told him, moreover, that he was not a true disciple of Christ. And when I had left them a second time, the patriarch again sent his nephew to enquire of me what I wished; whether it was money, or what else, promising that he would answer my enquiries. I returned and told him, that I had a request to make of _one thing only_, and that I hoped he would answer me, not as to a little child, who would ask a childish thing. He asked me what it was. I said I have to ask of you the favour to send from your priests two faithful men to preach the gospel through the country, and I am ready, if necessary, to sell all that I possess to give to them as part of their wages. He promised me it should be done. But I had reason to expect that he would receive such a request as from the mouth of one out of his reason. Now there was at the convent a man called Hoory Gabriel, who was said to be insane, and was known to all his acquaintance as a man that never would say a word on the subject of religion, and he was a scribe of the patriarch, and from the time of my arrival until that day, had never asked me a single question about my faith, or opinions, nor had given me the least word of advice about any of my errors. The same night, as this priest was passing the evening in company with the patriarch, bishop, and other individuals, as if they had been conversing on my idiocy in making the request of to-day, the patriarch sent for me to come and sit with them. I came. The patriarch then asked this priest and the others present, if two proper men could be found to go and preach the gospel. They then answered one to another, such an one, and such an one, would be the fittest persons, some mentioning one and some another, looking at me in the mean time laughing, to see what I would say. I smiled in a pleasant manner at all this, and when one asked me, why I laughed? I said to the patriarch, "Have you not perfect confidence in the integrity of the priest Gabriel?" He said, "Yes." I then said, pray let this priest then examine me for the space of a few days, and if he does not conclude that I am a heretic, I will for _one_, take upon myself this duty of preaching. This remark put an immediate end to the conversation. The third day, when the bishop wished to mock me before the patriarch and a shekh of the country, I answered his questions according to his own manner; but in a little time he began to revile me, and rebuke me for blasphemy against the eucharist, against the virgin Mary and the pictures, and that because I had said before one of his deacons, that were it not for fear of the patriarch, I would tear all the pictures to pieces and burn them. I gave him answer to every particular by itself, and when he found that he could produce against me no accusation, he increased in wrath. I then said, if this is your pleasure, I will say no more. I told him that I had said, that pictures were not Gods; that such was my opinion always; and that I wished to tell all the common people so, that they might understand it. But to this he would not consent. He then began to accuse me of saying of the eucharist, "Let them smell the scent of it, and know that it is but bread and wine still." I told him that if he would give me leave to speak, or if he wished to hear my views, I would speak; "but how is it that you bring against me accusations, and do not suffer me to make my defence?" Here again he was not willing that I should speak, but the patriarch said to me, "_Speak_." I then observed, that St. Ephraim says, "Come, eat the fire of the bread, and drink the spirit of the wine;" and began to say from this, that our eating the body of Christ was not natural, but spiritual. Then again he fell into a rage against me. I said to him, "It is written, _be ye angry and sin not_. I told you before, that I would keep silence and not speak without your consent, and whatever you wish, tell me that I may act or refrain accordingly." At this the patriarch smiled. But the bishop fell into a passion still more violent, against the patriarch as well as myself, and rose and went away. I also left the room. In the evening, when were collected together the patriarch and bishop and all the monks, with priest Nicholas, whom they were about to ordain bishop on the morrow, the patriarch began to ask me questions respecting my faith. When I saw that their object was neither to benefit me, nor receive benefit, I gave them answers calculated to continue the conversation in a trifling strain, saying, "My faith is the faith of Peter, and the faith of Peter is my faith. I believe all that God has given by inspiration to the one only holy catholic church." He asked me, What is the church? I answered, "The church is the whole company of those who believe in the Messiah and his law, on all the face of the earth." But where is the place of the church? "The place of the church is the whole world, it is made up of every nation and people." "What," said he "the _English_ among the rest?" "Yes, of the English also." Afterwards, when he continued to question me, and I saw that he had no other object than to try me, I assured him, this is my faith, and to this faith will I hold, whether it is worth any thing in your estimation or not. I then asked him if he was willing to hold a discussion on the subject; but he would not permit it in any shape. He afterwards requested me to tell my faith again without fear and without concealment. I referred them to the priest that was about to be ordained, saying, that I had conversed with him on all points particularly, and that he was able to make answer for me. The priest then bore testimony on the spot, that I had said before him that I believed the pope to be infallible, while I never said this to him at any time. Afterward, when I was in his company privately, I inquired how he could bear such testimony as he had done. He confessed in the fullest terms, that he knew it was a falsehood, but that he said what he did, that they might cease talking with me. The same night I had resolved on quitting them; so at about midnight I left the convent, committing myself to the protection of God, who never deserts them who put their trust in him, and arrived at Beyroot, on the morning of Thursday, March 2, 1826. Here then I remain at present, not that I may take my views from the English, or from the Bible men, nor that I may receive my religion from them. No, by no means; for I hold to the word of God. This is beyond all danger of error. In this I believe; in this is my faith; and according to it I desire to regulate my life, and enjoy all my consolations. By this I wish to show what I believe and not to confer with flesh and blood, that I may not run now nor hereafter in vain; for I know and am persuaded, that the true religion is not according to the teaching of men, but according to the inspiration of God: not according to the custom of education, but according to the truth, which is made manifest by the word of God. I therefore say to myself now, as I did in the convent with the patriarch, where I wrote thus: "Far from me be all the commandments of men. Nothing is to come into comparison with the teaching of Jesus by reading the New Testament. If our _hearts are not transformed_, there is the greatest danger that we die in our sins. If any thing in the doctrine of Jesus seems burdensome, let us pray that he may make it light; and if there is any thing that we do not understand, let us pray that he would instruct us and reveal the obscurity to all who truly believe in Jesus. There is nothing more delightful to the soul than he. O taste and see that the Lord is good! Blessed are all that put their trust in him! Cast thy burthen on the Lord and he will sustain thee. Sweet is the sorrow produced by his word; for it gives us an aversion to all the consolations of time. Let us therefore seek refuge in God. Alas for thee, O thou that trustest to the doctrines of men, especially if they give rest to your conscience, for that rest is false and deceitful, proceeding from the thoughts of men, and preventing you from attaining that true rest, of which the Apostles speak, saying, _We do rest from our labours._ Take heed lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief in departing from the living God. Read the word and it shall teach you all things necessary to your salvation. If you say you do not understand it, behold the promise of St. James, _If any may lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not, and it shall be given him._ The divine word is a most precious treasure, from which all wise men are enriched. Drink from the fountain itself. Again, I say, vain is the philosophy of men; for it recommends to us doctrines newly invented, and prevents our increase in virtue, rather than promotes it. Cast it far from you." This is what I wrote some time since, and I would revolve these thoughts in my mind at all times. The object in all that I have done, or attempted, or written, in this late occurrence, is, that I may act as a disciple and servant of Christ. I could not, therefore, receive any advice, which should direct me to hide my religion under a bushel. I cannot regulate myself by any rules contrary to those of Christ; for I believe that all who follow his word in truth, are the good grain, and that all those who add to his word, are the tares sown by the enemy, which shall soon be gathered in bundles and cast into the fire unquenchable. And I beg every member of my sect, i. e. of the Maronite church, who loves truth, if he sees me in an error to point it out to me, that I may leave it, and cleave to the truth. But I must request those who would rectify my views, not to do as did a priest at Beyroot, who after a considerable discussion, denied the inspiration of the New Testament. Men like him I do not wish to attempt to point out my errors; for such men, it is evident, need rather to be preached to, than to preach; and to be guided, rather than to guide. But if any understanding man will take the word of God and prove to me from it any doctrine whatever, I will respect him and honour him with all pleasure. But if a doctrine cannot be established thus, it is not only opposed to the doctrines of Christ, but to the views of the early christians, the fathers of the church; such as St. Ephraim and others. Such doctrines I cannot confess to be correct, although it should cost me the shedding of my blood. Be it known, that I am not seeking money, nor office; nor do I fear any thing from contempt, nor from the cross, nor from the persecution of men, nor from their insults, nor their evil accusations, so far as they are false. For I am ready for the sake of Christ to die daily, to be accounted as a sheep for the slaughter, for he, in that he suffered being tempted, is able to succour those that are tempted. I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us. I believe that Jesus is our High Priest for ever and hath an unchangeable priesthood, wherefore he is able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, for he is the one Mediator between God and man, and he ever liveth to make intercession with the Father for us; and he is the propitiation for our sins, and to him be glory with the Father and his Holy Spirit of life for ever and ever--_Amen._ I would only add, if there is any one, whoever he may be, that will shew me to be under a mistake, and that there is no salvation for me unless I submit to the pope, or at least shew me that it is lawful to do so, I am ready to give up all my peculiar views and submit in the Lord. But without evidence that my views are thus mistaken, I cannot give them up, and yield a blind obedience, until it shall be not only _told_ that I am mad, but until I shall be so in _fact_, and all my understanding leaves me. Not until men shall have burned not only the Bibles printed by the English, but all the Bibles of the world. But these two things, understanding and the Bible, I pray God to preserve both to me and to all the followers of Christ, and that he will preserve and save all you, my friends, in the Lord. ASAAD SHIDIAK. _Interview with several of his Relatives._ 6. Among those who came to see Asaad to-day, were three of his brothers and an uncle. Mansoor, the oldest of the brothers, we had never before seen. He is a furious bigot, and perfectly ignorant and regardless of the first principles of religion. The second, Tannoos, or Antony, has lived among us as a teacher, and has good native and acquired talents; but, though he might be a protestant if he were left at liberty, he thinks it altogether preposterous to attempt to quarrel with bishops and patriarchs on the subject of religion. These two brothers, and the uncle, (the last worse than the first,) came and conversed together with Asaad in his chamber a considerable time. Hearing them very earnest, I took the liberty also to go in. They continued their rebukes and arguments, (especially the uncle,) in so harsh and unfeeling a manner, that it made me tremble to hear them. They contradicted Asaad, scoffed at and threatened him, calling him possessed, mad, under the power of Satan, and so on. Asaad consented to go home and leave the English, which was the great point they wished to gain, provided they would get an assurance from the patriarch in writing, to say, on the faith of a christian, that he would not molest him. "But," said they, "then you must hold your tongue, and not broach your new opinions among the people." "What," replied Asaad, "must I go and live like a _dumb_ man? No, that I will never do. My religion binds me not to do it. I must love my neighbour as myself." "Why do you not go," said they, "to the Druses, and the Moslems, and preach the gospel to them? You answer, because there is danger. So there is danger in the present case; this is not a land of liberty, therefore be silent." _Asaad._--"Secure me but the free exercise of my conscience, and I will go with you. My religion is my all, and I must be free in it." _They._--"We can give you no such security. Nobody dares go to the patriarch with such a request. You cannot be permitted to publish your notions abroad among the people." "Then," said Asaad, "there is no more to be said;"--rising, and with clasped hands walking the room;--"_Religion unshackled--Religion unshackled_, is my doctrine." They rose and left the room in an angry despair. Mansoor returned, and wished to speak a word with Asaad at the door. In a moment, Asaad returned. "Do you know what Mansoor has told me?" said he. "His last words were, 'Even if the patriarch and the emir should do nothing; if they make no attempts to take your life; be assured, _we ourselves_ will do the work: so take heed to your self accordingly.'" Asaad was much affected by the interview. As soon as he found himself at liberty, he stepped up into the loft where he sleeps, and threw himself on his couch in prayer. While in this attitude his next younger brother, Galed, knocked at the door. I called to Asaad to inform him of the fact; but he gave me no answer. I then invited Galed to another room, where Asaad soon joined us with a full and heavy heart. The two brothers saluted each other with embarrassment. Asaad evidently wished to be alone, and the brother, after a few mild, unmeaning inquiries, left him. _Begins to converse more pointedly with the People._ 7. I yesterday advised Asaad to direct his conversations with the people, as much as possible to their hearts, and say little or nothing on the corruption of their church. He objected to the counsel. I referred him to similar advice he gave me some months ago. "Ah," said he, "I thought so then, but I now see that you cannot stir a step, but you meet some of their corruptions." However, he to-day made the experiment, and held an hour's conversation with two visiters on the subject of regeneration. They both thought themselves renewed, but took too little interest in the subject to confine their attention to it. "You see," said Asaad, after they had gone, "how little they feel on such a subject. It is painful to talk with such men. I would rather see them contradict, and dispute, and get angry, or any thing, than to appear so dead." _Interview with a younger Brother._ Asaad's brother Galed came again to-day, and discovered more feeling than yesterday on the subject of his brother's leaving the English. He said he had brought an insupportable shame upon the family. Asaad insisted, that such shame was no argument whatever for his leaving us; that all the disciples of Christ were to expect it as a thing of course. Galed assured him, that nobody would think of molesting him, if he were at Hadet. I asked Galed if his brother Mansoor did not threaten yesterday to kill him. He turned away, colored, and muttered something that I did not understand; but the whole was a full acknowledgment of the fact. Asaad said, "I cannot confide in you." "But," said Galed, "if any one were disposed to take your life, could they not do it as well here, as at home?" I answered, "no; that the emir Beshir himself could not enter my house without my permission, and that if the relatives of Asaad did not cease from their threats, I should feel myself bound to shut them out of it." After a long conversation, at the end of which he found Asaad as inflexible as ever, he rose abruptly, and was going out without a compliment, when Asaad started up, and asked, "Well, what do you conclude to do? Do you really intend to send some assassin to take my life in my room?" The youth, without deigning to look at him, closed the door in sullen grief, and departed. Asaad turning to me, said, "I cannot please these people. Whatever I say, they are sure to be angry. Soft words, or hard words, it makes no difference to them. They come as if I were under their kingly authority. They lay hold of my cloak, and say, 'Give me this.' If I say, 'I will not give it,' they are angry; and if I reason with them with all the mildness of which I am capable, and say, 'Cannot you be accommodated elsewhere? Can you not wait upon me in a few days?' &c. they are equally angry." _Correspondence with his family._ 8. A messenger called this morning with the following note. "To our brother Asaad Esh Shidiak: May God bless you.--We beg you to come home to-night, and not wait till Sunday. We have pledged our mother that you shall come. If you fail to do so, you will trouble us all. Your brother, GALED." To this letter, Asaad sat down, and instantly wrote the following reply: "To our much honoured and very dear brother Galed: God preserve him.--Your note has reached us, in which you speak of our coming home to-night, and say, that if we do not come, we trouble you all. "Now if we were in some distant land, your longing after us in this manner might be very proper; but we are near you, and you have been here, and seen us in all health, and we have seen you. Then quiet our mother, that we, through the bounty of God, are in perfect health, and that we have great peace in the Lord Jesus Christ, peace above all that the world can afford, and abundant joy in the Holy Ghost above all earthly joy. But as to our coming up this evening, we do not find it convenient, not even though we had the strongest desire to see our mother and you. "I beg you all to love God, and to serve him in our Lord Jesus Christ. This is of all things the most important; for if we love God, if he but renew our hearts by the holy Ghost, we shall enjoy each other's society for ever and ever. "And now we are prevented from coming to you, and you know we are not void of all desire to see you, but the hindrances to which we have alluded, are, we think, a sufficient apology. We beg you to accept our excuse, and to apologize for us to our mother, and we pray God to pour out his grace richly on you all, and lengthen your days. "Your brother, ASAAD. "P. S. Tell our mother not to think so much of these earthly things but rather of God our Saviour." _Is visited by his Mother._ This letter had been gone scarcely time sufficient to reach Hadet, when the mother herself was announced at the door. We welcomed her with all cordiality, and treated her with all the respect and attention we could. But all we could do or say did not alter her resolution to get her son away, if in her power. She besought him by the honour he owed her, by the love he professed for her, by his regard for the reputation of her family, for religion itself, and for his own personal safety, that he would immediately accompany her home; and when she found him inflexible, she declared she would never stir out of the house unless he went with her. To all this Asaad replied, "To what purpose would it be, that I should go home? You wish me to go, you say, that people may be convinced that I am not mad. But you, who come hither, and see, and converse with me, say, after all, that I _am_ mad. How can it be expected that I should convince others that I am _not_ mad, when my own mother will not believe it. Or do you think that if I once get out among you, the air of Hadet will change my opinions, or induce me to be silent? All these are vain expectations. I see no object to be gained. If I should go to Hadet, and be constantly disputing with the people, and telling them, that you are all going astray; that you are worshipping idols instead of the living God; that I could wish to tear down every picture in your churches; that the bread and wine of the Lord's Supper are not Jesus Christ; that I believe the pope to be the beast in the revelation,[I] whose business is to deceive the people and ruin their souls;--by all this, I should injure your feelings, enrage the people, excite the opposition of the emirs, and bishops, and patriarchs, and then return here just in the state I am in now." The youngest brother, Phares, who accompanied his mother, conversed freely and in good temper, and listened with attention to all Asaad's arguments, by which he endeavoured to justify his views and determinations. But no argument or evidence could convince the disconsolate mother. Asaad had repeated the name of Christ, and the word of God so often, that she, at last, in a fit of impatience exclaimed, "Away, with Christ, and the word of God; what have we to do with them!" and when we pointed out to Asaad some text of Scripture, which we thought applicable in any case, she would endeavour to close the book, or catch it from him, as if it taught paganism, or witchcraft. During her stay we dined, and as Asaad took the meat upon his plate, and ate it without a scruple, in this season of Lent, it was remarked with what a gaze of wonder she regarded him. She seemed to say in her heart, "All is over--my son is lost!" After some hours of troublesome expostulation and entreaty, during which Asaad once said he could bear it no longer, and rose, and shook my hand to go, it was finally settled that the mother should go home without him, but that to save the family from the insupportable shame, which threatened it, Asaad should give her a paper, stating, in effect, that he was not a follower of the English. When the paper was finished, "Now," said Asaad, "go to your home in peace;" and walked away; but suddenly recollecting himself, he called his brother back, and said, "Phares, I wish you fully to understand, that I love you, and I have one request to make of you, which is, that you will take the New Testament, and read it attentively."--"Give me a New Testament," said Phares, quickly. We gave him the book, and he went his way, evidently affected and softened by the interview. 9. The shekh before mentioned communicated to Asaad, through the medium of a priest, the offer of his daughter in marriage, on condition he should leave the English. 10. Set apart a day of fasting and prayer on Asaad's account. He was observed not to be in a happy temper. Towards evening he spoke of going home. I hoped he would finish writing the statement we had requested of him, "for," said I, "if you go home I shall not see you again for months." "No," said he, "perhaps not for years." His manner was very peculiar. I knew not what was the matter, till, in the evening, after a long conversation on the evidences of inspiration, he said, "I have been in deep darkness to-day. My heart has been full of blasphemy, such as I have scarcely ever known. I have even doubted the existence of God. But now I am relieved, and I would just say, I shall not go home to-morrow, as I hinted." This temptation seems to have arisen chiefly from a discrepancy in the scriptures, which I had shewed him, and which I knew not how to reconcile. He begged that, for the present, I would by no means shew him another such. _Suspects himself to have been poisoned._ 11. One of the neighbours brought Shidiak a letter, cautioning him, if he went to the shekh's house, not to smoke or drink with him. 12. Word came to Asaad, that the shekh was with the family below, and would be glad to see him. Asaad went down, but in a few minutes came up, pale and trembling, and said he was exceedingly dizzy and faint. He had just taken coffee below, attended with suspicious circumstances, and begged to know if he might not be poisoned. We opened a medical book we had, and explained to him, as rapidly as possible, the symptoms of a poisoned person. "Oh! these are my feelings," said he, and fell upon his knees before his seat in silent prayer. We immediately gave him an emetic, which operated well, and before night he was relieved of every alarming symptom. The youth who gave the coffee, being sent for, gave good evidence of having had no bad intentions; and notwithstanding many suspicious circumstances, we did not think the evidence of an attempt at poison sufficiently strong, to prosecute any public inquiry into the matter. 16. A youth from Der el Kamer called to see Asaad. He remarked, that he once saw a priest at his village tear in pieces five of these books of ours, but he could not tell for what reasons. He had, apparently, never seen the ten commandments before, and was very much surprised to find image-worship so expressly condemned in them. A letter was received by Asaad from the patriarch, written in very plausible terms. _Visits his Relatives at Hadet._ 17. Four of the relatives of Asaad came down, and succeeded in persuading him to accompany them home. He said he could not believe, after all that has been said, that they would do him violence, and he strongly expected that his visit to Hadet would do good. A majority of us opposed his going with all we could say; but he thinks he knows the people here better than we do. He left us toward evening, expecting to be absent only a few days. _Their violence, and the consequent proceedings of Phares Shidiak._ 24. Phares Shidiak came to my house to day, and wished to speak with me in private. "Yesterday morning," said he, "as I was in my room reading the New Testament, my brother Mansoor entered, drew a sword he had, and gave me a blow upon the neck. I continued with the book in my hand, until one snatched it from me. Mansoor afterwards drew up his musket, threatening to shoot me; but my mother interfered to prevent him. My brother Tannoos hearing a bustle, came in with a cane, and began cudgelling me, without stopping to inquire at all into the merits of the case, calling out, 'Will you leave off your heresy, and go to church like other people, or not?' Mansoor not finding Asaad present, as he seemed to have expected, went to Asaad's chest which stood near me, seized all the books he had received of you, Hebrew, Syriac, Italian, and Arabic, tore them, one by one, in pieces, and strewed them on the floor. "In the course of the day, I came down near where the soldiers of the emir are encamped, and passed the night in company with my brother Galeb. This morning _he_ returned, with a line from me to Asaad, and _I_ came off to Beyroot, with the full determination never to go home again. And now I will either go to some place in this country where I can enjoy my liberty or I will take ship, and leave the country altogether." As he wished my advice, I counselled him neither to go from the country, nor from his home, but to return, and at least make a further trial of doing good to his relatives, and bearing their persecutions. He, however, continued inflexible. In the space of a few hours, Galeb came in search of Phares, with a letter from Asaad, of which the following is a copy. _Asaad's letter to his brother Phares._ "To my beloved brother Phares; the Lord Most High preserve him. Your departure caused me great grief. _First_, because you were impatient when trial and persecution came upon you. It is a thing we are regularly to expect, that if we hope in God in this world, we shall give universal offence. But we have another city, for which we hope. Do not lose your courage, for you have not yet resisted unto blood, striving against sin. Remember, we cannot share in the glory of Christ, if we share not also in his sufferings. Therefore, rejoice whenever you are tried; rejoice, and never be sad; for our faith is sure. "_Secondly_, I was grieved because you gave me no information where you were going, and what you intended to do. Now, it is not becoming, that we should do any thing rashly, that is, till we have prayed to God for direction. Come home, then, and let us set apart a season of fasting and prayer to God, and do what is most agreeable to him. Perhaps it is best to let our works preach in silence, in these evil days. "You must know, that if you fail to come home, you will give us great pain, and this, you know, would be inconsistent with love. Jesus says, 'By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.' You well know how much joy and consolation it would give us to see you; do not then deny us this pleasure, but come at all events. If you do not come, it may be an injury both to yourself and me. I wish to see you, if it be only to say to you two words, and then act your pleasure; for not every word can be said with paper and pen. Farewell. "Your brother and companion in tribulation, ASAAD." Galeb took me aside, and begged me to urge his brother to go home. I said I had already advised him to do so, but that I could not force him to go--that if he found he could not enjoy liberty of conscience, and the privilege of reading the word of God, in Hadet, he was welcome to stay with me as long as he pleased. "You are a man," said Galeb, "that speaks the truth and acts uprightly, but Asaad and Phares are not like you; they talk very improper things." Among these things, he mentioned a report to which Asaad had given circulation, respecting the patriarch, to which I was obliged to reply, that instead of taking it for granted to be a _false_ report, he ought to believe it to be true, and that such a report was not abroad respecting the patriarch alone, but respecting a majority of patriarchs and bishops of the whole land. After some further conversation on the wickedness of treating brothers, as they had done Phares and Asaad, we went to Phares, and endeavoured to persuade him to go home with his brother. But it was all in vain. "If I leave this house," said he, "instead of going to Hadet, I will go in the opposite direction." The brother returned without him. _Conversation of Phares with the Bishop of Beyroot._ After Galeb had gone, we put a great many questions to Phares, and he communicated some interesting particulars. Among others was the following: "The day that Asaad and myself left you, (the 17th,) the bishop of Beyroot was at the next house, and I went to salute him. "He said to me, 'I understand _you_ have become English, too. You _reason on the subject of religion_.' "But," said I, "is every one English, if he _reasons_ on that subject?" _Bishop._--"But you read in the Bibles of the English." _Phares._--"Yes, and from whom is the Bible? is it from the English, or from God?" _B._--"But it is _printed_ by the English." _P._--"Well, is it altered in any place?" _B._--"See, now you have begun again to argue on the subject of religion. I tell you, young man, cease this heretical habit, or you are excommunicated." Phares informed us of three or four Bibles and New Testaments, that we had given at different times to individuals in Hadet, which had lately been destroyed by order of the bishop. This news, together with a discovery we yesterday made in the neighbouring house, of two covers of the New Testament, whose contents had long ago been torn out, shews us anew, if new evidence were wanting, that if the Gospel is ever introduced again in its power and purity into this country, it will be with a desperate struggle. Two brothers of Phares, Mansoor and Galeb, came to converse with him anew. We saw them seated together on the ground, at a little distance from the house, but afterwards saw them no more. It is singular that Phares should have left without coming either to take his cloak, or bid us farewell.[J] 28. Having heard nothing particular directly from Asaad since he left, especially since the affair of the books, I yesterday sent him a line, and to-day received the following reply: _Letter from Asaad to Mr. Bird._ "Dear Sir,--After expressing imperfectly the love I bear you, and the desire I have to see you in all health, I have to say, that in due time your letter came to hand, and I read and understood it. You ask respecting our health. I answer, I am in a state of anxiety, but not so great as some days ago. "On Thursday last, having come home from a visit to the emir Sulman, I found the remnants of the Holy Scriptures, torn in pieces, as there is reason to believe, by order of the bishop. When I was told, that my brother Mansoor had done this mischief, I returned to the emir, and informed him of the affair. He sent to call Mansoor, while I returned again to our house. I now learned, that my brother Phares had gone off. After searching for him some time, I went down to the inn in quest of him, but he was not to be found. As I was on my way returning from the inn, where I had gone in search of my brother, I prayed to God, that he would take every thing from me, if necessary, only let faith and love towards him remain in my heart. "As I proceeded on, a man came up, and gave me information that all the consuls of Beyroot were slain, and that you also were slain with them. The report came from a man, who said he had deposited goods with you for safety. In order to be the more sure, I asked the man if it were really true, and he again assured me, that it was. Ask me not the state of my feelings at that moment. "On reaching home, I heard this terrible news confirmed; at the same time looking out, and seeing the heap of ashes near the house, all that remained of the 11 copies of the holy scriptures which my brothers had destroyed, I burst into tears, and committed all my concerns into the hands of God, saying, 'Blessed be his holy name: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away;'--and so I prayed on, with tears and groanings, which I cannot describe. "I afterwards heard, that Phares was probably in the neighbourhood, and set off to search after him by night, but found him not. When I heard the news of your death confirmed, I sent off a messenger, that, wherever Phares might be found, he might return; and when I received his letter, saying that he had gone to your house, I could not yet believe that the report respecting you was false. "But when the truth on this subject began to appear, then I heard by a person who came to the yesterday evening, that the patriarch and the emir had made an agreement to kill _me_, and that they had sent men to lie in wait for that purpose. I was afterwards told, by another person, that some of the servants of the emir were appointed to accomplish this end. "Here I am, then, in a sort of imprisonment, enemies within, and enemies without. "One of my brothers, the other day, advised me to surrender my self entirely to the mercy of the bishop, whereupon I wrote the bishop a letter, (of which I send you the enclosed copy,) and gave it to my brother Tannoos, begging him to carry it to the bishop, and bring me his reply. Tannoos read the letter, and without saying a word, threw it down in contempt. I then gave it to my uncle with the same request, but as yet I have got no reply.[K] "All my concerns I commit into the hands of God, who created me. Through the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, I hope that all my distresses will be for the best. "I accept with pleasure all your kind wishes, and send you many salutations in the Lord, and pray for you length of days. "Yours, &c. ASAAD." "March 27, 1826." _His relatives deliver him up to the Patriarch._ 31. Information is received, that Asaad has been taken away against his will, to the patriarch. _April 4._ Phares Shidiak arrived here in the evening direct from Der Alma, and said he had accompanied Asaad to that convent a week ago, that Asaad was still there, and that the patriarch, having in the morning set off for Cannobeen, would send down for Assad after a few days. He then handed me the following line from Asaad. "If you can find a vessel setting off for Malta, in the course of four or five days, send me word; if not, pray for your brother. ASAAD." We were disposed to send off a messenger this very evening, but Phares said it would not be necessary. Had some serious conversation with Phares, in which I exhorted him to continue reading the New Testament, and take particular notice of the general spirit of it; and then to judge, if all this deceit, confining, beating, and threatening to kill, was consistent with that spirit. We observed, that we supposed the patriarch and the bishop were well pleased with all the violence that Mansoor had used in this affair. "Yes," said Phares, "priest Hanna Stambodi, at Ain Warka, told me yesterday, that none of us had any religion, except Mansoor." In a subsequent part of his journal, Mr. Bird records the following particulars respecting Asaad, during his last visit to Hadet, and when about to be violently removed from thence. They were received from Phares. A neighbouring emir being sick, one day, Asaad carried him a paper of medicine, on the outside of which he had written how it was to be taken. While Asaad stood without, a servant took in this medicine, and gave it to the prince, saying, "This is from Asaad Esh Shidiak, and here he has written the directions on the paper." The prince, who is not remarkable for mildness, and perhaps was not conscious that Asaad overheard him, spoke out angrily, "A fig for the paper and writing; 'tis the medicine I want." "Your lordship is in the right," replied Asaad, "the truth is with you. The _medicine_ is the thing; the _paper_ that holds it, is nothing. So we ought to say of the gospel, the great medicine for the soul. 'Tis the _pure gospel_ we want, and not the _church_ that holds it." After Mansoor, in his catholic zeal, had torn up and burned all his Bibles and Testaments, Asaad could not remain without the scriptures, but sent and obtained a copy from the little church, which he daily read, marking the most striking and important passages. When his relatives, to the number of twenty or more, had assembled, and Asaad perceived they were come to take him to the patriarch by force, he began to expostulate with Tannoos, and besought him to desist from a step so inconsistent with fraternal love. He besought in vain. Tannoos turned away from him with a cold indifference. Affected with his hardness, Asaad went aside, and wept and prayed aloud. The evening before he was taken away, he said to those who had assembled, "If I had not read the gospel, I should have been surprised at this new movement of yours. But now it is just what I might have expected. In this blessed book, I am told, _the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and a man's foes shall be they of his own household_. Here you see it is just so. You have come together to fulfil this prophecy of the gospel. What have I done against you? What is my crime? Allowing that I do take the Bible as my only and sufficient guide to heaven, what sin is there in this?" During the evening, he laid himself down to sleep, as he was to set off early in the morning. But he was often interrupted; for, whenever he caught a word of false doctrine from the lips of those who continued their conversation, he would rise up, refute them, and again compose himself to rest. One of his uncles, speaking of his going to the patriarch, said in a great rage, "If you don't go off with us peaceably, we will take your life." Asaad replied, "Softly, softly, my dear uncle, don't be hasty. _Blessed are the meek._" Phares wrote a letter this evening to Asaad, in a hand that had been agreed on between them, saying, that if he would come to Beyroot, he need not fear, and that it might be a matter for further consideration whether he should leave the country. 5. The letter of Phares was sent off by a moslem, who returned at evening, saying that when he arrived at the convent, he was accosted by two or three men, inquiring his business, telling him he was a Greek, and had letters from the English. They then seized him, and took the letter by force, and, had he not shewn them that he was a moslem, would have probably sent him to the emir of the district for further examination. They then asked him some questions about the English, and assured him that after eight days Asaad would no longer be a living man. Thus were our hopes of a second deliverance of this sufferer of persecution, for the present, blasted. After all the threats, which have been thrown out without being put in execution, we rather hope, that this last will prove like the rest; yet we cannot tell how far their hatred of the truth may, with the divine forbearance, carry them. We leave all with him, in whose hands our life and breath are, and whose are all our ways, with the humble hope, that light may yet arise out of darkness, and that much glory may be added to his name, from this evident work of Satan. 6. Sent word, in a blind hand, on a torn scrap of paper, to Phares respecting the fate of our message to his brother. He returns answer that he is coming to Beyroot to-morrow. 7. Phares came, according to his notice of yesterday, saying, that if the patriarch should get his letter to Asaad, there would be danger in his staying at Hadet. He should be glad to go to Malta, or almost any other place out of the Maronite influence, lest his brothers should seize him, and deliver him up to the fury of the patriarch, as they had done his brother Asaad. Mansoor, the eldest and most violent of them, when he heard, yesterday, that a letter had arrived for Phares from Beyroot, breathed out threatenings and slaughter, not only against Phares, but against the innocent messenger himself. 8. Wrote to ----, a friendly Maronite bishop, to give me whatever information he might be able to procure respecting Shidiak. _May_ 10. A messenger whom we sent to Cannobeen, returned with the report that he was denied the privilege of seeing Asaad, under pretence that he was going through a course of confession, during which the rule is, that the person so confessing, shall pass his time, for a number of days, alone, and see no company. 14. We were, to-day, credibly informed, that Shidiak is still firm in his adherence to the gospel, but that he was kept under rigid inspection, not being permitted to step out of his room without an attendant. 17. Phares Shidiak informed us to-day, that he had been told that his brother Asaad had been at the college of Ain Warka. He thought it might be true, as one object in delivering him up to the patriarch was, to give the people the general impression, that he had no longer any thing to do with the English. He had now been a sufficient time absent from us to give general currency to the report, that he was no longer with us, and now, perhaps, the patriarch had let him go free. _Asaad is cruelly treated._ 27. The messenger, who went before to Cannobeen, had set out to go for us a second time, and this morning early returned with the following story:--Being met by a man near Batroon, whom he suspected to be from Cannobeen, he inquired him out, and found him to be a messenger sent by Asaad himself to his uncles and other connexions, to beg them to come and deliver him. Asaad saw the man, and gave him his commission from the window of the convent, without the knowledge of the patriarch, or the others in his service. This messenger said, _that Asaad was in close confinement, in chains, and was daily beaten_; and that the great cause of complaint against him was, that he refused to worship either the pictures, or the virgin Mary. I had written a letter of mere salutation to Shidiak by my messenger, which letter he enclosed in one from himself, and sent it on by his brother, returning himself with the messenger from Asaad. This brother of his, he is much afraid, may be ill-treated by the patriarch. 28. J., the messenger, called, and said, that he himself should not go to Cannobeen, but twelve or fifteen of his other relatives would go and endeavour at least to save him from chains and stripes. J. had been to the emir Beshir the less, who lives at Hadet, begging him, (with a present) to save his brother, if it should prove that he had suffered by the suspicion or the resentment of the patriarch. The emir promised to interfere--"But why," said he, "should Asaad go and join the English? they are a people I do not love." _June_ 2. A youth of the neighbourhood said it was reported that Asaad was a complete maniac; that he rent his garments, raved, reviled, &c. and that he had been sent to the convent at Koshia, like other lunatics, for a miraculous cure. This news was brought by priest Bernardus, of Gzir, mentioned in Shidiak's statement. 3. The brother of J. about whom he was so solicitous, returned last evening in safety, with the following letter in Asaad's own hand writing. "To our respected brother J. ----. After expressing my love to you, I have to say, that your letter by your brother ----, arrived in safety, and I have understood it. In it you and ----, inquire after my health. May the Lord pour out his grace upon you, and follow you with his blessings. As to me, I am at present in health, with regard to my _body_, but as to other circumstances, your brother will give you information. Love to cousin ----, your wife. Pray send me word respecting you every opportunity, and may the Lord lengthen your days. From your brother. "ASAAD ESH SHIDIAK." This letter is certainly genuine, and is a full proof of what nature the insanity is, under which he labours. It has greatly relieved the anxiety we felt from the report of yesterday. From the verbal account, given by the lad who brought the letter, the following are selected as the most important particulars. He entered the convent on his arrival, and seeing nobody but the keeper of the prison-room, obtained leave to go in, and see Asaad alone. He found him sitting on the bare floor, _with a heavy chain around his neck, and firmly fastened at the other end into the wall_. His bed had been removed together with all his books and writing materials, and (what is considered here the extreme of privation,) he was left without a pipe. The lad continued with him an hour or two, without being discovered by any one but the keeper. During the conversation, Asaad observed, that not long since he was sent to Koshia, as a man possessed of a devil, and that he escaped from that place and had arrived near Tripoli, when he was taken by a party of Maronites, and brought back to the patriarch. He had, since that time, been kept regularly at Cannobeen, subject occasionally to beating and insult, from such as might call in to see the heretic. We understood the man to say, that the patriarch even instructed the common people to spit in his face, and call him by odious names, in order to shame him into submission. Asaad gave his advice that we should either send some one with a horse, and get him away by stealth, or get the consul to interfere by writing to the pasha. The letter written by Asaad was done through the contrivance of his keeper for a small reward. _Attempts made to procure his release._ After hearing all this, we went directly to the consul to inform him of the case, and to urge him to an interference. He consented, that we should first procure some one to write a firm and consistent letter to the patriarch, demanding by what right he had taken a man from an English employer, and under English protection, and imprisoned him unheard, &c. intimating, that if the man was not soon given up, something more would be done. Toward evening, J. came again to inquire what we had concluded on. When he found what step we had taken, he seemed much alarmed for his own safety, and begged us not to proceed, for he should be immediately suspected as the mediator of the affair, and should be in danger of being persecuted as such. He mentioned, as a justification of his fears, that the keeper overheard Asaad when he recommended that course to his brother, and that the keeper, when inquired of, would of course mention the fact to the patriarch. Instead of the measure we were about taking, he recommended to apply to the emir, through one of his relatives, who was our mutual friend, and to this we consented. It is, however, probable, that the object of J. is not so much to avoid danger, as to put his friend the emir in a way to get a small present. 5. J. has been to see the emir, in order to persuade him to intercede with his uncle, the emir Beshir, but the former was not at home, and therefore the latter was not consulted. J. then went to the emir M. but found him quite averse to do any thing, saying, that to liberate a man, who had become English, would never do. He next saw Mansoor, the brother, and asked him if he knew that Asaad was in close confinement. "Yes," answered he, "and he may end his days there, unless he can learn to behave himself better." One characteristic mark of a heathen is, that he is "_without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful_." J. says, that his brother has told him in addition, that Asaad himself, on the whole, wished not to have the consul interfere, but that some one might, for the present, be sent every week or two, to see how he got along, and in the mean time, he hoped to make his own escape, for that only a few days before, he had loosed himself from his chains, and got out of the convent, but not understanding the path, he became afraid to proceed, and returned of his own accord. 6. Went again to confer with the consul with regard to Asaad. When we mentioned the fact, that Asaad was under a sort of oath of obedience to the patriarch, an agreement which all make who are educated from the funds of the Ain Warka college, he seemed to think differently of the case, because, though an oath to bind the conscience, as in this case, can never be binding, and is neither acknowledged by Turks or English, yet, in the opinion of all Maronites, it justifies what the patriarch has done. This English protection, they would say, is of no avail, since he was under a previous engagement to serve the patriarch. The consul thinks the case, if presented to the chief emir, would be rejected without consideration, on the ground, that it was ecclesiastical, and not civil; and if presented to the pasha, he would exact fines from many innocent convents, and other wise oppress them, without perhaps, after all, procuring the release of the prisoner. He would prefer some secret mode of effecting the object. Priest Bernardus, of Gzir, already mentioned was on a visit to the family below, and sent up to beg the favour of a sight at Shidiak's statement. I at first refused, but on a second application, and being assured that the priest was a friend of Shidiak, I consented, and invited the man to come and take with me a cup of coffee, which he did. It will be observed, that this Bernardus was one of those, who wished Shidiak to say that his faith was like that of the Roman catholic church, although it should be a falsehood, saying that the patriarch would bestow on him a pardon for the lie. The priest acknowledged to the family below, that Shidiak's statement of that affair was correct. 14. Received a line from the friendly Maronite bishop, to whom I had written, (April 8,) who says that he has been assured, probably afresh, that Shidiak is in prison, and suffers beating. 15. The emir A. came and conversed a length of time on the case of Shidiak. I offered to reward him well for his trouble, if he would procure his release, which he has promised to attempt. 21. J. came to say, that he had never seen the emir A. who had endeavoured to persuade his uncle to write to the patriarch. The uncle, however, refused, but added, "_You_ may write in my name, and say, that it is my pleasure, that Shidiak should be liberated." The messenger has, therefore, gone with such a letter. 22. This morning, came Tannoos Shidiak, accompanied by a young emir, saying, that they had knowledge of our attempt to liberate Asaad, through the medium of the emir A. "It will not do," said he, "you will not accomplish your object so." They both said, that the emir A. was a great liar, had a little mind, and little, if any, influence with his uncle. In short, _they_ proposed _a more excellent way_, viz. that we should give _them_ also a good reward to engage in this noble work of brotherly love. 24. The messenger from the emir A. arrived from Cannobeen, with the following letter from the patriarch, in answer to his own. "After kissing the hands of your honourable excellency, &c. &c. With regard to your slave, _Asaad Esh Shidiak_, the state into which he is fallen, is not unknown to your excellency. His understanding is subverted. In some respects he is a demoniac, in others not. Every day his malady increases upon him, until I have been obliged to take severe measures with him, and put him under keepers, lest he should escape from here, and grow worse, and infuse his poison into others. Two days ago, he succeeded in getting away in the night, and obliged me to send men to bind him and bring him back; and after he was come, he showed signs of returning sanity, and begged to be forgiven. But he does not abide by his word, for he is very fickle; and the most probable opinion respecting him is, that he is possessed of the devil. However, as he was, to appearance, disposed to yield me obedience, I treated him kindly and humanely, and used every means to promote his permanent cure. This is what I have to communicate to your excellency, and the bearer will inform you further. Whatever your excellency commands, I obey, and the Lord lengthen your life. JOSEPH, _Patriarch of Antioch._" 27. A youth from Ain Warka informed us, that he had seen a letter in Asaad's own hand-writing, saying, that he had yielded obedience to the patriarch, and professed again the faith of the Roman catholic church. This report, excited great joy, he says, at the college. We are rather pained by the news, because, if Asaad has done this, we are almost sure it has been done insincerely, and merely to escape the pains of his persecution. The same person says, that a relative of the patriarch at Cannobeen, has been in the habit of writing, every week or two, to the college, to give the news of what was done with Asaad from time to time, in which he spoke of his _chains_ and _stripes_, and so on. He also observes, that many people have boldly questioned the right of the patriarch to proceed to such extremities with the members of his church, saying, they saw not, at this rate, which was chief governor of the mountains, the prince, or the patriarch. _July 1._ One who seemed certain of delivering Shidiak, if he should set about it, went, with our recommendation to Tripoli, from which place he hopes to have a convenient communication with Cannobeen. 14. The youth who went to Tripoli to attempt something, came back unsuccessful. 17. Application has been made by Phares to the emir M., but he refused to do any thing for Asaad, alleging that it is an affair of religion, and belongs exclusively to the patriarch. Phares says, that notwithstanding the superstition and anger, which his mother exhibited when here, she has more than once said, that the English are better than the Maronites, for they take an interest in the fate of Asaad, while the Maronites all seem to care nothing about him, whether he is dead or alive, happy or wretched. Phares, as well as others, says, that Tannoos is Asaad's enemy from jealousy. Asaad is younger than Tannoos, but has been much more noticed. This Tannoos could not bear, and has therefore been quite willing to see him disgraced and punished. Phares observes, that Tannoos was quite as favourably disposed to protestant principles as Asaad, but the moment Asaad took the start of him, he fell back, and is a much firmer Maronite than ever. He seemed to be affected at the death of Mr. Fisk, but inferred from it, that God did not approve the efforts of the protestants in this country. The death of Mr. Dalton, also, his former pupil, probably confirmed this feeling. _Great difficulties in the way of Asaad's release._ 18. Tannoos came to converse about his brother Asaad. He had just received a letter in Asaad's own hand-writing, saying, that he was reduced to a great extremity of distress, and perhaps had not long to live, and begging Tannoos to come up and see if nothing could be done to end or mitigate his sufferings. Tannoos declares that he would be very glad to get him away from Cannobeen, if he could be safe, but that in any other place in the dominions of the emir Beshir, he would be killed. He might be safe at the consul's, but with me, he would _not_ be. "There are men in these mountains," said he, "that can kill and _have_ killed patriarchs and emirs, and that in their own houses; and why could they not kill Asaad with you, if they chose? Is your house more secure than the convent of the patriarch, or the palace of the emir? A man in entering your house, would violate all law, but the English would not make war for the killing of a single man." I observed, that an application would very possibly be made to the pasha, by the consul, if Asaad was not soon delivered up. "An application of that sort," replied T. "would be quite useless. The pasha would send the application to the emir, and do you not think the emir would arrange the affair as he pleased? He knows well this sort of dealing. He has known how to manage these mountains for forty years, and do you think he would be at a loss about such a trifle as this? For example, what would be more easy for the emir, if he chose to detain the man, than to say he had committed murder, and therefore could not be given up?" "But," said I, "such a charge must be established by competent witnesses, and under the consul's inspection." "True," replied he, "and where would be the difficulty in that? _The emir would bring 500 witnesses to-morrow to establish any crime he was pleased to allege._ And as to his fearing the pasha, though he holds his office under him, yet his power is even superior to the pasha's."----"The patriarch," continued Tannoos, "can do just what he chooses, in spite of the English. You have brought books here, and the patriarch has burned them in spite of you. He has issued to all denominations a proclamation full of lies against you, and what have you been able to do? You have indeed written a reply to the proclamation, and hold it up to the people, and say, 'Look how the patriarch lies about us;' but what does he care for all that." So talks a Lebanon mountaineer, of more sense, information and truth, than most others, respecting the moral character and godly fear of his patriarch and prince. _His family attempt his liberation._ 19. Phares brought us a letter, which had just been received by the family at Hadet, from the patriarch, wishing them to come immediately to Cannobeen. Tannoos and his mother have gone, and intend, if possible, to bring Asaad away, either to Kesroan, or to Hadet. The mother insisted on going, and wished to pass through Beyroot on her way, that she might consult us before she went; but this was not permitted her. The above mentioned letter, in English, runs thus:--"After telling you how much I desire to see you in all health and prosperity, I send you news respecting the wretch Asaad Esh Shidiak, otherwise called _lord of hell_. His obduracy, with which you are acquainted, has exceedingly increased. It is not unknown to you, how much care I have bestowed on him for his good, how much I have laboured for his salvation, and under what severe discipline I have put him; and all to no effect. And now, as might be expected, he has fallen ill, and therefore can no longer run away, according to his custom, and we have been thus constrained to take off the severity of our treatment. But fearing lest his disease should increase upon him, I have sent you word, that you may come and see how he is, and consult what is best to be done with him. Make no delay, therefore, in coming, and the apostolic blessing be upon you." This attempt of his family to effect his liberation failed, for some reason unknown; and he continued immured in prison, suffering persecution. He was confined in a small room with an iron collar round his neck fastened to the wall with a strong chain. In October, 1826, another attempt was made to effect the liberation of Asaad. The civil authorities were consulted, but could not be prevailed upon to enlist in his behalf. In November, 1826, however, he effected his escape, but was soon arrested, and treated more cruelly than ever. In the Herald for April, 1828, we find the following history of Asaad from the time he was betrayed into the hands of the patriarch till the spring of 1826. It is thus prefaced by Mr. Bird, one of the missionaries. "This account of our suffering friend, though by no means complete, may nevertheless be relied on as authentic, and is by far the most full and satisfactory account which we have been able to obtain. It was sent us, as you will see in the journal, by the friendly young shekh, Naami Latoof, who, some time previous, spent a few weeks in our families, and whose heart seems to have been touched with the truths of the gospel. The priest, who has proved so great a benefactor to Asaad, is a relative of the shekh, and they have grown up together from childhood on the most intimate terms of familiarity and friendship. Many of the occurrences here related, the priest found written among the monks, who pass their time idly with the patriarch, and to many he was an eye-witness. The account was drawn up under his own inspection. He seems a man unusually conscientious for an Arab, unusually open to conviction in argument, and has promised to do his utmost to save Asaad from further abuse, and in the end to deliver him from his state of confinement. Thus, while all our own efforts have failed of essentially benefitting the poor man, the Lord, without any of our instrumentality, has raised up a friend from the midst of his persecutors, who has already saved him from impending death, and we hope and pray, will soon open the way for his complete deliverance from this Syrian Inquisition." _Brief history of Asaad Esh Shidiak, from the time of his being betrayed into the hands of the Maronite Patriarch, in the spring of 1826._ =Translated from the Arabic of Naami Latoof.= When the relatives of Asaad brought him to the convent of Alma in the district of Kesroan, and gave him up to the patriarch, the latter began by way of flattery to promise him all the worldly advantages he could bestow; but withal demanding that he should put away all the heretical notions, and all the corrupt knowledge, which the Bible-men, those enemies of the pope, had taught him. He replied, "These things which you hold out to me, are to me of no value. I no longer trouble myself about them, for they are vain and of short duration. Every christian is bound to think, and labour, and strive to be accounted worthy to hear that blessed welcome, 'Come ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.' As to rejecting from my mind those things which I have learned from the Bible-men, I have to say, that, for many years, I had read, occasionally, the holy scriptures, which are able to make us wise unto salvation, but could not live according to them; for I was given to the indulgence of all wicked passions: but since my acquaintance with these men, I see myself, through the merits of my Saviour, possessed of a new heart, though it is not yet, I confess, in all respects such as I could wish it to be." During the few days they remained in the Kesroan, the patriarch shewed him every attention, and suffered no one to oppose his opinions saying, "The protestants, by the great sums they have given him, have blinded his eyes, and inclined him to join them, and diffuse their poisonous sentiments, so that he cannot, at once, be brought to leave them. Let him alone for the present, do nothing to oppose or to offend him, until we shall arrive at Cannobeen, where we may examine into his faith and state at our leisure, and if we find that he still clings to his heresy, we then can do with him as circumstances may require." After a short time they proceeded with him to Cannobeen, and there began to use arguments to convince him of his errors, and persuade him to confess and forsake them, and embrace whatever the councils and the church had enacted;--requiring that he should surrender his conscience to the holy catholic church, and bless all whom she blessed, and curse all whom she cursed; and this they did in the most stern and threatening manner. He replied, "It has been said, by the mouth of the Holy One, _Bless and curse not._" They still pressed him to yield his opinions, but he said, "I can give up nothing, nor can I believe any thing but as it is written in the holy scriptures; for in these is contained all doctrines necessary to salvation."--"But," said they, "is every thing then, worthless, that has been ordained by the councils and the fathers?" He answered, "The councils may have enacted laws good for themselves, but we are not bound to follow them." After urging him, day after day, to no purpose, they finally asked in despair, "Are you then still of the same sentiment?" "Of the same sentiment," said he; "I still believe and hold whatever is written in the holy scriptures, and neither more nor less." "Will every one, then, who reads the gospel, be saved?" "By no means;--but as it is written, 'he that hath my commands and _keepeth_ them, he it is that loveth me.'" "It is the duty of every person to possess the gospel, and read it?" "Yes, it is the duty of every one. 'For,' said Paul, 'if our gospel be hid, it is hid to them that are lost, in whom the god of this world hath blinded the minds of them which believe not, lest the light of the glorious gospel should shine unto them.'" They then reviled him, and spurned him away from their sight, and began to meditate measures of violence against him. He was separated from all around him, and compelled to take his meals by himself; and lest he should attempt to escape, a person was set over him to keep him under a constant watch. He was made to feel himself in the lowest state of disgrace, all taking the fullest liberty to reproach and ridicule him. From this state of debasement he soon began to meditate his escape. Accordingly, one evening, just as the sun had set, and while his keeper's eye was off him, he fled. An immediate and diligent search was made for him, but he could not be found until the second day, when he was discovered still hiding in a grove near by, for he was totally ignorant of the way he ought to take. They brought him immediately to the patriarch. When he arrived, he was met by reproaches and revilings, and the servants, by order of the patriarch beat him, and put him into confinement. This was at Diman, a pleasant, airy situation belonging to Cannobeen, and about an hour's distance from it. Soon after this, he was taken up to the latter place, when he was left a little more at large, but was always under the watch of a keeper. One evening, when all had gone in the chapel for prayers, he lay as if he had been asleep, and the monk, his keeper, thinking him really so, went in with the rest, but took with him, as a precaution, Asaad's silver inkhorn, supposing that if he should wake, and think of escaping, he would not be willing to leave behind him so valuable an article. When Asaad saw that all were gone, knowing the length of their prayers, he at once left the convent, and ran about an hour's distance. People were despatched in search of him with all diligence, but they returned without finding him. On account of his ignorance of the way, he remained secreted near the road till the day broke, when he continued his flight until he had reached the distance of three hours or more from his prison, when a couple of men in the service of the patriarch, having been apprized of his escape by the pursuers during the night, discovered him, and called out, "Who are you? Are you Asaad?" He replied, "I am Asaad." They at once took him into custody, and brought him back, but without any violence or indignity, to the patriarch. A different treatment, however, awaited him at the convent. He had no sooner reached it, than they covered him with insult, beating him, and mocking him, and saying, "fool that you are, why did you answer to your name?" He replied, "God has laid a curse upon the lying mouth, and therefore I cannot use it." They said, "If you do not return to your faith, and hold to all that has been ordained by the church and the fathers, you are ruined. You will die under your tortures, and go to perdition." He replied, "Whoever shall call on the name of the Lord shall be saved. I am willing to expose myself to every indignity and suffering for the sake of Him who loved us, and shed his precious blood for our salvation. These things I am bound to say and do, and I am bound to exhort you also, as beloved friends." When he had said this, they all laughed him to scorn, called him a madman, and were about to beat him for attempting, as they pretended, to make heretics of them also. When he saw their anger, he cried out, "Why are you enraged at me, and what are you about to do to me? I am a dying man like yourselves, and preach unto you that you should turn from your vanities unto the living God, who made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and all that are therein." They then renewed their cries that he was mad, and thrust him into his prison room, and locked the door upon him, and strict orders were given that no one should say any thing to him more or less. In this state he remained for some days. The patriarch then sent to him to inquire after his faith, especially respecting his trust in the images of the church, declaring to him that without faith in these, he could not be saved. He replied, "Let no man beguile you of your reward in a voluntary humility and worshipping of angels." They brought him proofs from the councils, that images were used by the fathers, and ought to be set up and worshipped in the churches, in honour of the saints, and to obtain their intercession. He answered, "I will also bring you proof from the councils, that the worship of images, and all use of them in the churches, was forbidden and reprobated by the fathers." Here they contradicted him. "Be it as it may," said he, "it is impossible for me to follow the opinions of any man or set of men., and leave the word of God behind me. This word tells me, that 'forasmuch as we are the offspring of God, we ought not to think that the Godhead is like unto gold, or silver, or stone, graven by art or man's device.'" The messengers then quit him, and made their report to the patriarch, who left him in his prison for a considerable time, in the most abject and suffering state. In process of time, certain individuals, possessed of a little humanity, became interested in his situation, sympathized in his sufferings, interceded for him, and procured liberty to open the prison door, so that any one who chose could go in and see him without restraint. Again he began to meditate an attempt to escape, and on a certain evening, set off from the convent. But, as before, his ignorance of the proper path to escape in, prevented the accomplishment of his purpose. He soon saw the lighted torches streaming off in every direction in search of him, and to avoid his pursuers, turned aside a short distance, and climbed into a tree. From this situation he did not dare to come down till the night was fairly gone, when he shifted the position of his clothes, turning his cloak inside out, using his turban for a girdle and his girdle for a turban, and took his way. He had, however, not proceeded far, when one of the patriarch's men discovered him, and called out, "Asaad is it you?" He answered, "it is I." The man immediately caught him, like a greedy wolf, bound him, beat him, and drove him before him, as a slave, or a brute, to Cannobeen. On their way they were met by many others who had been sent off in quest of him, who all united with the captor in his brutal treatment. On his arrival, the patriarch gave immediate orders for his punishment, and they fell upon him with reproaches, caning him and smiting him with their hands; and so it was, that as often as they struck him on one cheek, he turned to them the other also. "This," said he, "is a joyful day to me. My blessed Lord and Master has said, 'Bless them that curse you, and if they strike you on the right cheek turn to them the left also.' This I have been enabled to do, and I am ready to suffer even more than this for him, who was beaten, and spit upon, and led as a sheep to the slaughter, on our account." When they heard this, they fell to beating him anew saying, "Have we need of your preaching, thou deceiver? Of what avail are such pretensions in one who is in the broad way to perdition?" He replied, "he that believeth that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, hath eternal life." "Ah," said they, "this is what blinds you. Your salvation is _by faith alone in Christ_; thus you cast contempt on his mother, and his saints; you deny the presence of his holy body on earth;"--and they threw him on the ground, overwhelmed with the multitude of their blows. For three successive days, he was subjected to the bastinado, by order of the patriarch, who, after that, summoned him to his presence, and demanded of him his faith. "I am a Christian, a follower of Jesus of Nazareth." Those present exhorted him to acknowledge the intercession of the saints, and to repair to them for help in this hour of trial. But he refused, saying, "My help is in him who shed his blood for sinners." "But have the saints," said they, "no intercession, and is it vain to worship them, and pray to them?" He said, "We are not taught to seek help or protection from any, but from him who is the Great Shepherd, who has said with his own blessed mouth, 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' To any other than God, we are not commanded to pray or seek for refuge." They then returned him to his prison as before. Those who sympathized with him, went and begged him to confess that the canons of the councils were binding on all Christians, and that the images were very properly made use of in the churches. He answered, "Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, and changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like unto corruptible man." At this they turned away from him in despair and disgust, and reported to the patriarch that he was in the most settled state of obstinacy, and was doubtless possessed of a devil. Upon this, the patriarch ordered him to be put in chains, and the door to be barred upon him, as formerly, and his food to be given him in short allowance. In this condition he remained till he was much reduced, and began to entreat them to have pity on him and take off the irons from his feet, and open the door of his prison. Some were moved by his supplications, interceded for him, unbarred the door, took off his chains, and left him. He arose, walked out, and sat down with one of them and conversed. He then begged the patriarch to give him some books to copy, to rid himself of the tedium of his idleness. But he refused, nor would he suffer any to hold conversation with him. After some days, there came into the convent two men, in the character of beggars, and wished to pass the night, but were turned away. That same night Asaad made another attempt to escape. As soon as it was discovered that he was gone, a vigorous search was made to find him, but all to no purpose. The universal cry now was, that the two men already mentioned had been sent by the protestants to steal him away for a large reward. Immediately his holiness, the patriarch, sent letters to the emeer Abdallah informing him of Asaad's escape, and requesting him to guard the roads of the Kesroan, and search the neighbourhood, if possibly Asaad might still be found lurking in that district. Accordingly search was made, Asaad was discovered among his relatives by a couple of soldiers, was bound, and taken off to the emeer, who sent him direct to the patriarch. On his arrival, he was loaded with chains, cast into a dark, filthy room, and bastinadoed, every day, for eight days, sometimes fainting under the operation, until he was near death. He was then left in his misery, his bed a thin flag mat, his covering his common clothes. The door of his prison was filled up with stone and mortar, and his food was six thin cakes of bread a day, and a scanty cup of water. In this loathsome dungeon, from which there was no access but a small loop hole, through which they passed his food, he lay for several days; and he would lift up his voice, and cry, "Love ye the Lord Jesus Christ according as he hath loved us, and given himself to die for us. Think of me, O ye that pass by, have pity upon me, and deliver me from these sufferings." Now when his groans and cries were thus heard, a certain priest, who had been a former friend of Asaad, was touched with compassion. His former friendship revived, his bowels yearned over his suffering brother, and he besought every one who could speak with the patriarch, that they would intercede and endeavour to soften his feelings towards his prisoner. By dint of perseverance, the priest at length succeeded, and obtained permission to open the prison door of his friend and take off his irons. The first request he made of the priest on his entering, was, that he would give him a little food, for he was famishing with hunger. The priest immediately brought him a little bread and cooked victuals, which he ate, and said, "The name of the Lord be blessed." Those present began to exhort him to turn to the mother of God, if, peradventure, she would have mercy upon him, and bring him back to the way of salvation. He answered, "If she has the power of intercession, let her intercede for us with her beloved Son." The priest was very assiduous in supplying him with every thing necessary for his comfort; in particular he obtained the return of his clothes, of which he had been partly stripped; for the snow was upon the ground, and the cold filled him with pains. Now when the others saw the care and attention of the priest, they said, "You have become a convert to his heretical opinions." But he replied, "God has said, 'Blessed are the merciful;'" and continued firm in his purpose. His assiduity was such, that whenever he left the convent for any time, he would give money to the cook to prevail on him to supply Asaad with proper food, and to attend upon him in whatever he might need. The enemies of the priest accused him to the patriarch, but they could not succeed in their object, for the priest is of blameless morals, and has a good name among all. The priest now passed much of his time in company with Asaad, and conversed with him freely. On a certain occasion they began to converse on the subject of the cross, the priest saying it ought to be worshipped. Asaad replied, "For what reason? and where is the use of it?" The priest said, "In memory of the Saviour." Asaad,--"Why do you kiss the cross, and who has commanded it?" Priest,--"We kiss it in honour of him who hung upon it." Asaad.--"But why then do you not paint the _ass_ also, and pay it all obeisance, and all honours, for our Saviour, when he rode upon the ass, was in all honour, and all paid him obeisance; but when he was on the cross, he was in sorrow and disgrace." The priest reproved him gently for returning such an answer, and when he saw that the priest was displeased, he said, "On account of your love to me, and the favour you have done me, I wish to prove to you this point, that all religious reverence and worship and service to any but God, is vain; for it is said, 'He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life,' and I have to beg of you, that you will continually search the holy scriptures, and pray as David prayed, 'Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.'" During this time, one of their enemies was standing without the door, and listened to the whole conversation. This man went immediately, to the patriarch, and told him all that he had heard, and that the priest was conversing with Asaad in so gentle a manner, that he was likely soon to be won over to heresy. His holiness was startled at the intelligence, and hastening down inquired the truth of the report. Asaad concealed nothing. The patriarch, however, at first, repressed his own feelings, and exhorted him in the most winning manner he could assume, promising that if he would but return to the holy church and fathers and councils, worship the images, and saints, and the mother of God, he would again immediately make him his secretary. He replied, "With regard to the opinions which I hold, I assure you I wish to hold none which are opposed to the word of God; and as to resorting to the virgin Mary, I say, as I have before said, that if she has any power of intercession, let her intercede for us. As to giving up my opinions to the church and councils, how can I do it, so long as I am possessed of satisfactory evidence that these councils are opposed to one another? We are in no need of the councils, but have sufficient light without them to guide us in the way of salvation. Moreover I can say, that _I do_ surrender my opinions to the holy catholic church, for I profess the faith of the church of Christ, and unite my conscience with it." The patriarch could no longer restrain his feelings, but broke out in the language of reproach, saying, "You are a worthless fellow, obstinately bent on maintaining your folly. I give you to understand that I am clear of your guilt. You will not be taught, but love to shew your contempt of the cross, and of the worship of the images, whose worship is only in honour of those to whose memory they are set up, and who laboured and died in the service of Christ." Asaad replied, "With regard to worshipping such things as these, it is said, 'Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve;' and as to those who laboured and shed their blood for the Saviour, they are above our honours, for they have gone to inherit unspeakable glory in their master's presence." The patriarch was more angry than ever, and taking off his slipper, beat both him and the priest, and drove the latter from the room, and locked the door. After six days of additional confinement, the friendly priest again procured his release from his prison, and obtained the favour of taking the entire oversight of him. In this condition the persecuted man remains. May the Most High grant him speedy deliverance. Feb. 15th, 1827. * * * * * The latest accounts from Palestine state that Asaad is still in confinement, but remains firm to the principles he has embraced. In a letter from Mr. Goodell, dated April, 1830, we find the following sentence.--"_Asaad Shidiak is still alive, and there is every reason to believe that he loves and obeys the truth, that he is sanctified by it, rooted and grounded in it, and ready to suffer for it._" We take our leave of this interesting narrative, commending the suffering subject of it to God, and the word of his grace, accounting him more blessed if he perseveres steadfast unto the end, than if his brows were endowed with an imperial diadem. FOOTNOTES: [E] The Papists receive these books as of equal divine authority with the books of the Old Testament.--ED. [F] This he actually proposed, but the patriarch would not listen to the proposal a moment. [G] "He causeth all--to receive a mark," &c. "and no man might buy or sell save he that had the mark or the name of the beast." The patriarch was also clothed in scarlet, like the woman on the scarlet coloured beast. [H] See Rev. xiii. 13 [I] When he first came to Beyroot, this same sentence was dictated to him, and it appeared in his eyes so much like blasphemy, that he refused to write it. [J] We afterwards ascertained, that he was decoyed off to a distance, as if for walk, and when he would have returned, was prevented by force. [K] This letter was a mere tissue of testimonies, brought from the fathers, and from the scriptures, condemning the worship of images. CHAPTER IX. PERSECUTIONS OF THE BAPTIST MISSIONARIES IN INDIA, DURING THE YEAR 1824. _Account of the Scenes at Ava during the War._ Mr. and Mrs. Judson were among the number of the first missionaries who left this country for India. After labouring for some time in Hindostan they finally established themselves at Rangoon in the Burman Empire, in 1813. In 1824 war broke out between the British East India Company and the emperor of Burmah. Mr. and Mrs. Judson and Dr. Price, who were at Ava, the capital of the Burman Empire, when the war commenced, were immediately arrested and confined for several months. The account of the sufferings of the missionaries was written by Mrs. Judson, and is given in her own words. The sufferings of the missionaries, during this long and disastrous period, surpassed all that the most alarmed and fertile imagination had conceived. Of the dreadful scenes at Ava, a minute account was written by Mrs. Judson to Dr. Elnathan Judson. It will be read with strong and painful interest. Fiction itself has seldom invented a tale more replete with terror. "_Rangoon, May 26, 1826._ "My beloved Brother, "I commence this letter with the intention of giving you the particulars of our captivity and sufferings at Ava. How long my patience will allow my reviewing scenes of disgust and horror, the conclusion of this letter will determine. I had kept a journal of every thing that had transpired from our arrival at Ava, but destroyed it at the commencement of our difficulties. "The first certain intelligence we received of the declaration of war by the Burmese, was on our arrival at Tsenpyoo-kywon, about a hundred miles this side of Ava, where part of the troops, under the command of the celebrated Bandoola, had encamped. As we proceeded on our journey, we met Bandoola himself, with the remainder of his troops, gaily equipped, seated on his golden barge, and surrounded by a fleet of gold war boats, one of which was instantly despatched the other side of the river to hail us, and make all necessary inquiries. We were allowed to proceed quietly on, when he had informed the messenger that we were Americans, _not English_, and were going to Ava in obedience to the command of his Majesty. "On our arrival at the capital, we found that Dr. Price was out of favour at court, and that suspicion rested on most of the foreigners then at Ava. Your brother visited at the palace two or three times, but found the king's manner toward him very different from what it formerly had been; and the queen, who had hitherto expressed wishes for my speedy arrival, now made no inquiries after me, nor intimated a wish to see me. Consequently, I made no effort to visit at the palace, though almost daily invited to visit some of the branches of the royal family, who were living in their own houses, out of the palace enclosure. Under these circumstances, we thought our most prudent course lay in prosecuting our original intention of building a house, and commencing missionary operations as occasion offered, thus endeavouring to convince the government that we had really nothing to do with the present war. "In two or three weeks after our arrival, the king, queen, all the members of the royal family, and most of the officers of government, returned to Amarapora, in order to come and take possession of the new palace in the customary style. As there has been much misunderstanding relative to Ava and Amarapora, both being called the capital of the Burmese Empire, I will here remark, that present Ava was formerly the seat of government; but soon after the old king had ascended the throne, it was forsaken, and a new palace built at Amarapora, about six miles from Ava, in which he remained during his life. In the fourth year of the reign of the present king, Amarapora was in its turn forsaken, and a new and beautiful palace built at Ava, which was _then_ in ruins, but is _now the capital_ of the Burmese Empire, and the residence of the Emperor. The king and royal family had been living in the temporary buildings at Ava, during the completion of the new palace, which gave occasion for their returning to Amarapora. "I dare not attempt a description of that splendid day, when majesty with all its attendant glory entered the gates of the golden city, and amid the acclamations of millions, I may say, took possession of the palace. The saupwars of the provinces bordering on China, all the Viceroys and high officers of the kingdom, were assembled on the occasion, dressed in their robes of state, and ornamented with the insignia of their office. The white elephant, richly adorned with gold and jewels, was one of the most beautiful objects in the procession. The king and queen alone were unadorned, dressed in the simple garb of the country; they, hand in hand, entered the garden in which we had taken our seats, and where a banquet was prepared for their refreshment. All the riches and glory of the empire were on this day exhibited to view. The number and immense size of the elephants, the numerous horses, and great variety of vehicles of all descriptions, far surpassed any thing I have ever seen or imagined. Soon after his majesty had taken possession of the new palace, an order was issued that no foreigner should be allowed to enter, excepting Lansago. We were a little alarmed at this, but concluded it was from political motives, and would not, perhaps, essentially affect us. "For several weeks nothing took place to alarm us, and we went on with our school. Mr. J. preached every Sabbath, all the materials for building a brick house were procured, and the masons had made considerable progress in raising the building. "On the 23d of May, 1824, just as we had concluded worship at the Doctor's house, the other side of the river, a messenger came to inform us that Rangoon was taken by the English. The intelligence produced a shock, in which was a mixture of fear and joy. Mr. Gouger, a young merchant residing at Ava, was then with us, and had much more reason to fear than the rest of us. We all, however, immediately returned to our house, and began to consider what was to be done. Mr. G. went to prince Thar-yar-wa-dee, the king's most influential brother, who informed him he need not give himself any uneasiness, as he had mentioned the subject to his majesty, who had replied, that 'the few foreigners residing at Ava, had nothing to do with the war, and should not be molested.' "The government were now all in motion. An army of ten or twelve thousand men, under the command of the Kyee-woon-gyee, were sent off in three or four days, and were to be joined by the Sakyer-woon-gyee, who had previously been appointed Viceroy of Rangoon, and who was on his way thither, when the news of its attack reached him. No doubt was entertained of the defeat of the English; the only fear of the king was, that the foreigners hearing of the advance of the Burmese troops, would be so alarmed, as to flee on board their ships and depart, before there would be time to secure them as slaves. 'Bring for me,' said a wild young buck of the palace, 'six kala pyoo, (white strangers,) to row my boat;' and 'to me,' said the lady of a Woongyee, 'send four white strangers to manage the affairs of my house, as I understand they are trusty servants.' The war boats, in high glee, passed our house, the soldiers singing and dancing, and exhibiting gestures of the most joyous kind. Poor fellows! said we, you will probably never dance again. And it so proved, for few if any ever saw again their native home. "As soon as the army were despatched, the government began to inquire the cause of the arrival of the strangers at Rangoon. There must be spies in the country, suggested some, who have invited them over. And who so likely to be spies, as the Englishmen residing at Ava? A report was in circulation, that Captain Laird, lately arrived, had brought Bengal papers which contained the intention of the English to take Rangoon, and it was kept a secret from his Majesty. An inquiry was instituted. The three Englishmen, Gouger, Laird, and Rogers, were called and examined. It was found they had seen the papers, and were put in confinement, though not in prison. We now began to tremble for ourselves, and were in daily expectation of some dreadful event. "At length Mr. Judson and Dr. Price were summoned to a court of examination, where strict inquiry was made relative to all they knew. The great point seemed to be whether they had been in the habit of making communications to foreigners, of the state of the country, &c. They answered, they had always written to their friends in America, but had no correspondence with English officers, or the Bengal government. After their examination, they were not put in confinement as the Englishmen had been, but were allowed to return to their houses. In examining the accounts of Mr. G. it was found that Mr. J. and Dr. Price had taken money of him to a considerable amount. Ignorant, as were the Burmese, of our mode of receiving money, by orders on Bengal, this circumstance, to their suspicious minds, was a sufficient evidence, that the missionaries were in the pay of the English, and very probably spies. It was thus represented to the king, who, in an angry tone, ordered the immediate arrest of the 'two teachers.' "On the 8th of June, just as we were preparing for dinner, in rushed an officer, holding a black book, with a dozen Burmans, accompanied by _one_, whom, from his spotted face, we knew to be an executioner, and a 'son of the prison.' 'Where is the teacher?' was the first inquiry. Mr. Judson presented himself. 'You are called by the king,' said the officer; a form of speech always used when about to arrest a criminal. The spotted man instantly seized Mr. Judson, threw him on the floor, and produced the small cord, the instrument of torture. I caught hold of his arm; 'Stay, (said I,) I will give you money.' 'Take her too,' said the officer; 'she also is a foreigner.' Mr. Judson, with an imploring look, begged they would let me remain till further orders. The scene was now shocking beyond description. The whole neighbourhood had collected--the masons at work on the brick house threw down their tools, and ran--the little Burman children were screaming and crying--the Bengalee servants stood in amazement at the indignities offered their master--and the hardened executioner, with a hellish joy, drew tight the cords, bound Mr. Judson fast, and dragged him off, I knew not whither. In vain I begged and entreated the spotted face to take the silver, and loosen the ropes, but he spurned my offers, and immediately departed. I gave the money, however, to Moung Ing to follow after, to make some further attempt to mitigate the torture of Mr. Judson; but instead of succeeding, when a few rods from the house, the unfeeling wretches again threw their prisoner on the ground, and drew the cords still tighter, so as almost to prevent respiration. "The officer and his gang proceeded on to the court house, where the Governor of the city and officers were collected, one of whom read the order of the king, to commit Mr. Judson to the death prison, into which he was soon hurled, the door closed--and Moung Ing saw no more. What a night was now before me! I retired into my room, and endeavoured to obtain consolation from committing my case to God, and imploring fortitude and strength to suffer whatever awaited me. But the consolation of retirement was not long allowed me, for the magistrate of the place had come into the verandah, and continually called me to come out, and submit to his examination. But previously to going out, I destroyed all my letters, journals, and writings of every kind, lest they should disclose the fact that we had correspondents in England, and had minuted down every occurrence since our arrival in the country. When this work of destruction was finished, I went out and submitted to the examination of the magistrate, who inquired very minutely of everything I knew; then ordered the gates of the compound to be shut, no person be allowed to go in or out, placed a guard of ten ruffians, to whom he gave a strict charge to keep me safe, and departed. "It was now dark. I retired to an inner room with my four little Burman girls, and barred the doors. The guard instantly ordered me to unbar the doors and come out, or they would break the house down. I obstinately refused to obey, and endeavoured to intimidate them by threatening to complain of their conduct to higher authorities on the morrow. Finding me resolved in disregarding their orders, they took the two Bengalee servants, and confined them in the stocks in a very painful position. I could not endure this; but called the head man to the window, and promised to make them all a present in the morning, if they would release the servants. After much debate, and many severe threatenings, they consented, but seemed resolved to annoy me as much as possible. My unprotected, desolate state, my entire uncertainty of the fate of Mr. Judson, and the dreadful carousings and almost diabolical language of the guard, all conspired to make it by far the most distressing night I had ever passed. You may well imagine, my dear brother, that sleep was a stranger to my eyes, and peace and composure to my mind. "The next morning, I sent Moung Ing to ascertain the situation of your brother, and give him food, if still living. He soon returned, with the intelligence, that Mr. Judson, and all the white foreigners, were confined in the _death prison_, with three pairs of iron fetters each, and fastened to a long pole, to prevent their moving! The point of my anguish now was, that I was a prisoner myself, and could make no efforts for the release of the Missionaries. I begged and entreated the magistrate to allow me to go to some member of government to state my case; but he said he did not dare to consent, for fear I should make my escape. I next wrote a note to one of the king's sisters, with whom I had been intimate, requesting her to use her influence for the release of the teachers. The note was returned with this message--She 'did not understand it,'--which was a polite refusal to interfere; though I afterwards ascertained, that she had an anxious desire to assist us, but dared not on account of the queen. The day dragged heavily away, and another dreadful night was before me. I endeavoured to soften the feelings of the guard by giving them tea and segars for the night; so that they allowed me to remain inside of my room, without threatening as they did the night before. But the idea of your brother being stretched on the bare floor in irons and confinement, haunted my mind like a spectre, and prevented my obtaining any quiet sleep, though nature was almost exhausted. "On the third day, I sent a message to the governor of the city, who has the entire direction of prison affairs, to allow me to visit him with a present. This had the desired effect; and he immediately sent orders to the guards, to permit my going into town. The governor received me pleasantly, and asked me what I wanted. I stated to him the situation of the foreigners, and particularly that of the teachers, who were Americans, and had nothing to do with the war. He told me it was not in his power to release them from prison or irons, but that he could make their situation more comfortable; there was his head officer, with whom I must consult, relative to the means. The officer, who proved to be one of the city writers, and whose countenance at the first glance presented the most perfect assemblage of all the evil passions attached to human nature, took me aside, and endeavoured to convince me, that myself, as well as the prisoners, was entirely at his disposal--that our future comfort must depend on my liberality in regard to presents--and that these must be made in a private way and unknown to any officer in the government! What must I do, said I, to obtain a mitigation of the present sufferings of the two teachers? 'Pay to me,' said he, 'two hundred tickals, (about a hundred dollars,) two pieces of fine cloth, and two pieces of handkerchiefs.' I had taken money with me in the morning, our house being two miles from the prison--I could not easily return. This I offered to the writer, and begged he would not insist on the other articles, as they were not in my possession. He hesitated for some time, but fearing to lose the sight of so much money, he concluded to take it, promising to relieve the teachers from their most painful situation. "I then procured an order from the governor, for my admittance into prison; but the sensations, produced by meeting your brother in that _wretched, horrid_ situation, and the affecting scene which ensued, I will not attempt to describe. Mr. Judson crawled to the door of the prison--for I was never allowed to enter--gave me some directions relative to his release; but before we could make any arrangement, I was ordered to depart, by those iron hearted jailers, who could not endure to see us enjoy the poor consolation of meeting in that miserable place. In vain I pleaded the order of the governor for my admittance; they again, harshly repeated, 'Depart, or we will pull you out.' The same evening, the missionaries, together with the other foreigners, who had paid an equal sum, were taken out of the common prison, and confined in an open shed in the prison enclosure. Here I was allowed to send them food, and mats to sleep on; but was not permitted to enter again for several days. "My next object was to get a petition presented to the queen; but no person being admitted into the palace, who was in disgrace with his Majesty, I sought to present it through the medium of her brother's wife. I had visited her in better days, and received particular marks of her favour. But now times were altered: Mr. Judson was in prison, and I in distress, which was a sufficient reason for giving me a cold reception. I took a present of considerable value. She was lolling on her carpet as I entered, with her attendants around her. I waited not for the usual question to a suppliant, 'What do you want?' but in a hold, earnest, yet respectful manner, stated our distresses and our wrongs, and begged her assistance. She partly raised her head, opened the present I had brought, and coolly replied, 'Your case is not singular; all the foreigners are treated alike.' 'But it is singular,' said I, 'the teachers are Americans; they are ministers of religion, have nothing to do with war or politics, and came to Ava in obedience to the king's command. They have never done any thing to deserve such treatment; and is it right they should be treated thus?' 'The king does as he pleases,' said she; 'I am not the king, what can I do?' 'You can state their case to the queen, and obtain their release,' replied I. 'Place yourself in my situation,--were you in America, your husband, innocent of crime, thrown into prison, in irons, and you a solitary, unprotected female--what would you do?' With a slight degree of feeling, she said, 'I will present your petition,--come again to-morrow.' I returned to the house, with considerable hope, that the speedy release of the missionaries was at hand. But the next day Mr. Gouger's property, to the amount of fifty thousand dollars, was taken and carried to the palace. The officers, on their return, politely informed me, they should _visit our house_ on the morrow. I felt obliged for this information, and accordingly made preparations to receive them, by secreting as many little articles as possible; together with considerable silver, as I knew, if the war should be protracted, we should be in a state of starvation without it. But my mind was in a dreadful state of agitation, lest it should be discovered, and cause my being thrown into prison. And had it been possible to procure money from any other quarter, I should not have ventured on such a step. "The following morning, the royal treasurer, prince Tharyawadees, chief Woon, and Koung-tone Myoo-tsa, who was in future our steady friend, attended by forty or fifty followers, came to take possession of all we had. I treated them civilly, gave them chairs to sit on, tea and sweetmeats for their refreshment; and justice obliges me to say, that they conducted the business of confiscation with more regard to my feelings than I should have thought it possible for Burmese officers to exhibit. The three officers, with one of the royal secretaries, alone entered the house; their attendants were ordered to remain outside. They saw I was deeply affected, and apologized for what they were about to do, by saying, that it was painful for them to take possession of property not their own, but they were compelled thus to do by order of the king. 'Where is your silver, gold, and jewels?' said the royal treasurer. 'I have no gold or jewels; but here is the key of a trunk which contains the silver--do with it as you please.' The trunk was produced, and the silver weighed. 'This money,' said I, 'was collected in America, by the disciples of Christ, and sent here for the purpose of building a kyoung, (the name of a priest's dwelling) and for our support while teaching the religion of Christ. Is it suitable that you should take it? (The Burmans are averse to taking what is offered in a religious point of view, which was the cause of my making the inquiry.) 'We will state this circumstance to the king,' said one of them, 'and perhaps he will restore it. But this is all the silver you have?' I could not tell a falsehood: 'The house is in your possession,' I replied, 'search for yourselves.' 'Have you not deposited silver with some person of your acquaintance?' 'My acquaintances are all in prison, with whom should I deposit silver? They next ordered my trunk and drawers to be examined. The secretary only was allowed to accompany me in this search. Everything nice or curious, which met his view, was presented to the officers, for their decision, whether it should be taken or retained. I begged they would not take our wearing apparel, as it would be disgraceful to take clothes partly worn, into the possession of his majesty, and to us they were of unspeakable value. They assented, and took a list only, and did the same with the books, medicines, &c. My little work table and rocking chair, presents from my beloved brother, I rescued from their grasp, partly by artifice, and partly through their ignorance. They left also many articles, which were of inestimable value, during our long imprisonment. "As soon as they had finished their search and departed, I hastened to the queen's brother, to hear what had been the fate of my petition; when, alas! all my hopes were dashed, by his wife's coolly saying, 'I stated your case to the queen; but her majesty replied,--'_The teachers will not die: let them remain as they are._' My expectations had been so much excited, that this sentence was like a thunderbolt to my feelings. For the truth at one glance assured me, that if the queen refused assistance, who would dare to intercede for me? With a heavy heart I departed, and on my way home, attempted to enter the prison gate, to communicate the sad tidings to your brother but was harshly refused admittance: and for the ten days following notwithstanding my daily efforts, I was not allowed to enter. We attempted to communicate by writing, and after being successful for a few days, it was discovered; the poor fellow who carried the communications was beaten and put in the stocks; and the circumstance cost me about ten dollars, besides two or three days of agony, for fear of the consequences. "The officers who had taken possession of our property, presented it to his majesty, saying, 'Judson is a true teacher; we found nothing in his house, but what belongs to priests. In addition to this money, there are an immense number of books, medicines, trunks of wearing apparel, &c. of which we have only taken a list. Shall we take them, or let them remain?' 'Let them remain,' said the king, 'and put this property by itself, for it shall be restored to him again, if he is found innocent.' This was an allusion to the idea of his being a spy. "For two or three months following, I was subject to continual harassments, partly through my ignorance of police management and partly through the insatiable desire of every petty officer to enrich himself through our misfortunes. When the officers came to our house, to confiscate our property, they insisted on knowing how much I had given the governor and prison officers, to release the teachers from the inner prison. I honestly told them, and they demanded the sum from the governor, which threw him into a dreadful rage, and he threatened to put all the prisoners back into their original place. I went to him the next morning, and the first words with which he accosted me, were, 'You are very bad; why did you tell the royal treasurer that you had given me so much money?' 'The treasurer inquired; what could I say!' I replied. 'Say that you had given nothing,' said he, 'and I would have made the teachers comfortable in prison; but now I know not what will be their fate.' 'But I cannot tell a falsehood,' I replied. 'My religion differs from yours, it forbids prevarication; and had you stood by me with your knife raised, I could not have said what you suggested.' His wife, who sat by his side, and who always, from this time, continued my firm friend, instantly said, 'Very true--what else could she have said? I like such straight-forward conduct; you must not (turning to the governor) be angry with her.' I then presented the governor with a beautiful opera glass, I had just received from England, and begged his anger at me would not influence him to treat the prisoners with unkindness, and I would endeavour, from time to time, to make him such presents, as would compensate for his loss. 'You may intercede for your husband only; for your sake, he shall remain where he is; but let the other prisoners take care of themselves.' I pleaded hard for Dr. Price; but he would not listen, and the same day had him returned to the inner prison, where he remained ten days. He was then taken out, in consequence of the Doctor's promising a piece of broad cloth, and my sending two pieces of handkerchiefs. "About this period, I was one day summoned to the Tlowtdan, in an official way. What new evil was before me, I knew not, but was obliged to go. When arrived, I was allowed to _stand_ at the bottom of the stairs, as no female is permitted to ascend the steps, or even to stand, but sit on the ground. Hundreds were collected around. The officer who presided, in an authoritative voice, began; 'Speak the truth in answer to the questions I shall ask. If you speak true, no evil will follow; but if not, your life will not be spared. It is reported that you have committed to the care of a Burmese officer, a string of pearls, a pair of diamond ear-rings, and a silver tea-pot. Is it true? 'It is not,' I replied; 'and if you or any other person can produce these articles, I refuse not to die.' The officer again urged the necessity of 'speaking true.' I told him I had nothing more to say on this subject, but begged he would use his influence to obtain the release of Mr. Judson from prison. "I returned to the house, with a heart much lighter than I went, though conscious of my perpetual exposure to such harassments. Notwithstanding the repulse I had met in my application to the queen, I could not remain without making continual effort for your brother's release, while there was the least probability of success. Time after time my visits to the queen's sister-in-law were repeated, till she refused to answer a question, and told me by her looks, I had better keep out of her presence. For the seven following months, hardly a day passed, that I did not visit some one of the members of government, or branches of the royal family, in order to gain their influence in our behalf; but the only benefit resulting was, their encouraging promises preserved us from despair, and induced a hope of the speedy termination of our difficulties, which enabled us to bear our distresses better than we otherwise should have done. I ought, however, to mention, that by my repeated visits to the different members of government, I gained several friends, who were ready to assist me with articles of food, though in a private manner, and who used their influence in the palace to destroy the impression of our being in any way engaged in the present war. But no one dared to speak a word to the king or queen in favor of a foreigner, while there were such continual reports of the success of the English arms. "During these seven months, the continual extortions and oppressions to which your brother, and the other white prisoners were subject, are indescribable. Sometimes sums of money were demanded, sometimes pieces of cloth and handkerchiefs; at other times, an order would be issued, that the white foreigners should not speak to each other, or have any communication with their friends without. Then again, the servants were forbidden to carry in their food, without an extra fee. Sometimes, for days and days together, I could not go into the prison till after dark, when I had two miles to walk, in returning to the house. O how many, many times, have I returned from that dreary prison at nine o'clock at night, solitary and worn out with fatigue and anxiety, and thrown myself down in that same rocking chair which you and Deacon L. provided for me in Boston and endeavoured to invent some new scheme for the release of the prisoners. Sometimes, for a moment or two, my thoughts would glance toward America, and my beloved friends there--but for nearly a year and a half, so entirely engrossed was every thought with present scenes and sufferings, that I seldom reflected on a single occurrence of my former life, or recollected that I had a friend in existence out of Ava. "You, my dear brother, who know my strong attachment to my friends, and how much pleasure I have hitherto experienced from retrospect, can judge from the above circumstances, how intense were my sufferings. But the point, the acme of my distresses, consisted in the awful uncertainty of our final fate. My prevailing opinion was, that my husband would suffer violent death; and that I should, of course, become a slave, and languish out a miserable though short existence, in the tyrannic hands of some unfeeling monster. But the consolations of religion, in these trying circumstances, were neither 'few nor small.' It taught me to look beyond this world, to that rest, that peaceful, happy rest, where Jesus reigns, and oppression never enters. But how have I digressed from my relation. I will again return. "The war was now prosecuted with all the energy the Burmese government possessed. New troops were continually raised and sent down the river, and as frequent reports returned of their being all cut off. But that part of the Burmese army stationed at Arracan, under the command of Bandoola, had been more successful. Three hundred prisoners, at one time, was sent to the capital, as an evidence of the victory that had been gained. The king began to think that none but Bandoola understood the art of fighting with foreigners; consequently his majesty recalled him with the design of his taking command of the army that had been sent to Rangoon. On his arrival at Ava, he was received at court in the most flattering manner, and was the recipient of every favour in the power of the king and queen to bestow. He was, in fact, while at Ava, the acting king. I was resolved to apply to him for the release of the missionaries, though some members of government advised me not, lest he, being reminded of their existence, should issue an immediate order for their execution. But it was my last hope, and as it proved, my last application. "Your brother wrote a petition privately, stating every circumstance that would have a tendency to interest him in our behalf. With fear and trembling I approached him, while surrounded by a crowd of flatterers, and one of his secretaries took the petition, and read it aloud. After hearing it, he spake to me in an obliging manner--asked several questions relative to the teachers--said he would think of the subject--and bade me come again. I ran to the prison to communicate the favourable reception to Mr. Judson; and we both had sanguine hopes that his release was at hand. But the governor of the city expressed his amazement at my temerity, and said he doubted not it would be the means of destroying all the prisoners. In a day or two, however, I went again, and took a present of considerable value. Bandoola was not at home; but his _lady_, after ordering the present to be taken into another room, modestly informed me that she was ordered by her husband to make the following communication--that he was now very busily employed in making preparations for Rangoon; but that when he had re-taken that place and expelled the English, he would return and release all the prisoners. "Thus again were all our hopes dashed; and we felt that we could do nothing more, but sit down and submit to our lot. From this time we gave up all idea of being released from prison, till the termination of the war; but I was still obliged to visit constantly some of the members of government, with little presents, particularly the governor of the city, for the purpose of making the situation of the prisoners tolerable. I generally spent the greater part of every other day at the governor's house, giving him all the information relative to American manners, customs, government, &c. He used to be so much gratified with my communications, as to feel greatly disappointed, if any occurrence prevented my spending the usual hours at his house. "Some months after your brother's imprisonment, I was permitted to make a little bamboo room in the prison enclosures, where he could be much by himself, and where I was sometimes allowed to spend two or three hours. It so happened that the two months he occupied this place, was the coldest part of the year, when he would have suffered much in the open shed he had previously occupied. After the birth of your little niece, I was unable to visit the prison and the governor as before, and found I had lost considerable influence, previously gained; for he was not so forward to hear my petitions when any difficulty occurred, as he formerly had been. When Maria was nearly two months old, her father one morning sent me word that he and all the white prisoners were put into the inner prison in five pairs of fetters each, that his little room had been torn down, and his mat, pillow, &c. been taken by the jailers. This was to me a dreadful shock, as I thought at once it was only a prelude to greater evils. "I should have mentioned before this, the defeat of Bandoola, his escape to Danooboo, the complete destruction of his army and loss of ammunition, and the consternation this intelligence produced at court. The English army had left Rangoon, and were advancing towards Prome, when these severe measures were taken with the prisoners. "I went immediately to the governor's house. He was not at home, but had ordered his wife to tell me, when I came, not to ask to have the additional fetters taken off, or the prisoners released, for _it could not be done_. I went to the prison gate, but was forbid to enter. All was as still as death--not a white face to be seen, or a vestige of Mr. J.'s little room remaining. I was determined to see the governor and know the cause of this additional oppression; and for this purpose returned to town the same evening, at an hour I knew he would be at home. He was in his audience room, and, as I entered, looked up without speaking, but exhibited a mixture of shame and affected anger in his countenance. I began by saying--Your Lordship has hitherto treated us with the kindness of a father. Our obligations to you are very great. We have looked to you for protection from oppression and cruelty. You have in many instances mitigated the sufferings of those unfortunate, though innocent beings, committed to your charge. You have promised me particularly, that you would stand by me to the last, and though you should receive an order from the king, you would not put Mr. J. to death. What crime has he committed to deserve such additional punishment? The old man's hard heart was melted, for he wept like a child. 'I pity you, Tsa-yar-ga-dau, (a name by which he always called me) I knew you would make me feel; I therefore forbade your application. But you must believe me when I say, I do not wish to increase the sufferings of the prisoners. When I am ordered to execute them, the least that I can do is, to put them out of sight. I will now tell you (continued he) what I have never told you before, that three times I have received intimations from the queen's brother, to assassinate all the white prisoners privately; but I would not do it. And I now repeat it, though I execute all the others, I will never execute your husband. But I cannot release him from his present confinement, and you must not ask it.' I had never seen him manifest so much feeling, or so resolute in denying me a favour, which circumstance was an additional reason for thinking dreadful scenes were before us. "The situation of the prisoners was now distressing beyond description. It was at the commencement of the hot season. There were above a hundred prisoners shut up in one room, without a breath of air excepting from the cracks in the boards. I sometimes obtained permission to go to the door for five minutes, when my heart sickened at the wretchedness exhibited. The white prisoners, from incessant perspiration and loss of appetite, looked more like the dead than the living. I made daily applications to the governor, offering him money, which he refused; but all that I gained, was permission for the foreigners to eat their food outside, and this continued but a short time. "It was at this period that the death of Bandoola was announced in the palace. The king heard it with silent amazement, and the queen, in eastern style, smote upon her breast, and cried, ama! ama! (alas, alas.) Who could be found to fill his place? who would venture since the invincible Bandoola had been cut off? Such were the exclamations constantly heard in the streets of Ava. The common people were speaking _low_ of a rebellion, in case more troops should be levied. For as yet the common people had borne the weight of the war, not a tickal had been taken from the royal treasury. At length the Pakan Woon, who a few months before had been so far disgraced by the king as to be thrown into prison and irons, now offered himself to head a new army that should be raised on a different plan from those which had been hitherto raised; and assured the king in the most confident manner, that he would conquer the English, and restore those places that had been taken, in a very short time. He proposed that every soldier should receive a hundred tickals in advance, and he would obtain security for each man, as the money was to pass through his hands. It was afterwards found that he had taken, for his own use, ten tickals from every hundred. He was a man of enterprise and talents, though a violent enemy to all foreigners. His offers were accepted by the king and government, and all power immediately committed to him. One of the first exercises of his power was, to arrest Lansago and the Portuguese priest, who had hitherto remained unmolested, and cast them into prison, and to subject the native Portuguese and Bengalees to the most menial occupations. The whole town was in alarm, lest they should feel the effects of his power; and it was owing to the malignant representations of this man, that the white prisoners suffered such a change in their circumstances, as I shall soon relate. "After continuing in the inner prison for more than a month, your brother was taken with a fever. I felt assured he would not live long, unless removed from that noisome place. To effect this, and in order to be near the prison, I removed from our house and put up a small bamboo room in the governor's enclosure, which was nearly opposite the prison gate. Here I incessantly begged the governor to give me an order to take Mr. J. out of the large prison, and place him in a more comfortable situation; and the old man, being worn out with my entreaties, at length gave me the order in an official form; and also gave orders to the head jailer, to allow me to go in and out, all times of the day, to administer medicines, &c. I now felt happy indeed, and had Mr. J. instantly removed into a little bamboo hovel, so low, that neither of us could stand upright--but a palace in comparison with the place he had left. _Removal of the prisoners to Oung-pen-la--Mrs. Judson follows them._ "Notwithstanding the order the governor had given for my admittance into prison, it was with the greatest difficulty that I could persuade the under jailer to open the gate. I used to carry Mr. J's. food myself, for the sake of getting in, and would then remain an hour or two, unless driven out. We had been in this comfortable situation but two or three days, when one morning, having carried in Mr. Judson's breakfast, which, in consequence of fever, he was unable to take, I remained longer than usual, when the governor in great haste sent for me. I promised him to return as soon as I had ascertained the governor's will, he being much alarmed at this unusual message. I was very agreeably disappointed, when the governor informed, that he only wished to consult me about his watch, and seemed unusually pleasant and conversable. I found afterwards, that his only object was, to detain me until the dreadful scene, about to take place in the prison, was over. For when I left him to go to my room, one of the servants came running, and with a ghastly countenance informed me, that all the white prisoners were carried away. I would not believe the report, but instantly went back to the governor, who said he had just heard of it, but did not wish to tell me. I hastily ran into the street, hoping to get a glimpse of them before they were out of sight, but in this was disappointed. I ran first into one street, then another, inquiring of all I met, but none would answer me. At length an old woman told me the white prisoners had gone towards the little river; for they were to be carried to Amarapora. I then ran to the banks of the little river, about half a mile, but saw them not, and concluded the old woman had deceived me. Some of the friends of the foreigners went to the place of execution, but found them not. I then returned to the governor to try to discover the cause of their removal, and the probability of their future fate. The old man assured me that he was ignorant of the intention of government to remove the foreigners till that morning. That since I went out, he had learned that the prisoners were to be sent to Amarapora; but for what purpose, he knew not. 'I will send off a man immediately,' said he, 'to see what is to be done with them. You can do nothing more for your husband,' continued he, '_take care of yourself_.' With a heavy heart I went to my room, and having no hope to excite me to exertion, I sunk down almost in despair. For several days previous, I had been actively engaged in building my own little room, and making our hovel comfortable. My thoughts had been almost entirely occupied in contriving means to get into prison. But now I looked towards the gate with a kind of melancholy feeling, but no wish to enter. All was the stillness of death; no preparation of your brother's food, no expectation of meeting him at the usual dinner hour, all my employment, all my occupations seemed to have ceased, and I had nothing left but the dreadful recollection that Mr. Judson was carried off, I knew not whither. It was one of the most insupportable days I ever passed. Towards night, however, I came to the determination to set off the next morning for Amarapora; and for this purpose was obliged to go to our house out of town. "Never before had I suffered so much from fear in traversing the streets of Ava. The last words of the governor, 'Take care of yourself,' made me suspect there was some design with which I was unacquainted. I saw, also, he was afraid to have me go into the streets, and advised me to wait till dark, when he would send me in a cart, and a man to open the gates. I took two or three trunks of the most valuable articles, together with the medicine chest, to deposit in the house of the governor; and after committing the house and premises to our faithful Moung Ing and a Bengalee servant, who continued with us, (though we were unable to pay his wages,) I took leave, as I then thought probable, of our house in Ava forever. "On my return to the governor's, I found a servant of Mr. Gouges, who happened to be near the prison when the foreigners were led out, and followed on to see the end, who informed me, that the prisoners had been carried before the Lamine Woon, at Amarapora, and were to be sent the next day to a village he knew not how far distant. My distress was a little relieved by the intelligence that our friend was yet alive, but still I knew not what was to become of him. The next morning I obtained a pass from government, and with my little Maria, who was then only three months old, Mary and Abby Hasseltine, (two of the Burman children) and our Bengalee cook, who was the only one of the party who could afford me any assistance, I set off for Amarapora. The day was dreadfully hot; but we obtained a covered boat, in which we were tolerably comfortable, till within two miles of the government house. I then procured a cart; but the violent motion, together with the dreadful heat and dust; made me almost distracted. But what was my disappointment on my arriving at the court house, to find that the prisoners had been sent on two hours before, and that I must go in that uncomfortable mode four miles further with little Maria in my arms, whom I held all the way from Ava. The cart man refused to go any further; and after waiting an hour in the burning sun, I procured another, and set off for that never to be forgotten place, Oung-pen-la. I obtained a guide from the governor and was conducted directly to the prison-yard. But what a scene of wretchedness was presented to my view! The prison was an old shattered building, without a roof; the fence was entirely destroyed; eight or ten Burmese were on the top of the building, trying to make something like a shelter with the leaves; while under a little low projection outside of the prison sat the foreigners, chained together two and two, almost dead with suffering and fatigue. The first words of your brother were, 'Why have you come? I hoped you would not follow, for you cannot live here.' It was now dark. I had no refreshment for the suffering prisoners, or for myself, as I had expected to procure all that was necessary at the market of Amarapora, and I had no shelter for the night. I asked one of the jailers if I might put up a little bamboo house near the prisoners; he said no, it was not customary. I then begged he would procure me a shelter for the night, when on the morrow I could find some place to live in. He took me to his house, in which there were only two small rooms--one in which he and his family lived--the other, which was then half full of grain, he offered to me; and in that little filthy place, I spent the next six months of wretchedness. I procured some half boiled water, instead of my tea, and, worn out with fatigue, laid myself down on a mat spread over the paddy, and endeavoured to obtain a little refreshment from sleep. The next morning your brother gave me the following account of the brutal treatment he had received on being taken out of prison. "As soon as I had gone out at the call of the governor, one of the jailers rushed into Mr. J's little room--roughly seized him by the arm--pulled him out--stripped him of all his clothes, excepting shirt and pantaloons--took his shoes, hat, and all his bedding--tore off his chains--tied a rope round his waist, and dragged him to the court house, where the other prisoners had previously been taken. They were then tied two and two, and delivered into the hands of the Lamine Woon, who went on before them on horseback, while his slaves drove the prisoners, one of the slaves holding the rope which connected two of them together. It was in May, one of the hottest months in the year, and eleven o'clock in the day, so that the sun was intolerable indeed. They had proceeded only half a mile, when your brother's feet became blistered, and so great was his agony, even at this early period, that as they were crossing the little river, he longed to throw himself into the water to be free from misery. But the sin attached to such an act alone prevented. They had then eight miles to walk. The sand and gravel were like burning coals to the feet of the prisoners, which soon became perfectly destitute of skin; and in this wretched state they were goaded on by their unfeeling drivers. Mr. J.'s debilitated state, in consequence of fever, and having taken no food that morning, rendered him less capable of bearing such hardships than the other prisoners. When about half way on their journey, as they stopped for water, your brother begged the Lamine Woon to allow him to ride his horse a mile or two, as he could proceed no farther in that dreadful state. But a scornful, malignant look, was all the reply that was made. He then requested captain Laird, who was tied with him, and who was a strong, healthy man, to allow him to take hold of his shoulder, as he was fast sinking. This the kind-hearted man granted for a mile or two, but then found the additional burden insupportable. Just at that period, Mr. Gouger's Bengalee servant came up to them, and seeing the distresses of your brother, took off his head dress, which was made of cloth, tore it in two, gave half to his master, and half to Mr. Judson, which he instantly wrapt round his wounded feet, as they were not allowed to rest even for a moment. The servant then offered his shoulder to Mr. J. and was almost carried by him the remainder of the way. Had it not been for the support and assistance of this man, your brother thinks he should have shared the fate of the poor Greek, who was one of their number, and when taken out of prison that morning was in perfect health. But he was a corpulent man, and the sun affected him so much that he fell down on the way. His inhuman drivers beat and dragged him until they themselves were wearied, when they procured a cart, in which he was carried the remaining two miles. But the poor creature expired in an hour or two after their arrival at the court house. The Lamine Woon seeing the distressing state of the prisoners, and that one of their number was dead, concluded they should go no farther that night, otherwise they would have been driven on until they reached Oung-pen-la the same day. An old shed was appointed for their abode during the night, but without even a mat or pillow, or any thing to cover them. The curiosity of the Lamine Woon's wife, induced her to make a visit to the prisoners, whose wretchedness considerably excited her compassion, and she ordered some fruit, sugar, and tamarinds, for their refreshment; and the next morning rice was prepared for them, and as poor as it was, it was refreshing to the prisoners, who had been almost destitute of food the day before. Carts were also provided for their conveyance, as none of them were able to walk. All this time the foreigners were entirely ignorant of what was to become of them; and when they arrived at Oung-pen-la, and saw the dilapidated state of the prison, they immediately, all as one, concluded that they were there to be burnt, agreeably to the report which had previously been in circulation at Ava. They all endeavoured to prepare themselves for the awful scene anticipated, and it was not until they saw preparations making for repairing the prison, that they had the least doubt that a cruel lingering death awaited them. My arrival was in an hour or two after this. "The next morning I arose and endeavoured to find something like food. But there was no market, and nothing to be procured. One of Dr. Price's friends, however, brought some cold rice and vegetable curry, from Amarapora, which, together with a cup of tea from Mr. Lansago, answered for the breakfast of the prisoners; and for dinner, we made a curry of dried salt fish, which a servant of Mr. Gouger had brought. All the money I could command in the world, I had brought with me, secreted about my person; so you may judge what our prospects were, in case the war should continue long. But our heavenly Father was better to us than our fears; for notwithstanding the constant extortions of the jailers, during the whole six months we were at Oung-pen-la, and the frequent straits to which we were brought, we never really suffered for the want of money, though frequently for want of provisions, which were not procurable. Here at this place my personal bodily sufferings commenced. While your brother was confined in the city prison, I had been allowed to remain in our house, in which I had many conveniences left, and my health continued good beyond all expectations. But now I had not a single article of convenience--not even a chair or seat of any kind, excepting a bamboo floor. The very morning after my arrival, Mary Hasseltine was taken with the small pox, the natural way. She, though very young, was the only assistant I had in taking care of little Maria. But she now required all the time I could spare from Mr. Judson, whose fever still continued in prison, and whose feet were so dreadfully mangled, that for several days he was unable to move. I knew not what to do, for I could procure no assistance from the neighbourhood, or medicine for the sufferers, but was all day long going backwards and forwards from the house to the prison, with little Maria in my arms. Sometimes I was greatly relieved by leaving her, for an hour, when asleep, by the side of her father, while I returned to the house to look after Mary, whose fever ran so high as to produce delirium. She was so completely covered with the small pox, that there was no distinction in the pustules. As she was in the same little room with myself, I knew Maria would take it; I therefore inoculated her from another child, before Mary's had arrived at such a state as to be infectious. At the same time, I inoculated Abby, and the jailer's children, who all had it so lightly as hardly to interrupt their play. But the inoculation in the arm of my poor little Maria did not take--she caught it of Mary, and had it the natural way. She was then only three months and a half old, and had been a most healthy child; but it was above three months before she perfectly recovered from the effects of this dreadful disorder. "You will recollect I never had the small pox, but was vaccinated previously to leaving America. In consequence of being for so long a time constantly exposed, I had nearly a hundred pustules formed, though no previous symptoms of fever, &c. The jailer's children having had the small pox so lightly, in consequence of inoculation, my fame was spread all over the village, and every child, young and old, who had not previously had it, was brought for inoculation. And although I knew nothing about the disorder, or the mode of treating it, I inoculated them all with a needle, and told them to take care of their diet,--all the instructions I could give them. Mr. Judson's health was gradually restored, and he found himself much more comfortably situated, than when in the city prison. "The prisoners were at first chained two and two; but as soon as the jailers could obtain chains sufficient, they were separated, and each prisoner had but one pair. The prison was repaired, a new fence made, and a large airy shed erected in front of the prison, where the prisoners were allowed to remain during the day, though locked up in the little close prison at night. All the children recovered from the small pox; but my watchings and fatigue, together with my miserable food, and more miserable lodgings, brought on one of the diseases of the country, which is almost always fatal to foreigners. My constitution seemed destroyed, and in a few days I became so weak as to be hardly able to walk to Mr. Judson's prison. In this debilitated state, I set off in a cart for Ava, to procure medicines, and some suitable food, leaving the cook to supply my place. I reached the house in safety, and for two or three days the disorder seemed at a stand; after which it attacked me so violently, that I had no hopes of recovery left--and my only anxiety now was, to return to Oung-pen-la to die near the prison. It was with the greatest difficulty that I obtained the medicine chest from the governor, and then had no one to administer medicine. I however got at the laudanum, and by taking two drops at a time for several hours, it so far checked the disorder, as to enable me to get on board a boat, though so weak that I could not stand, and again set off for Oung-pen-la. The last four miles was in that painful conveyance, the cart, and in the midst of the rainy season, when the mud almost buries the oxen. You may form some idea of a Burmese cart, when I tell you their wheels are not constructed like ours; but are simply round thick planks with a hole in the middle, through which a pole that supports the body is thrust. "I just reached Oung-pen-la when my strength seemed entirely exhausted. The good native cook came out to help me into the house but so altered and emaciated was my appearance, that the poor fellow burst into tears at the first sight. I crawled on to the mat in the little room, to which I was confined for more than two months, and never perfectly recovered, until I came to the English camp. At this period, when I was unable to take care of myself, or look after Mr. Judson, we must both have died, had it not been for the faithful and affectionate care of our Bengalee cook. A common Bengalee cook will do nothing but the simple business of cooking: But he seemed to forget his cast, and almost his own wants, in his efforts to serve us. He would provide, cook, and carry your brother's food, and then return and take care of me. I have frequently known him not to taste of food till near night, in consequence of having to go so far for wood and water, and in order to have Mr. Judson's dinner ready at the usual hour. He never complained, never asked for his wages, and never for a moment hesitated to go any where, or to perform any act we required. I take great pleasure in speaking of the faithful conduct of this servant, who is still with us, and I trust has been well rewarded for his services. "Our dear little Maria was the greatest sufferer at this time, my illness depriving her of her usual nourishment, and neither a nurse nor a drop of milk could be procured in the village. By making presents to the jailers, I obtained leave for Mr. Judson to come out of prison, and take the emaciated creature around the village, to beg a little nourishment from those mothers who had young children. Her cries in the night were heart-rending, when it was impossible to supply her wants. I now began to think the very afflictions of Job had come upon me. When in health, I could bear the various trials and vicissitudes through which I was called to pass. But to be confined with sickness, and unable to assist those who were so dear to me, when in distress, was almost too much for me to bear; and had it not been for the consolations of religion, and an assured conviction that every additional trial was ordered by infinite love and mercy, I must have sunk under my accumulated sufferings. Sometimes our jailers seemed a little softened at our distress, and for several days together allowed Mr. Judson to come to the house, which was to me an unspeakable consolation. Then again they would be as iron-hearted in their demands, as though we were free from sufferings, and in affluent circumstances. The annoyance, the extortions, and oppressions, to which we were subject, during our six months residence in Oung-pen-la, are beyond enumeration or description. "It was some time after our arrival at Oung-pen-la, that we heard of the execution of the Pakan Woon, in consequence of which our lives were still preserved. For we afterwards ascertained, that the white foreigners had been sent to Oung-pen-la, for the express purpose of sacrificing them, and that he himself intended witnessing the horrid scene. We had frequently heard of his intended arrival at Oung-pen-la; but we had no idea of his diabolical purposes. He had raised an army of fifty thousand men, (a tenth part of whose advanced pay was found in his house,) and expected to march against the English army in a short time, when he was suspected of high treason, and instantly executed without the least examination. Perhaps no death in Ava ever produced such universal rejoicings, as that of the Pakan Woon. We never, to this day, hear his name mentioned, but with an epithet of reproach or hatred. Another brother of the king was appointed to the command of the army now in readiness, but with no very sanguine expectations of success. Some weeks after the departure of these troops, two of the Woongyees were sent down for the purpose of negotiating. But not being successful, the queen's brother, the _acting king_ of the country, was prevailed on to go. Great expectations were raised in consequence; but his cowardice induced him to encamp his detachment of the army at a great distance from the English, and even at a distance from the main body of the Burmese army, whose head-quarters were then at Maloun. Thus he effected nothing, though reports were continually reaching us, that peace was nearly concluded. "The time at length arrived for our release from that detested place, the Oung-pen-la prison. A messenger from our friend, the governor of the north gate of the palace, who was formerly Koung-tone, Myoo-tsa, informed us that an order had been given, the evening before, in the palace, for Mr. Judson's release. On the same evening an official order arrived; and with a joyful heart I set about preparing for our departure early the following morning. But an unexpected obstacle occurred, which made us fear that _I_ should still be retained as a prisoner. The avaricious jailers, unwilling to lose their prey, insisted, that as my name was not included in the order, I should not go. In vain I urged that I was not sent there as a prisoner, and that they had no authority over me--they still determined I should not go, and forbade the villagers from letting me a cart. Mr. Judson was then taken out of prison, and brought to the jailer's house, where, by promises and threatenings, he finally gained their consent, on condition that we would leave the remaining part of our provisions we had recently received from Ava. It was noon before we were allowed to depart. When we reached Amarapora, Mr. Judson was obliged to follow the guidance of the jailer, who conducted him to the governor of the city. Having made all necessary inquiries, the governor appointed another guard, which conveyed Mr. Judson to the court-house in Ava, to which place he arrived some time in the night. I took my own course, procured a boat, and reached our house before dark. "My first object the next morning, was to go in search of your brother, and I had the mortification to meet him again in prison, though not the death prison. I went immediately to my old friend the governor of the city, who now was raised to the rank of a Woongyee. He informed me that Mr. Judson was to be sent to the Burmese camp, to act as translator and interpreter; and that he was put in confinement for a short time only, till his affairs were settled. Early the following morning I went to this officer again, who told me that Mr. Judson had that moment received twenty tickals from government, with orders to go immediately on board a boat for Maloun, and that _he_ had given him permission to stop a few moments at the house, it being on his way. I hastened back to the house, where Mr. Judson soon arrived; but was allowed to remain only a short time, while I could prepare food and clothing for future use. He was crowded into a little boat, where he had not room sufficient to lie down, and where his exposure to the cold damp nights threw him into a violent fever, which had nearly ended all his sufferings. He arrived at Maloun on the third day, where, ill as he was, he was obliged to enter immediately on the work of translating. He remained at Maloun six weeks, suffering as much as he had at any time in prison, excepting he was not in irons, nor exposed to the insults of those cruel jailers. "For the first fortnight after his departure, my anxiety was less than it had been at any time previous, since the commencement of our difficulties. I knew the Burmese officers at the camp would feel the value of Mr. Judson's services too much to allow their using any measures threatening his life. I thought his situation, also, would be much more comfortable than it really was--hence my anxiety was less. But my health, which had never been restored, since that violent attack at Oung-pen-la, now daily declined, till I was seized with the spotted fever, with all its attendant horrors. I knew the nature of the fever from its commencement; and from the shattered state of my constitution, together with the want of medical attendants, I concluded it must be fatal. The day I was taken, a Burmese nurse came and offered her services for Maria. This circumstance filled me with gratitude and confidence in God; for though I had so long and so constantly made efforts to obtain a person of this description, I had never been able; when at the very time I most needed one, and with out any exertion, a voluntary offer was made. My fever raged violently and without any intermission. I began to think of settling my worldly affairs, and of committing my dear little Maria to the care of a Portuguese woman, when I lost my reason, and was insensible to all around me. At this dreadful period, Dr. Price was released from prison; and hearing of my illness, obtained permission to come and see me. He has since told me that my situation was the most distressing he had ever witnessed, and that he did not then think I should survive many hours. My hair was shaved, my head and feet covered with blisters, and Dr. Price ordered the Bengalee servant who took care of me, to endeavour to persuade me to take a little nourishment, which I had obstinately refused for several days. One of the first things I recollect was, seeing this faithful servant standing by me, trying to induce me to take a little wine and water. I was in fact so far gone, that the Burmese neighbours who had come in to see me expire, said, 'She is dead; and if the king of angels should come in, he could not recover her.' "The fever, I afterwards understood, had run seventeen days when the blisters were applied. I now began to recover slowly; but it was more than a month after this before I had strength to stand. While in this weak, debilitated state, the servant who had followed your brother to the Burmese camp, came in, and informed me that his master had arrived, and was conducted to the court-house in town. I sent off a Burman to watch the movements of government, and to ascertain, if possible, in what way Mr. Judson was to be disposed of. He soon returned with the sad intelligence, that he saw Mr. Judson go out of the palace yard, accompanied by two or three Burmans, who conducted him to one of the prisons; and that it was reported in town, that he was to be sent back to the Oung-pen-la prison. I was too weak to bear ill tidings of any kind; but a shock so dreadful as this, almost annihilated me. For some time, I could hardly breathe; but at last gained sufficient composure to dispatch Moung Ing to our friend, the governor of the north gate, and begged him to make _one more effort_ for the release of Mr. Judson, and prevent his being sent back to the country prison, where I knew he must suffer much, as I could not follow. Moung Ing then went in search of Mr. Judson; and it was nearly dark when he found him in the interior of an obscure prison. I had sent food early in the afternoon, but being unable to find him, the bearer had returned with it, which added another pang to my distresses, as I feared he was already sent to Oung-pen-la. "If I ever felt the value and efficacy of prayer, I did at this time. I could not rise from my couch; I could make no efforts to secure my husband; I could only plead with that great and powerful Being who has said, 'Call upon me in the day of trouble, and _I will hear_, and thou shalt glorify me;'" and who made me at this time feel so powerfully this promise, that I became quite composed, feeling assured that my prayers would be answered. "When Mr. Judson was sent from Maloun to Ava, it was within five minutes' notice, and without his knowledge of the cause. On his way up the river, he accidently saw the communication made to government respecting him, which was simply this: 'We have no further use for Yoodathan, we therefore return him to the golden city.' On arriving at the court-house, there happened to be no one present who was acquainted with Mr. J. The presiding officer inquired from what place he had been sent to Maloun. He was answered from Oung-pen-la. Let him then, said the officer, be returned thither--when he was delivered to a guard and conducted to the place above-mentioned, there to remain until he could be conveyed to Oung-pen-la. In the mean time the governor of the north gate presented a petition to this high court of the empire, offered himself as Mr. Judson's security, obtained his release, and took him to his house, where he treated him with every possible kindness, and to which I was removed as soon as returning health would allow. "The rapid strides of the English army towards the capital at this time, threw the whole town into the greatest state of alarm, and convinced the government that some speedy measures must be taken to save the golden city. They had hitherto rejected all the overtures of Sir Archibald Campbell, imagining, until this late period, that they could in some way or other, drive the English from the country. Mr. Judson and Dr. Price were daily called to the court-house and consulted; in fact, nothing was done without their approbation. Two English officers, also, who had lately been brought to Ava as prisoners, were continually consulted, and their good offices requested in endeavouring to persuade the British General to make peace on easier terms. It was finally concluded that Mr. Judson and one of the officers above-mentioned, should be sent immediately to the English camp, in order to negotiate. The danger attached to a situation so responsible, under a government so fickle as the Burmese, induced your brother to use every means possible to prevent his being sent. Dr. Price was not only willing, but desirous of going; this circumstance Mr. Judson represented to the members of government, and begged he might not be compelled to go, as Dr. Price could transact this business equally as well as himself. After some hesitation and deliberation, Dr. Price was appointed to accompany Dr. Sandford, one of the English officers, on condition that Mr. Judson would stand security for his return; while the other English officer, then in irons, should be security for Dr. Sandford. The king gave them a hundred tickals each, to bear their expenses, (twenty-five of which Dr. Sandford generously sent to Mr. Gouger, still a prisoner at Oung-pen-la,) boats, men, and a Burmese officer, to accompany them, though he ventured no farther than the Burman camp. With the most anxious solicitude the court waited the arrival of the messengers, but did not in the least relax in their exertions to fortify the city. Men and beasts were at work night and day, making new stockades and strengthening old ones, and whatever buildings were in their way were immediately torn down. Our house, with all that surrounded it, was levelled to the ground, and our beautiful little compound turned into a road and a place for the erection of cannon. All articles of value were conveyed out of town and safely deposited in some other place. "At length the boat in which the ambassadors had been sent was seen approaching a day earlier than was expected. As it advanced towards the city, the banks were lined by thousands, anxiously inquiring their success. But no answer was given--the government must first hear the news. The palace gates were crowded, the officers at the Tlowtdau were seated, when Dr. Price made the following communication: 'The general and commissioners will make no alteration in their terms, except the hundred lacks (a lack is a hundred thousand) of rupees, may be paid at four different times. The first twenty-five lacks to be paid within twelve days, or the army will continue their march.' In addition to this, the prisoners were to be given up immediately. The general had commissioned Dr. Price to demand Mr. Judson and myself and little Maria. This was communicated to the king, who replied, 'They are not English, they are my people, and shall not go.' At this time, I had no idea that we should ever be released from Ava. The government had learned the value of your brother's services, having employed him the last three months; and we both concluded they would never consent to our departure. The foreigners were again called to a consultation, to see what could be done. Dr. Price and Mr. Judson told them plainly that the English would never make peace on any other terms than those offered, and that it was in vain to go down again without the money. It was then proposed that a third part of the first sum demanded should he sent down immediately. Mr. Judson objected, and still said it would be useless. Some of the members of government then intimated that it was probable the teachers were on the side of the English, and did not try to make them take a smaller sum; and also threatened if they did not make the English comply, they and their families should suffer. "In this interval, the fears of the government were considerably allayed, by the offers of a general, by name Layarthoo-yah, who desired to make one more attempt to conquer the English, and disperse them. He assured the king and government, that he could so fortify the ancient city of Pagan, as to make it impregnable; and that he would there defeat and destroy the English. His offers were heard, he marched to Pagan with a very considerable force, and made strong the fortifications. But the English took the city with perfect ease, and dispersed the Burmese army; while the general fled to Ava, and had the presumption to appear in the presence of the king, and demand new troops. The king being enraged that he had ever listened to him for a moment, in consequence of which the negotiation had been delayed, the English general provoked, and the troops daily advancing, that he ordered the general to be immediately executed! The poor fellow was soon hurled from the palace, and beat all the way to the court-house--when he was stripped of his rich apparel, bound with cords, and made to kneel and bow towards the palace. He was then delivered into the hands of the executioners, who, by their cruel treatment, put an end to his existence, before they reached the place of execution. "The king caused it to be reported, that this general was executed, in consequence of disobeying his commands, '_not to fight the English_.' "Dr. Price was sent off the same night, with part of the prisoners, and with instructions to persuade the general to take six lacks instead of twenty-five. He returned in two or three days with the appalling intelligence, that the English general was very angry, refused to have any communication with him, and was now within a few days' march of the capital. The queen was greatly alarmed, and said the money should be raised immediately, if the English would only stop their march. The whole palace was in motion, gold and silver vessels were melted up, the king and queen superintended the weighing of a part of it, and were determined, if possible, to save their city. The silver was ready in the boats by the next evening; but they had so little confidence in the English, that after all their alarm, they concluded to send down six lacks only, with the assurance that if the English would stop where they then were, the remainder should be forthcoming immediately. "The government now did not even ask Mr. Judson the question whether he would go or not; but some officers took him by the arm as he was walking in the street, and told him he must go immediately on board the boat, to accompany two Burmese officers, a Woongyee and Woondouk, who were going down to make peace. Most of the English prisoners were sent at the same time. The general and commissioners would not receive the six lacks, neither would they stop their march; but promised, if the sum complete reached them before they should arrive at Ava, they would make peace. The general also commissioned Mr. Judson to collect the remaining foreigners, of whatever country, and ask the question before the Burmese government, whether they wished to go or stay. Those who expressed a wish to go should be delivered up immediately, or peace would not be made. "Mr. Judson reached Ava at midnight; had all the foreigners called the next morning, and the question asked. Some of the members of government said to him, 'You will not leave us--you shall become a great man if you will remain.' He then secured himself from the odium of saying that he wished to leave the service of his majesty by recurring to the order of Sir Archibald, that whoever wished to leave Ava should be given up, and that I had expressed a wish to go, so that he of course must follow. The remaining part of the twenty-five lacks was soon collected; the prisoners at Oung-pen-la were all released, and either sent to their houses, or down the river to the English; and in two days from the time of Mr. Judson's return, we took an affectionate leave of the good natured officer who had so long entertained us at his house, and who now accompanied us to the water side, and we then left forever the banks of Ava. It was on a cool, moonlight evening, in the month of March, that with hearts filled with gratitude to God, and overflowing with joy at our prospects, we passed down the Irrawaddy, surrounded by six or eight golden boats, and accompanied by all we had on earth. The thought that we had still to pass the Burman camp, would sometimes occur to damp our joy, for we feared that some obstacle might there arise to retard our progress. Nor were we mistaken in our conjectures. We reached the camp about midnight, where we were detained two hours; the Woongyee, and high officers, insisting that _we_ should wait at the camp, while Dr. Price, (who did not return to Ava with your brother, but remained at the camp,) should go on with the money and first ascertain whether peace would be made. The Burmese government still entertained the idea, that as soon as the English had received the money and prisoners, they would continue their march, and yet destroy the capital. We knew not but that some circumstance might occur to break off the negotiations; Mr. Judson, therefore strenuously insisted that he would not remain, but go on immediately. The officers were finally prevailed on to consent, hoping much from Mr. Judson's assistance in making peace. "We now, for the first time, for more than a year and a half, felt that we were free, and no longer subject to the oppressive yoke of the Burmese. And with what sensations of delight, on the next morning, did I behold the masts of the steam-boat, the sure presage of being within the bounds of civilized life. As soon as our boat reached the shore, brigadier A. and another officer came on board, congratulated us on our arrival, and invited us on board the steam-boat, where I passed the remainder of the day; while your brother went on to meet the general, who, with a detachment of the army, had encamped at Yandaboo, a few miles further down the river. Mr. Judson returned in the evening, with an invitation from Sir Archibald, to come immediately to his quarters, where I was the next morning introduced, and received with the greatest kindness by the general, who had a tent pitched for us near his own--took us to his own table, and treated us with the kindness of a father, rather than as strangers of another country. "We feel that our obligations to general Campbell can never be cancelled. Our final release from Ava, and our recovering all the property that had there been taken, was owing entirely to his efforts. This subsequent hospitality and kind attention to the accommodations for our passage to Rangoon, have left an indelible impression on our minds, which can never be forgotten. We daily received the congratulation of the British officers, whose conduct towards us formed a striking contrast to that of the Burmese. I presume to say, that no persons on earth were ever happier than we were, during the fortnight we passed at the English camp. For several days, this single idea wholly occupied my mind, that we were out of the power of the Burmese government, and once more under the protection of the English. Our feelings continually dictated expressions like these: _What shall we render to the Lord for all his benefits towards us?_ "The treaty of peace was soon concluded, signed by both parties, and a termination of hostilities publicly declared. We left Yandaboo, after a fortnight's residence, and safely reached the mission house in Rangoon, after an absence of two years and three months. "A review of our trip to, and adventures in, Ava, often, excites the inquiry, Why were we permitted to go? What good has been effected? Why did I not listen to the advice of friends in Bengal, and remain there till the war was concluded? But all that we can say is, _It is not in man that walketh to direct his steps._ So far as my going round to Rangoon, at the time I did, was instrumental in bringing those heavy afflictions upon us, I can only say, that if I ever acted from a sense of duty in my life, it was at that time; for my conscience would not allow me any peace, when I thought of sending for your brother to come to Calcutta, in prospect of the approaching war. Our society at home have lost no property in consequence of our difficulties; but two years of precious time have been lost to the mission, unless some future advantage may be gained, in consequence of the severe discipline to which we ourselves have been subject. We are sometimes induced to think, that the lesson we found so very hard to learn, will have a beneficial effect through our lives; and that the mission may, in the end, be advanced rather than retarded. "We should have had no hesitation about remaining in Ava, if no part of the Burmese empire had been ceded to the British. But as it was, we felt it would be an unnecessary exposure, besides the missionary field being much more limited, in consequence of intoleration. We now consider our future missionary prospects as bright indeed; and our only anxiety is, to be once more in that situation where our time will be exclusively devoted to the instruction of the heathen." In a concluding paragraph, dated Amherst, July 27, she adds: "From the date at the commencement of this long letter, you see, my dear brother, that my patience has continued for two months. I have frequently been induced to throw it aside altogether, but feeling assured that you and my other friends are expecting something of this kind I am induced to send it with all its imperfections. This letter, dreadful as are the scenes herein described, gives you but a faint idea of the awful reality. The anguish, the agony of mind, resulting from a thousand little circumstances impossible to delineate on paper, can be known by those only who have been in similar situations. Pray for us, my dear brother and sister, that these heavy afflictions may not be in vain, but may be blessed to our spiritual good, and the advancement of Christ's church among the heathen." At the close of this long and melancholy narrative, we may appropriately introduce the following tribute to the benevolence and talents of Mrs. Judson, written by one of the English prisoners, who were confined at Ava with Mr. Judson. It was published in a Calcutta paper after the conclusion of the war: "Mrs. Judson was the author of those eloquent and forcible appeals to the government, which prepared them by degrees for submission to terms of peace, never expected by any, who knew the hauteur and inflexible pride of the Burman court. "And while on this subject, the overflowing of grateful feelings, on behalf of myself and fellow-prisoners, compel me to add a tribute of public thanks to that amiable and humane female, who, though living at a distance of two miles from our prison, without any means of conveyance, and very feeble in health, forgot her own comfort and infirmity, and almost every day visited us, sought out and administered to our wants, and contributed in every way to alleviate our misery. "While we were left by the government destitute of food, she, with unwearied perseverance, by some means or other, obtained for us a constant supply. "When the tattered state of our clothes evinced the extremity of our distress, she was ever ready to replenish our scanty wardrobe. "When the unfeeling avarice of our keepers confined us inside, or made our feet fast in the stocks, she, like a ministering angel, never ceased her applications to the government, until she was authorized to communicate to us the grateful news of our enlargement, or of a respite from our galling oppressions. "Besides all this, it was unquestionably owing, in a chief degree, to the repeated eloquence, and forcible appeals of Mrs. Judson, that the untutored Burman was finally made willing to secure the welfare and happiness of his country, by a sincere peace." CHAPTER XX. PERSECUTION OF THE WESLEYAN MISSIONARIES IN THE WEST INDIES. The exertions of Christians to spread the truths of the gospel among the Africans in the West Indies, have met with much opposition from the white population. Moravian missionaries, at first, sold themselves as slaves, and laboured with the negroes on the plantations for the purpose of preaching the gospel during the intervals of labour. The Methodist missionaries have been treated with much indignity, and have had their lives endangered by the violence of the white mob. In 1816, the white rabble of Barbadoes, collected together, and totally destroyed the Methodist chapel. The destruction of the chapel occupied two successive nights, and so listless were the authorities, that no attempt was made to prevent it. And when the governor issued a proclamation, offering a reward to any person who should apprehend the leaders in this outrageous proceeding, the mob immediately issued a counter proclamation, threatening with death any one who should dare to comply with the governor's orders. In August, 1823, an insurrection took place at Demerara, among the negroes, which was most unjustly attributed to the efforts of the missionaries. The principal events in relation to this affair are detailed in the subjoined account from the Missionary Herald. Various accounts have, from time to time, appeared in the public prints, of the insurrection of the slaves in the colony of Demerara, and of the condemnation of the Rev. Mr. Smith, a missionary from the London Missionary Society, on an accusation of having been accessary to the plot. We have collected and embodied such of the leading facts, relative to these transactions, as have come to our knowledge. The slaves of many plantations on the eastern coast of Demerara had formed a conspiracy to obtain their freedom. The plot was disclosed by a servant to his master on the 18th of August; not till the conspiracy was thoroughly organized, and arrangements made to secure simultaneous movements; and only a few hours before the time appointed for action. Information was immediately communicated to the commander-in-chief, and the most efficient measures taken; but before a sufficient force could be assembled to resist a large body of negroes, who were immediately under arms, the evening, which was the time for executing the first grand enterprise, had arrived. This was simultaneously to seize upon the whites at the different plantations, confine them in the stocks, and take possession of their arms. This was effected on nearly fifty plantations, containing, inclusive of women and children, 10 or 12,000 negroes. The whites, to the number of about 250, were imprisoned. In some places an ineffectual resistance was made, and several lives lost on both sides. On the morning of the 19th, the governor issued a proclamation, declaring the colony under martial law, and ordered all who were capable of bearing arms, without distinction, to be immediately enrolled. The most vigorous measures were pursued; and in the course of a few days, after several skirmishes, in which a considerable number of negroes lost their lives, the insurrection was subdued. A court martial was then constituted, and many of the negroes brought to trial, condemned and executed. Subsequent accounts state that more than 1000 had suffered death, in consequence of the insurrection, and that many of their heads had been fixed up on poles in various parts of the country. We might easily be more particular in regard to the circumstances of the insurrection, but our object is chiefly to relate what concerns the missionary who was accused of having a part in the scheme, and the other missionaries in the colony. On these points we have to regret that the information which has yet been received is very scanty and in many respects indefinite. The extract which follows is from the Missionary Chronicle, and was published in the name of the Directors of the London Missionary Society. The insurrection it should seem, manifested itself first in Mahaica, the district to the east of that in which Mr. Smith resides. Its appearance on the Le Ressouvenir estate, where Mr. Smith resides, was on Monday, the 18th August, in consequence of an order to take into custody two slaves belonging to an adjoining plantation, whom the negroes of the Le Ressouvenir, as the prisoners had to pass over it, rose to rescue. Mr. Smith was at home. He successfully used his endeavours, on perceiving the tumult, to rescue the manager from the negroes, and continued his exertions to induce them to return to their duty, till he himself was driven with violence, and with a weapon held to his body, from the estate. Mr. Smith was taken into custody on the evening of the 21st August, and all his papers seized. He is kept a prisoner in the Colony-house, and has, since the 24th of August, had a guard stationed over him. Mr. Elliot, another missionary, who laboured about 20 miles from Mr. Smith, was also taken into custody, on the ground of disobedience of orders, "which he had not understood to be such," in visiting Mr. Smith in his confinement. He was kept about ten days, and then released. No charge was preferred against him. The estates on which he labours had been quiet, and none of the negroes under his instructions were implicated in the rebellion. In a letter to the Directors of the London Missionary Society, Mr Elliot writes thus: Numerous false reports have been sent forth against Mr. Smith, but assure yourself and all the directors, that whatever reports you may hear, the only crime the missionaries have committed is their zeal for the conversion of the negroes. _They have neither been so weak nor so wicked as to excite the negroes to rebellion._ The missionaries want justice only; they have no favour to ask; they have nothing to fear. The missionaries have not degraded their holy calling, nor dishonoured the society of which they are members, by sowing the seeds of rebellion instead of the Word of Life. The real causes of the rebellion are far, very far from being the instructions given by the missionaries. On the 13th of October, Mr. Smith was brought to trial before a _court martial_. All the accounts which we have yet seen of the charges brought against him are very obscure and imperfect. The January number of the Missionary Chronicle, from which we have already quoted, says,-- The public papers have stated four charges as forming the indictment against him, but of their accuracy the directors are not enabled to judge. They trust that, under the direction of Divine Providence, he has been able to prove himself _guiltless_ of them all. It is not, however, to be concealed, that he will have had much to contend with from the violence of public prejudice in the Colony, and it is to be feared from the false assertions of some of the unhappy negroes, whom the hope of favour towards themselves may have led to bring against him "things that he knew not." Indeed, the directors are informed, upon authority on which they can rely, that some of the condemned negroes, finding the hope of life taken away, had in the most solemn manner declared that they had been induced so to act; and that others, on being questioned whether they had not been induced to rebellion by Mr. Smith, had in the strongest terms which their broken language could supply, denied the imputation. It is stated by the writer of one letter, that he has often heard charges circulated against the missionaries, as if spoken by the negroes at the time of their execution, which he knew, (for he was a near spectator,) that they never had uttered. We can as yet learn little more respecting the evidence which was produced before the court than that some of the negroes testified that the instructions of Mr. Smith had a tendency to make them dissatisfied with their condition, and that he knew of the plot before it was carried into execution. He was condemned, and sentenced to _death_. The sentence was however transmitted by the governor, to England, for the consideration and ultimate decision of the king. What we know of the decision will be seen in the following paragraph, copied from the New-York Observer of March 27th. It appears from the London papers, that "the king has remitted the sentence of death of the court martial on Mr. Smith, the missionary of the London Society in Demerara, (which sentence was accompanied by a recommendation for mercy on the part of the court,) but has given orders that he should be dismissed from the colony, and should come under obligations not to reside within any of his majesty's colonial possessions in the West Indies." The charges against Mr. Smith appear to have originated in the perjury of some of the negroes engaged in the insurrection. In the mean time Mr. Smith was languishing under the influence of disease, which rendered the stroke of the executioner unnecessary to remove him from the earth. He died in prison, before the intelligence had arrived that his sentence was reversed. The following notice of his death appeared in the Demerara Courant. _Died,_--In the Colonial Jail, at Demerara, February 9th, where he had been confined, as a state prisoner since the 26th of November last, on the termination of his trial by the general court martial, on a charge of high treason, sentence thereon having been transmitted to his majesty for his final decision--JOHN SMITH, missionary; he had been in a poor state of health, and had been attended regularly by skilful physicians. We are happy to state, from personal inquiry and inspection, that this unhappy man had the utmost attention and kindness shewn to him, by the humane keeper of the prison, (Mr. Padmore,) all the time of his confinement. His apartment was airy and commodious, he had always at his command every comfort which his taste fancied or his necessities required. He has left a widow to deplore his fate, and deplore his loss. The conviction which results from the present state of our information on this subject, is that, through prejudice and exasperated feeling, Mr. Smith was condemned, being innocent. The directors of the society under which he laboured, have, however, given us reason to look for further intelligence in a future number of the Missionary Chronicler, which we hope will soon arrive. It appears that none of the negroes under the instruction of any missionary, either of the London or Wesleyan Missionary Society except Mr. Smith, were implicated in the insurrection. Respecting the Methodists in the colony we quote the following statement from the Wesleyan Methodist Magazine: We stated in our last number, that Messrs. Mortier and Cheesewright, our missionaries in Demerara were safe, and that _only_ two of the members of our society there had been apprehended on suspicion of being implicated in the late revolt. We have received a second letter from Mr. Mortier, dated Demerara, September seventeenth, which communicated the gratifying intelligence that these two persons, who were servants of the governor, had been liberated upon full conviction of their entire innocence, and that _no one_ of the members of our large society of twelve hundred and sixteen, chiefly slaves, had been in the least concerned in the revolt: and that the slaves of another estate, under the care of Mr. Cheesewright, had not only refused to join the rebels, but had conducted their master to a vessel, by which he reached Georgetown in safety. _Case of Rev. John Smith._ The London Missionary Chronicle for March contains a statement respecting Mr. Smith's case, occupying, with accompanying documents nearly twelve pages, which confirms the impression that Mr. Smith was innocent. The Directors of the London Missionary Society, after stating some circumstances relative to his trial, says. The Directors having stated these points of serious objection (and more might easily be found,) to the proceedings on the trial, conclude that the members of the society, and the candid beyond its circle, will approve of their declaring that they retain the conviction formerly expressed, of the moral and legal innocence of their missionary, Smith; that they do not withdraw from him their confidence; and that they are "not ashamed of his bonds." They regard him as an unmerited sufferer, in the diligent and faithful, and it may be added, useful discharge of his duties, as a missionary; and they earnestly wish the Divine forgiveness may be extended to those who may have been instrumental in causing his sufferings. The Rev. Mr. Austin, a clergyman of the church of England, and Chaplain of the Colony, thus expresses his opinion in a private letter. "I feel no hesitation in declaring, from the intimate knowledge which my most anxious inquiries have obtained, that in the late scourge which the hand of an all-wise Creator has inflicted on this ill-fated country, nothing but those religious impressions which, under Providence, Mr. Smith has been instrumental in fixing--nothing but those principles of the gospel of peace which he has been proclaiming--could have prevented a dreadful effusion of blood here, and saved the lives of these very persons who are now (I shudder to write it,) seeking his." The following extract of a letter from William Arrindell, Esq. of Demerara, Mr. Smith's counsel, addressed to Mrs. Smith, after the trial, is also inserted. "It is almost presumptuous in me to differ from the sentence of a Court, but, before God, I do believe Mr. Smith to be innocent; nay, I will go further, and defy any minister, of any sect whatever, to have shewn a more faithful attention to his sacred duties, than he has been proved, by the evidence on his trial, to have done." The Directors had resolved to take further measures for obtaining, in England the reversal of his sentence. This subject was brought before the English parliament, and after a full and fair discussion, the innocence of Mr. Smith was established beyond a question. The following from the London Christian Observer gives an account of the proceedings in Parliament. A debate of two days' continuance on the case of the missionary Smith has taken place in the House of Commons. A motion was made by Mr. Brougham, to express the serious alarm and deep sorrow with which the house contemplated the violation of law and justice, manifested in the unexampled proceedings against Mr. Smith in Demerara, and their sense of the necessity of adopting measures to secure a just and humane administration of law in that colony, and to protect the voluntary instruction of the negroes, as well as the negroes themselves, and the rest of his Majesty's subjects from oppression. This motion was supported by Mr. Brougham with a power of argument and eloquence which has seldom been equalled; and he was followed on the same side by Sir James Mackintosh, Dr. Lushington, Mr. J Williams, Mr. Wilberforce, Mr. Denman, and Sir Joseph Yorke. The motion was opposed by Mr. Horton, Mr. Scarlett, Mr. Tindal, the Attorney General, and Mr. Canning, on the ground, not of the legality of the proceedings, or of the justice of the sentence, but that the motion went to condemn unheard the governor of Demerara, and the court that tried Mr. Smith. On this ground the previous question was moved and carried by 193 to 146, the largest minority in the present session. The division, under all the circumstances of the case may be considered as a triumph. Not an individual attempted to defend the proceedings. In short, nothing could have been more decisive of the innocence of Mr. Smith, and the injustice of his condemnation. _Persecutions of the Wesleyan Methodists in St. Domingo._ We extract from the publications of the Wesleyan Missionary Society, the following account of the aggressions committed upon the Protestant population of Hayti, by the Roman Catholics of that Island, during the year 1824. _Persecutions at Port au Prince._ The following extracts from the journal of Mr. St. Denis, and letters of Mr. Pressoir, members of the Methodist Society at Port au Prince, we copied from the Wesleyan Magazine. The first extracts are from the journal of Mr. St. Denis. On Sunday, Feb. 2d, our assembly was held at Belair. During the morning service several stones were thrown. _Feb. 4._ Whilst we were singing, a shower of stones was thrown, but no one received any injury. That evening (Feb. 7th) we had a small assembly of thirty-two persons. A plan had been laid for apprehending us, which was put in execution. We had time to sing a hymn, read a chapter, and a homily; but whilst singing the second hymn, the noise of the soldiers was so great in approaching our house of prayer, that we were obliged to cease singing. Wishing, however, to continue our meeting, an officer of the police said, "In the name of the law, leave off that prayer!" Then we left off. Not finding J. C. Pressoir, they made me his second. We were taken to general Thomas's, who pretended to be ignorant of the matter. Colonel Victor pretended to be ignorant also. When we reached the house of the _Juge de Paix_, we were ordered to halt for a moment. Colonel Victor knocked at his door, the _Juge de Paix_ asked who we were, and was answered, "A band of methodists." The _Juge de Paix_ said, "Ha! ha! take them to the jail!" Col. Victor replied, "Yes!" We were led to prison, and each of our names was taken. The sisters were put in the debtor's place, and the men were shut up in close confinement. The next morning, the person who keeps the keys of the prison under the jailer told us, that the Juge de Paix would not allow our door to be opened; but the jailer went and spoke respecting it, and our door was opened about nine o'clock. A moment after the Juge de Paix came to visit us, and addressing himself to me in anger, I wished to reply: he would not listen to me; but began to blaspheme religion, despising the Lord. He withdrew in anger, without being able to do any thing with us. A moment after he left us, we were taken into the debtor's prison, near to the sisters, in a separate chamber. When Mr. Pressoir heard of this event, he visited his brethren at the prison. The following extract is from one of his letters. I would not run into prison of my own accord, but having waited, and finding nothing was said to us, I went to see my brethren and sisters. I found there were thirty-two, and St. Denis preparing to write to the president, which he did, and I carried this letter to his excellency, by which we requested him to cause us to be judged, and punished, if we were found guilty by the law. When I arrived under the piazza of the palace, I asked an officer on duty if I could see the president, who answered, Yes. I entered the hall, where I found the president seated, and surrounded by a circle, as well of officers as civilians. After saluting them, I presented the letter to the president, who asked me from whence it came. I replied, "From the methodists who are in prison." His good humour was immediately changed. "Methodists," said he, "I did not know that." Colonel Victor, who was present, thinking that through fear I would wish to conceal myself, addressed himself to the president, saying, "President, this is a methodist," as if the president did not know it. Immediately the president replied, "You are fanatics." "Pardon me, president, we are not." "Why, you have changed your religion." "If I have changed my religion, president, it is the government which has made me do it." "How is that?" said he. "It was the late president who sent for the missionaries. I heard the letter read, and saw the late president's signature: this is what I can tell you." "Enough, enough," said he, "I will send an answer." I went to the prison and waited till it was late; but hearing nothing, and being ill of the fever, I returned to my mother's. The next day orders were given for the brethren and sisters to appear before the chief judge. A dollar was demanded of each on leaving prison, and they were conducted by a single serjeant. On their arrival the chief judge forbade them, in the name of the president, to assemble together again. "No one can hinder you from worshipping God as you please; but let every one abide at home, for as often as you are found assembled you shall be put in prison; and if you unhappily persist, I have received orders to disperse you every where." Several wished to reply, but he refused to listen, saying, "It is not from me; it is not my fault; these orders are given me." All our brethren and sisters went out, animated with a holy zeal, determining not to abandon their assemblies. The next day we were assembled. After an exhortation we sung a hymn which being finished, we kneeled down to pray: a shower of stones came, as if they would have demolished the house, and have stoned us like Stephen. With one accord we commended ourselves to our faithful Creator, and continued in prayer till they had ceased. In a subsequent letter, dated July 31st, he writes:-- Since the Lord has granted us the favour of meeting again, we have continued our assemblies without intermission, although forbidden to do this under pain of prison and exile. The only interruption we meet with is bad words, and a few stones now and then; and I am become so marked, that I cannot go out without people crying after me, "Methodist! Parson!"--with a contemptuous sneer, and a thousand other things not fit to write, but which serve only to strengthen my faith in the promises of Him who is faithful; till last Sunday some foolish young women came to revile us; and on Tuesday evening, whilst reading, stones were thrown, and whilst we were at prayer a great number rushed in, armed with sabres, sticks, and, if I mistake not, with stones, crying out, "In the name of the law," as if they had been authorized by the heads of the people to arrest us. This band consisted of boys, led on to commit disorders by a set of idle, good-for-nothing persons, of the worst class, who had armed themselves with sabres, and were disguised with old cocked hats; trying thus to show their bravery over those who would make no resistance. But the hairs of our head are all numbered; nor have they been permitted to hurt any of us to the present. It would be useless for us to ask or hope for the protection of the law; and we are thus led to place all our confidence in God, who can and will deliver us in his time. And if the Lord is for me, of whom should I be afraid? He that spared not his own Son, but delivered him up for me, will he not with him freely give me all things? I have already experienced that all my sufferings for his name are great blessings to me. All my care is about His church; and what wisdom does it require to conduct so many persons of such different dispositions! I feel new wants daily. The following brief view of the persecutions of the methodists, in Hayti, is taken from "Missionary Notices," published by the Wesleyan Missionary Society. This account gave some particulars in addition to those narrated in the details inserted above: We regret to find,--say the committee of that society,--from the following letter received from Mr. Pressoir, that our poor persecuted society at Port-au-Prince, so long the object of popish rancour, has again had to sustain the brutal outrages of an ignorant mob, incited it would seem, in another place, by persons calling themselves "respectable," and without experiencing any protection from the local authorities. The committee have endeavoured to obtain for them the common protection of the laws of their own country, by applications through various quarters, and hope they may be ultimately successful. In the mean time this excellent and suffering people are entitled to the special sympathies, and earnest prayers, of the friends of missions. We trust that they may yet, by their meek and patient suffering, and heroic perseverance, obtain that liberty of worship which they so earnestly desire. The letter from Mr. Pressoir is dated about a year since. The following extracts describe the violence of the mob: I have read of many instances of martyrdom for the testimony of Jesus Christ, but I have not yet read a passage which relates that the people of a city rose up like murderers, with a very few exceptions, to stone a few persons met together in a house, as our fathers, mothers, brethren, and children have done unto us not long ago. O cruel people! They began to throw stones at us at five o'clock in the afternoon, and continued their assaults till ten o'clock, committing all kinds of violence. They broke down the doors, broke open the windows, destroyed the first and second partitions in the upper chambers; in a word, every thing that was in the house, and beat with their cowskin-whips the brethren and sisters there, without showing compassion for either age or youth or even infancy. I believe I suffered the least of any. Only a great emissary of Satan, seized my left hand, and lifting up his whip declared he would knock me down, if I did not say "Almighty God, the Virgin Mary." My only answer was, turning my back. Several times he even brought his whip to my neck, and afterwards laid it on my shoulder, raging and abusing me with all the fury of Anti-christ. But he that numbered my hairs did not allow one of them to fall to the ground. Thanks be to him for confidence in his holy word, which is firmer than heaven on earth. When the populace entered to knock down our sisters I was in the first chamber, and hearing their cries, I tried to force my way to them, to try if I could render them any assistance; then the tyrant persecutor struck me several times on my hat, but I received no injury. But we were in great danger; those who wished to go out were stoned, beaten, torn, outraged, and brought back to the house, where they exercised their dark cruelty. It appeared as if Satan was unchained, and had come forth to make war against those whom the truth of the gospel had made free, and to crush those who had believed the testimony of the Son of God. I ask, then, by whom have we been protected, and delivered unto this day? Was it by magistrates, judges, and police officers? Or by the other guards appointed to appease riots and defend the law? It is true, they were present in great numbers, but it was rather to advise and direct others. Some brought barrows full of stones, and others threw them, and said to the cruel populace, that, since we were so obstinate, the government had given us into their hands, and they might do to us whatever they pleased; and they did treat us with inhumanity and the greatest violence. It was impossible to go out without being beaten, stoned, dragged, abused, and covered with dirt, and in the end we could neither buy nor sell without being dragged before a magistrate, beat, and covered with spitting and mud, and all kinds of outrages. They went beyond Porte Marchant to brother Floran's, sister Claire's, and J. P. J. Lusant's. At brother Floran's they destroyed every thing in the garden, and treated his wife, already broken with age, with the greatest inhumanity; dragging sister Claire by her feet out of the house, as also her god-daughter. And at J. P. J. Lusant's what disorders have they not committed amongst those poor persons, who have fled from the town to have some tranquility. I must tell you one circumstance which J. P. J. L. told me, to show you the cowardice of persecutors; five or six of them entered his gate, concealing their swords, making up to him with loud vociferations; seeing them coming, he went into his house, took an old rusty musket without flint, and levelling it at them, they all instantly fled with all speed, saying, "The Quakers don't carry arms, and see this old Quaker hero intends killing us." Alluding to the letter of Mr. Pressoir, above noticed, and to other communications received about the same time, the Wesleyan Committee remark, in their publication for July, 1824. In a recent number we laid before our readers some extracts of letters from our afflicted and persecuted society at Port-au-Prince, Hayti; from which it appeared that several of them had again been called to suffer bonds for the cause of Christ; that the house in which they were in the habit of assembling for religious worship was demolished; and that they themselves were delivered up to the will of a blind and infuriated populace, the magistrates refusing to afford them any protection against the outrages to which they were daily exposed. From later communications we learn, that, on an appeal being made by letter to the president, those in prison were set at liberty; and that a proclamation was made by his excellency's orders, forbidding any one to stone, injure, or otherwise persecute the methodists, but at the same time prohibiting all meetings of our society for religious worship; on pain of being arrested. Notwithstanding the above proclamation, our people have still to suffer, in various ways, the insults and persecutions of the rabble. They continue, as they are able, and can find opportunity, to meet together for prayer, &c. The letter to president Boyer shows very clearly the pacific character and object of these protestants. It is too important a part of these documents to be omitted. President,--You are acquainted with our society, formed here six years ago. The end of our meeting together is, to invoke the blessing of God, not only on ourselves, but also on the government, its magistrates, and even on those who evil entreat us without cause; for we do not hate them, nor render evil for evil. This is what our religion commands. It is not that we wish by our meetings to disobey our president; but our desire is to obey God our sovereign, and his law requires that we should love the head that he has placed over us. We know that your excellency will not approve the conduct of those who have stoned and evil entreated us without cause. We have been treated as enemies to the government, yet are not such. Yesterday we were arrested and put in prison, by order of general Thomas, who at once without examination, pronounced our sentence. And we know this was not by order of the president, which renders it our indisputable duty to give you information thereof. President, let our society be narrowly examined, and if fault is found in us, we are willing to suffer the punishment we merit. Confidently expecting your favourable reply, we have the honour of saluting you most respectfully. To this letter the president did not reply, but ordered those, who had been arrested, to be set at liberty. Ten days after the date of the letter to the president, a letter was written, from which the following paragraphs are taken. The concluding sentences open the way for putting a favourable construction on the intentions of the president. A proclamation was made in the name of general Thomas, commandant of the place, to prevent any one from throwing stones at the methodists, forbidding every one to evil entreat them, or to go before their houses to insult them. But by that proclamation we were also forbidden to meet together, and informed that should we meet, the police is ordered to arrest us; but as for the people, they ought not to interfere, nor throw stones, because we are citizens of the republic. This is the substance of the proclamation. Although this proclamation was made, yet the people did not cease to ill treat us, and cry after us, as we went along. General Thomas gets out of that affair by saying, that they only made use of his name when he had nothing to do in it. "But, take care," said he, "if that continue, that it do not cost the life of some one." One of our sisters visited the president, to whom she made her complaints, and informed him that it was said, that it was by his order that these things were done. He received her very politely, assured her that this was not so, but that he was exceedingly sorry that we should be improperly treated, and that he had written to general Thomas to that effect, and if the general did not attend to his orders he could not hold any command in the republic. In consequence of this the general made the above proclamation. The president also told her, that he could not allow us to hold our meetings, because we were not in peace; that France was proposing to march upon us, &c. &c. Since the last persecution, we enjoy, by the grace of God, the means of praying, when several of us meet together. CHAPTER XXI. PERSECUTIONS IN SWITZERLAND FROM 1813 TO 1830. The information contained in the following account of the persecution in Switzerland, is derived principally from the Christian Spectator and the London Christian Observer. Scarcely any country of Continental Europe, has excited so deep an interest in the minds of Americans, as Switzerland. Its valleys and lakes, its streams and cataracts, its lofty mountains and the seas of ice and deserts of snow which crown their summits, have been the Ultima Thule of the traveller, from whatever land. But _we_ have dwelt upon them from the very days of boyhood, with an interest belonging to scarcely any thing earthly, because we regarded all this magnificent and beautiful display, as the mere scenery and decoration of the stage, on which an important act in the great drama of liberty, was exhibited. In the christian, these magnificent objects awaken emotions perhaps less tumultuous, but deeper and more elevating; for it is here that another scene of that great drama was early opened, involving interests incomparably more valuable, and a struggle far more deadly, not for the civil liberty of Switzerland, but to free the world from a tyranny, in comparison with which, that of Austrian dukes was paternal kindness,--a despotism that held the soul itself chained to the papal throne, and assumed the triple crown of heaven and earth and hell, which its representative still wears. To the christian, the names of Tell and Winkelreid, sink into insignificance beside those of Zuingle and Calvin; and the war of Swiss independence scarcely deserves a thought, in comparison with that struggle for the moral reformation of the world, in which these men were such distinguished actors, and to whose influence we ourselves owe that religious liberty, which is the most precious part of our birthright. But it is an humbling reflection, that the palladium of liberty could not be kept inviolate, even in the fastnesses of the Alps. A few years only have elapsed, since some of the fairest portions of this "land of the free," were held as conquered tributaries by other cantons, and were governed by a bailiff residing in his castle, and exercising a power like that of a feudal baron. A considerable portion of Switzerland is still subject to an aristocracy, as absolute in its sway, and as much opposed to the extension of light and liberty, as any other branch of the holy alliance. The press is, in many cantons, under severe restrictions, and industry and enterprise are checked by the regulations of the incorporated _trades_, which place the rod of oppression in the hands of ignorance and self-interest; and which bring home its influence to the work-bench of the mechanic, and too often paralyze the arm of laborious poverty. Within ten years, and in one of the most enlightened cantons, men and women have been arrested, and fined, and imprisoned, in the most cruel manner, for assembling to read the word of God; have even been banished under pain of death, and without any passport to secure them from imprisonment as vagrants in the neighbouring countries, merely for preaching and hearing the gospel, out of the established church. In the protestant churches of German Switzerland, the Helvetic confession and the Heidelberg catechism, both in the strictest sense orthodox, are recognized as standards of faith. This, however, is the _only_ bond of union between the different portions of the Helvetic church. The spiritual concerns of each canton are under the direction of what is called the "church council," established by the government, and composed of some of its members united with some of the clergy. This body license, locate and pay the clergy; and form the court of appeal in the affairs of the church. A congregation have no voice in the selection of their pastor. Baptism and confirmation, or admission to the Lord's supper, in the established church, are required by law, as indispensable to the exercise of civil rights; and the latter ceremony is generally regarded as a mere introduction into life. In the canton of Berne, no person can enter the most menial station as a domestic, without exhibiting his certificate of communion; and so far is this from being an obsolete law, that we have known a person incur its penalty, because he delayed for a few days the exhibition of this certificate to the police. In this canton, (and we believe in most others,) no person can be excluded from the communion, except by government; and, as a necessary consequence, no discipline exists in the church. The Lord's supper is received with great regularity by the whole parish; and in some districts at least, the opinion prevails, that this ordinance is a seal of the pardon of their sins. Such is the external state of the church in German Switzerland. In regard to its spiritual condition, we have little encouraging to present. The mercenary troops which Switzerland has so long been accustomed to sell to France, Spain and Italy, have usually brought back corrupt principles and licentious habits; and the young men of patrician families, from whom the rulers are ultimately chosen, have been prepared, by serving as officers to these troops, to exert a baneful influence upon their country. Those who were destined to the ministry, or to the learned professions, were accustomed to seek an education, if possible, in the German universities, where they would imbibe a taste for any thing but evangelical principles. Rousseau, Voltaire, and Gibbon, during their residence in Switzerland, contributed not a little to the increase of infidelity; and the French revolution seemed to sweep away the landmarks of religion and morality, and to banish whatever might have remained, of the character of Switzerland, from the portions to which its emissaries had immediate access. It will not be supposed that the church escaped untainted, amidst all these causes of corruption. The feeling which we found extensively prevalent, that it was indecorous to inquire into the opinions of the clergy and the doctrines actually maintained in the church, and which presented a serious obstacle to investigation on this subject, sufficiently indicates, that there is something which will not bear a comparison with the public standard. But more unequivocal evidence of the change of opinion is found in the fact, that candidates for the ministry are now only required to avow their belief in the new testament, and these regulations are avowedly adopted, in order not to exclude those who are called "liberal" or "rational" in their opinions. We trust indeed, that there are many thousands in Switzerland, who have not bowed the knee to Baal, in any form. We believe especially, that in the cantons of Basle, Zurich, Appenzell, and Schaffhausen, as well as Geneva and Vaud, there are many faithful ministers of the gospel. We know that in the midst of decayed churches, there are little bands, who, without separating themselves, or exciting public attention, have adopted the principles and the devotional habits of the United Brethren, or Moravians. The missionary seminary at Basle is a radiating point, from which divine truth is going forth to the ends of the earth; and there is a cluster of christian institutions around it, which are a monument of love and zeal. Light is springing up in various directions in the midst of darkness and these first gleamings of the dawn are a sure and delightful presage, that the Sun of righteousness is about to arise upon Switzerland, with healing in its beams. For several years past, two or three of the clergy of the established church in the city of Berne, have preached the doctrines of the gospel, as exhibited in the standards of the church, with simplicity and faithfulness. Much interest was thus excited in a small number of persons, several of whom were among the class of patricians, and the result might be termed a little revival. Public attention was called to it, by the change of conduct in those who were its subjects. Their consciences would no longer allow them to partake in those violations of the Sabbath, and those questionable amusements which were customary in the world around them; and they felt the need of assembling themselves for social devotion and christian intercourse, during the week. Those who felt reproved by such conduct, spared neither censure nor ridicule. The names of "_priest_," "_methodist_," "_mummer_," etc., were unsparingly applied to them; and in one instance, the windows of a person who was obnoxious on this account, were broken. It is but justice to the government to state, that immediate and vigorous measures were taken to repress all violence; and no one was suffered to interrupt them, so long as they continued in connexion with the established church. Much hostility was indeed expressed against these private assemblies; but so much patrician influence was exerted in their favour, that the government did not venture to execute the threats, sometimes thrown out, of prohibiting them. Pietism continued to increase, from the increased action produced by these social meetings; and the flame was undoubtedly nourished by the conversation and correspondence of pious British travellers, whose influence may now be traced in every part of the continent, from Calais to Naples, and exhibits one of these remarkable traits in the divine government, by which the seed of the word is scattered over the world, often by the consent of those who wish to destroy it. The wealth of the English gives them access every where. Even the court of Rome, rather than lose this source of revenue, allows heresy to rear its standard of rebellion on the banks of the Tiber; and the efforts of such as are piously disposed to spread light around them, are winked at, to avoid offending or alarming the _national_ spirit, even of those who are devoted to the pleasures of the world. During the year 1828, a small number of the persons who were thus awakened, felt it their duty to separate themselves entirely from the established church. Their consciences were wounded by the prostitution of the ordinance of the supper, in admitting all who chose to come; since many of the openly vicious, and a multitude who had no apparent interest in religion, belonged to the number. They urged the necessity of discipline from Matt. xvi. and xviii., 1 Cor. v., etc., and maintained that that could not be deemed a church of Christ, which tolerated vice in its very bosom. They felt themselves bound by the precept, 2 Thess. iii. 6, 14, 15, and 2 John 10, 11, to withdraw from a church in which the gospel was not generally preached; and which cherished in its bosom, so many who crucified Christ afresh, and whom they considered themselves as recognizing as brethren, by partaking of the same bread and the same cup. This measure was promoted by a person who had been banished from the canton de Vaud; and who was received at Berne, under a pledge to the police, that he would not speak of separation. The violation of this pledge led to his expulsion, which was the first act of the government on this subject. This excited no serious opposition, since those who agreed with him in sentiment, did not approve of his violation of truth. It did not however prevent the continuance of the assemblies of separatists, and their distinct avowal of their sentiments; and they obtained from a member of the government belonging to the established church, the use of a room to his own house, on condition that nothing should be said there in direct promotion of separatism. This decided course of conduct, notwithstanding many hints and threats, placed the government in an embarrassing situation. Eight years before, the canton of Vaud had treated a similar sect (of which indeed, some of these very individuals had been members) with great severity; but with so little effect, that their number had been constantly increasing, and their spirit had been diffused through a large number of the established churches; to the great annoyance of those who did not love the gospel. Thus warned of the danger of violent measures, and yet anxious to find reasons for expelling the leaders of the obnoxious party, they directed the superintendent of the police to keep them and their assemblies under constant and rigid inspection; and all who were concerned with them, were watched with the same view. At the same time, one of the evangelical clergymen was sent for, and warned to alter his mode of preaching; and although he did not approve or preach separation, he was accused of contributing to the excitement of feeling, which gave rise to it, by his mode of exhibiting the doctrines of the bible. We need scarcely add, that the warning was without effect on this faithful minister of Christ. In the year 1813, a few pious individuals began to meet in private, for the purpose of seeking and cherishing that holy truth which was banished from the public assemblies. These persons were directed by some students of theology, among whom was M. Empaytaz. The venerable company of pastors soon heard of these unauthorized proceedings, and lost no time in evincing their disapprobation respecting them. M. Empaytaz, was especially marked out as the object of their displeasure; and they refused to ordain him, unless he would avoid every religious assembly which had not their sanction. He chose rather to incur their anathema than to wound his conscience, and departed from the city. But the light had broke forth, and it was not easy again to extinguish it. The honourable company seem to have been extremely troubled as to the course to be pursued. To sit still, however, was to yield to the rising spirit of reformation, and they determined to bestir themselves. Accordingly, after due deliberation, they issued certain regulations, bearing date May 3, 1817, which they hoped would be received as articles. These articles however, did not produce the anticipated effect. The doctrine of the divinity of Christ, and others equally offensive to Unitarians, continued to be preached. In 1818, M. Malan, a pious orthodox divine, was deprived of his place of regent of the college; and another, M. Mejanel, was ordered to quit Geneva. For some time, however, the individuals who retained their allegiance to the Helvetic Confession, and remained at Geneva, still held their meetings, with little other provocation than that of a few hard names, such as "enthusiasts," "Nazarenes," "advocates for exploded doctrines," &c., which the Unitarians, in the exuberance of their wit, and the overflowing of their liberality, had the gratification to bespatter them. These attacks produced very little impression upon the persons assailed. The arguments next adopted, were calculated to supply the defect. About the beginning of July, 1818, the place of meeting being changed, when the persons assembled, they found a large mob prepared to insult them. These enlightened and worthy abettors of the reformed church of Geneva, and citizens of that free republic, assembled at the house of meeting, and vociferated amidst other expressions of hostility--we transcribe the words with shame and horror,--_A bas Jesus Christ! A bas les Moraves! A mort, a la lanterne_, &c. and pursued the obnoxious ministers as they came out, with similar cries. Neither did they stop here: their valour and zeal, as is the case with all mobs, became more impetuous as they were not resisted. "Our silence," says one who was present, "in the midst of these insults, did not satisfy them: we had to suffer menaces, maledictions; stoning through the streets, and the violation of our houses." Had not the police exerted themselves to suppress these disorders, the consequences would probably have been still more fearful. _Persecution in the Pays de Vaud._ In the month of December, 1823, a letter was addressed by three young men, ministers of that canton, and subsequently signed by a few others, to the council of state, intimating a determination to withdraw from the established church, and requesting permission to constitute places of worship independent of it. The cause assigned was, that the Helvetic Confession had been virtually set aside, both by pastors and people; and that the discipline of the church was annihilated. Their plan was to preach according to that Confession, and to restore the discipline. The petition to the council of state is dated Dec. 24, 1823. The official answer bears date Jan. 15, 1824; and has all the formalities with which the spirit of intolerance and persecution generally invests itself, and is signed, Le Landamman en Charge, F. Clavel, Le Chandelier, Boisot. In this instrument, the ministers and their friends are called "Momiers;" and it is summarily decreed, that those who separate themselves from the national church shall not be tolerated; that the justices of the peace, &c. are specially charged instantly to dissolve their meetings, and to report their proceedings to the council of state, and every person who attends these prohibited assemblies, and who has disobeyed the orders to leave them, and rendered it necessary to employ force, shall be imprisoned three days, besides the possible infliction of other pains and penalties; and that all persons whose measures shall have tended to gain proselytes, shall be fined 600 livres, or imprisoned two years; the same punishment to be awarded to him who furnishes a place of meeting, or who has called or directed a prohibited assembly, or who has taken any part whatever in quality of a chief or director. The above decree was accompanied by a circular, dated Jan. 16, 1824, emanating from the same high quarter, addressed to the justices of the peace, municipalities, &c. and conceived in the same spirit with its _respectable_ associate. This iniquitous and anti-christian enactment has been carried into effect in several instances. M. Charles Rochat, minister of the gospel, of the Canton de Vaud, of a respectable family, and whose brother is one of the national clergy, of the Canton, is the first on whom the severity of the law has fallen. Five persons were found seated round a table in his own house, with the bible open before them: the wife of M. Rochat, a common friend, with two of his sisters, and a young person, a stranger. This was the whole crime. M. Rochat was found guilty of reading in his own house, before his wife and four friends, a chapter of the New Testament! For this he was at first condemned to three year's banishment, which, however, the tribunal of appeal reduced to one year. Next, M. Olivier was banished for two years, by the sentence of the same law. Like judgments have been pronounced against M. M. Chavannes, Juvet, and Fivas, of whom, the two former, were previously confined _ten weeks in prison_. Two females also were banished by the judgment de premiere instant, of the tribunal of Orbe and Yverden, on the charge of similar meetings being held at their houses; one of whom, however, has been since acquitted at Lausanne, as it was proved that she lived with her mother, and consequently that it was at her house, and not at hers, that some friends, after dinner, read the bible together. But it is not merely in the Canton de Vaud that these enormous instances of injustice have occurred: at Neufchatel, an act of arbitrary power has just been committed, almost incredible from its severity. An old law, long obsolete, has been discovered, which, it seems, was passed two or three hundred years back. An agriculturer has been made the first victim of its revived powers. He received into his house M. Juvet, one of the condemned ministers of the Canton de Vaud, and allowed him to administer the sacrament. For this crime he was thrown into prison for three months, and was then brought up in chains, and with a rope drawn tight round his neck, to receive sentence. Ten years banishment was the punishment pronounced; and that if he shall attempt to return before the expiration of this term, he is to be marked with a hot iron for the first offence, and for the second to be _hanged_. No passport was given him, so that he was left to be hunted about from place to place, like the most degraded criminal. This worthy man, whose name was Maguin, has a wife and three children, for whom he has now no means of procuring a support. [Wilson's Tour, 2d ed. page 325.] These atrocities were practised by those who claim to be the only enlightened and liberal characters of our day--by Unitarians and Socinians--by men too, whose complaints respecting bigotry and intolerance, have been the burden of many a long article, expressly designed to represent orthodoxy as peculiarly relentless and cruel. A large number of Swiss pastors have been driven into banishment, by the inquisitorial proceedings of those who style themselves the _liberal_ party in Switzerland. Many of the exiles are now residing in different parts of France, mostly near the frontiers of their own country--others have found a home in different parts of Switzerland. One of them is now in that place where the wicked cease from troubling--and another seems rapidly advancing to it. M. Juvet, who signed, with two other ministers, the letter to the "Council of State," having been banished from his own canton, sought an asylum in another canton: this was refused. He then retired to Ferney Voltaire, and pursued his labors. He was at that time weak from a pulmonary consumption; but he ventured on an excursion to L'Isle of Mantrichen, to visit those who were disposed to hear the word of God. "He was insulted, attacked and pursued by the populace, from town to town; and at Le Isle, where he arrived quite exhausted, and in profuse perspiration, he was thrown into a cold dungeon, with only a chair and some chopped straw, on which to pass the night. His friends were not permitted to give him either food, fire, or clothing, and in this state he was detained fifteen hours." For two months he was confined in the prison of Yverden, under circumstances of severe illness and medical attendance was denied him. After leaving the prison, he was presently arrested and expelled the commune. Under such accumulated sufferings, nature at length gave way: he slept in the Lord; and among his last prayers were petitions for his persecutors whether the magistrates or the mob. Recent information from Geneva, and the other cantons of Switzerland, inform us that the spirit of persecution is still exhibited by the _liberal_ party in that country. Those who adhere to the Helvetic Confession, and preach conformably to the doctrines of the creed of the established church, are called "Momiers," "enthusiasts," and other terms equally, unkind and unchristian. The _liberal_, or infidel party, do not confine themselves simply to reproaches. They disturb the places of public worship--they stone the people as they return from their devotions--they arraign them before civil tribunals for preaching Christ and him crucified--they impose fines upon them, subject them to imprisonment, banishment, and even death itself. All this is done too, in the 19th century, and by those who claim to be the only enlightened and liberal party on the continent. CHAPTER XXII. SKETCHES OF THE LIVES OF SOME OF THE MOST EMINENT REFORMERS. It will not be inappropriate to devote a few pages of this work to a brief detail of the lives of some of those men who first stepped forward, regardless of the bigoted power which opposed all reformation, to stem the tide of papal corruption, and to seal the pure doctrines of the gospel with their blood. Among these, Great Britain has the honor of taking the lead, and first maintaining that freedom in religious controversy which astonished Europe, and demonstrated that political and religious liberty are equally the growth of that favored island. Among the earliest of these eminent persons was _John Wickliffe._ This celebrated reformer, denominated the Morning Star of the Reformation, was born about the year 1324, in the reign of Edward II. Of his extraction we have no certain account. His parents designing him for the church, sent him to Queen's College, Oxford, about that period founded by Robert Eaglesfield, confessor to queen Philippi. But not meeting with the advantages for study in that newly established house which he expected, he removed to Merton College, which was then esteemed one of the most learned societies in Europe. The first thing which drew him into public notice, was his defence of the University against the begging friars, who about this time, from their settlement in Oxford in 1230, had been troublesome neighbours to the University. Feuds were continually fomented; the friars appealing to the pope, the scholars to the civil power; and sometimes one party, and sometimes the other, prevailed. The friars became very fond of a notion that Christ was a common beggar; that his disciples were beggars also; and that begging was of gospel institution. This doctrine they urged from the pulpit and wherever they had access. Wickliffe had long held these religious friars in contempt for the laziness of their lives, and had now a fair opportunity of exposing them. He published a treatise against able beggary, in which he lashed the friars, and proved that they were not only a reproach to religion, but also to human society. The University began to consider him one of her first champions, and he was soon promoted to the mastership of Baliol College. About this time, archbishop Islip founded Canterbury Hall, in Oxford, where he established a warden and eleven scholars. To this wardenship Wickliffe was elected by the archbishop, but upon his demise, he was displaced by his successor, Stephen Langham, bishop of Ely. As there was a degree of flagrant injustice in the affair, Wickliffe appealed to the pope, who subsequently gave it against him from the following cause: Edward the Third, then king of England, had withdrawn the tribute, which from the time of king John had been paid to the pope. The pope menaced; Edward called a parliament. The parliament resolved that king John had done an illegal thing, and given up the rights of the nation, and advised the king not to submit, whatever consequences might follow. The clergy now began to write in favour of the pope, and a learned monk published a spirited and plausible treatise, which had many advocates. Wickliffe, irritated at seeing so bad a cause so well defended, opposed the monk, and did it in so masterly a way, that he was considered no longer as unanswerable. His suit at Rome was immediately determined against him; and nobody doubted but his opposition to the pope, at so critical a period, was the true cause of his being non-suited at Rome. Wickliffe was afterward elected to the chair of the divinity professor: and now fully convinced of the errors of the Romish church, and the vileness of its monastic agents, he determined to expose them. In public lectures he lashed their vices and opposed their follies. He unfolded a variety of abuses covered by the darkness of superstition. At first he began to loosen the prejudices of the vulgar, and proceeded by slow advances; with the metaphysical disquisitions of the age, he mingled opinions in divinity apparently novel. The usurpations of the court of Rome was a favourite topic. On these he expatiated with all the keenness of argument, joined to logical reasoning. This soon procured him the clamour of the clergy, who, with the archbishop of Canterbury, deprived him of his office. At this time, the administration of affairs was in the hands of the duke of Lancaster, well known by the name of John of Gaunt. This prince had very free notions of religion, and was at enmity with the clergy. The exactions of the court of Rome having become very burdensome, he determined to send the bishop of Bangor and Wickliffe to remonstrate against these abuses, and it was agreed that the pope should no longer dispose of any benifices belonging to the church of England. In this embassy, Wickliffe's observant mind penetrated into the constitution and policy of Rome, and he returned more strongly than ever determined to expose its avarice and ambition. Having recovered his former situation, he inveighed, in his lectures, against the pope--his usurpation--his infallibility--his pride--his avarice--and his tyranny. He was the first who termed the pope Antichrist. From the pope, he would turn to the pomp, the luxury and trappings of the bishops, and compared them with the simplicity of primitive bishops. Their superstitions and deceptions were topics that he urged with energy of mind and logical precision. From the patronage of the duke of Lancaster, Wickliffe received a good benefice; but he was no sooner settled in his parish, than his enemies and the bishops began to persecute him with renewed vigor. The duke of Lancaster was his friend in this persecution, and by his presence and that of Lord Percy, earl marshal of England, he so overawed the trial, that the whole ended in disorder. After the death of Edward III. his grandson Richard II. succeeded, in the eleventh year of his age. The duke of Lancaster not obtaining to be the sole regent, as he expected, his power began to decline, and the enemies of Wickliffe, taking advantage of this circumstance, renewed their articles of accusation against him. Five bulls were despatched in consequence by the pope to the king and certain bishops, but the regency and the people manifested a spirit of contempt at the haughty proceedings of the pontiff, and the former at that time wanting money to oppose an expected invasion of the French, proposed to apply a large sum, collected for the use of the pope to that purpose. The question was submitted to the decision of Wickliffe. The bishops, however, supported by the papal authority, insisted upon bringing Wickliffe to trial, and he was actually undergoing examination at Lambeth, when, from the riotous behaviour of the populace without, and awed by the command of sir Lewis Clifford, a gentleman of the court, that they should not proceed to any definitive sentence, they terminated the whole affair in a prohibition to Wickliffe, not to preach those doctrines which were obnoxious to the pope; but this was laughed at by our reformer, who, going about barefoot, and in a long frieze gown, preached more vehemently than before. In the year 1378, a contest arose between two popes, Urban VI. and Clement VII. which was the lawful pope, and true vicegerent of God. This was a favourable period for the exertion of Wickliffe's talents: he soon produced a tract against popery, which was eagerly read by all sorts of people. About the end of the year, Wickliffe was seized with a violent disorder, which it was feared might prove fatal. The begging friars, accompanied by four of the most eminent citizens of Oxford, gained admittance to his bed-chamber, and begged of him to retract, for his soul's sake, the unjust things he had asserted of their order. Wickliffe surprised at the solemn message, raised himself in his bed, and with a stern countenance replied, "I shall not die, but live to declare the evil deeds of the friars." When Wickliffe recovered, he set about a most important work, the translation of the bible into English. Before this work appeared, he published a tract, wherein he showed the necessity of it. The zeal of the bishops to suppress the scriptures, greatly promoted its sale, and they who were not able to purchase copies, procured transcripts of particular gospels or epistles. Afterward, when Lollardy increased, and the flames kindled, it was a common practice to fasten about the neck of the condemned heretic such of these scraps of scripture as were found in his possession, which generally shared his fate. Immediately after this transaction, Wickliffe ventured a step further, and affected the doctrine of transubstantiation. This strange opinion was invented by Paschade Radbert, and asserted with amazing boldness. Wickliffe, in his lecture before the university of Oxford, 1381, attacked this doctrine, and published a treatise on the subject. Dr. Barton, at this time vice-chancellor of Oxford, calling together the heads of the university, condemned Wickliffe's doctrines as heretical, and threatened their author with excommunication. Wickliffe could now derive no support from the duke of Lancaster, and being cited to appear before his former adversary, William Courteney, now made archbishop of Canterbury, he sheltered himself under the plea, that, as a member of the university, he was exempt from episcopal jurisdiction. This plea was admitted, as the university were determined to support their member. The court met at the appointed time, determined, at least to sit in judgment upon his opinions, and some they condemned as erroneous, others as heretical. The publication on this subject was immediately answered by Wickliffe, who had become a subject of the archbishop's determined malice. The king, solicited by the archbishop, granted a license to imprison the teacher of heresy, but the commons made the king revoke this act as illegal. The primate, however, obtained letters from the king, directing the head of the university of Oxford to search for all heresies and the books published by Wickliffe; in consequence of which order, the university became a scene of tumult. Wickliffe is supposed to have retired from the storm, into an obscure part of the kingdom. The seeds, however, were scattered, and Wickliffe's opinions were so prevalent, that it was said, if you met two persons upon the road, you might be sure that one was a Lollard. At this period, the disputes between the two popes continued. Urban published a bull, in which he earnestly called upon all who had any regard for religion, to exert themselves in its cause; and to take up arms against Clement and his adherents in defence of the holy see. A war, in which the name of religion was so vilely prostituted, roused Wickliffe's inclination, even in his declining years. He took up his pen once more, and wrote against it with the greatest acrimony. He expostulated with the pope in a very free manner, and asks him boldly, "How he durst make the token of Christ on the cross (which is the token of peace, mercy and charity) a banner to lead us to slay christian men, for the love of two false priests, and to oppress Christendom worse than Christ and his apostles were oppressed by the Jews? When, said he, will the proud priest of Rome grant indulgences to mankind to live in peace and charity, as he now does to fight and slay one another?" This severe piece drew upon him the resentment of Urban; and was likely to have involved him in greater troubles than he had before experienced, but providentially he was delivered out of their hands. He was struck with the palsy, and though he lived some time yet in such a way, that his enemies considered him as a person below their resentment. To the last he attended divine worship, and received the fatal stroke of his disorder in his church at Lutterworth, in the year 1384. _Martin Luther._ This illustrious German divine and reformer of the church, was the son of John Luther and Margaret Lindeman, and born at Isleben, a town of Saxony, in the county of Mansfield, November 10, 1483. His father's extraction and condition were originally but mean, and his occupation that of a miner: it is probable, however, that by his application and industry he improved the fortunes of his family, as he afterward became a magistrate of rank and dignity. Luther was early initiated into letters, and at the age of thirteen was sent to school at Madgeburg, and thence to Eysenach, in Thuringia, where he remained four years, producing the early indications of his future eminence. In 1501 he was sent to the university of Erfurt, where he went through the usual courses of logic and philosophy. When twenty, he took a master's degree, and then lectured on Aristotle's physics, ethics, and other parts of philosophy. Afterward, at the instigation of his parents, he turned himself to the civil law, with a view of advancing himself to the bar, but was diverted from this pursuit by the following accident. Walking out into the fields one day, he was struck by lightning so as to fall to the ground, while a companion was killed by his side; and this affected him so sensibly, that, without communicating his purpose to any of his friends, he withdrew himself from the world, and retired into the order of the hermits of St. Augustine. Here he employed himself in reading St. Augustine and the school men; but, in turning over the leaves of the library, he accidentally found a copy of the Latin Bible, which he had never seen before. This raised his curiosity to a high degree: he read it over very greedily, and was amazed to find what a small portion of the scriptures was rehearsed to the people. He made his profession in the monastery of Erfurt, after he had been a novice one year; and he took priest's orders, and celebrated his first mass in 1507. The year after, he was removed from the convent of Erfurt to the university of Wittemberg; for this university being just founded, nothing was thought more likely to bring it into immediate repute and credit, than the authority and presence of a man so celebrated, for his great parts and learning, as Luther. In 1512, seven convents of his order having a quarrel with their vicar-general, Luther was chosen to go to Rome to maintain their cause. At Rome he saw the pope and the court, and had an opportunity of observing also the manners of the clergy, whose hasty, superficial, and impious way of celebrating mass, he has severely noted. As soon as he had adjusted the dispute which was the business of his journey, he returned to Wittemberg, and was created doctor of divinity, at the expense of Frederic, elector of Saxony; who had often heard him preach, was perfectly acquainted with his merit, and reverenced him highly. He continued in the university of Wittemberg, where, as professor of divinity, he employed himself in the business of his calling. Here then he began in the most earnest manner to read lectures upon the sacred books: he explained the epistle to the Romans, and the Psalms, which he cleared up and illustrated in a manner so entirely new, and so different from what had been pursued by former commentators, that "there seemed, after a long and dark night, a new day to arise, in the judgment of all pious and prudent men." The better to qualify himself for the task he had undertaken, he applied himself attentively to the Greek and Hebrew languages; and in this manner was he employed, when the general indulgences were published in 1517. Leo X. who succeeded Julius II. in March, 1513, formed a design of building the magnificent church of St. Peter's at Rome, which was, indeed, begun by Julius, but still required very large sums to be finished. Leo, therefore, 1517 published general indulgences throughout all Europe, in favour of those who contribute any sum to the building of St. Peter's; and appointed persons in different countries to preach up these indulgences, and to receive money for them. These strange proceedings gave vast offence at Wittemberg, and particularly inflamed the pious zeal of Luther; who, being naturally warm and active, and in the present case unable to contain himself, was determined to declare against them at all adventures. Upon the eve of All-saints, therefore, in 1517, he publicly fixed up, at the church next to the castle of that town, a thesis upon indulgences; in the beginning of which, he challenged any one to oppose it either by writing or disputation. Luther's propositions about indulgences, were no sooner published, than Tetzel, the Dominican friar, and commissioner for selling them, maintained and published at Francfort, a thesis, containing a set of propositions directly contrary to them. He did more; he stirred up the clergy of his order against Luther; anathematized him from the pulpit, as a most damnable heretic; and burnt his thesis publicly at Francfort. Tetzel's thesis was also burnt, in return, by the Lutherans at Wittemburg; but Luther himself disowned having had any hand in that procedure. In 1518, Luther, though dissuaded from it by his friends, yet, to show obedience to authority, went to the monastery of St. Augustine, at Heidelberg, while the chapter was held; and here maintained, April 26, a dispute concerning "justification by faith," which Bucer, who was present at, took down in writing, and afterward communicated to Beatus Rhenanus, not without the highest commendations. In the meantime, the zeal of his adversaries grew every day more and more active against him; and he was at length accused to Leo X. as a heretic. As soon as he returned therefore from Heidelberg, he wrote a letter to that pope, in the most submissive terms; and sent him, at the same time, an explication of his propositions about indulgences. This letter is dated on Trinity-Sunday, 1518, and was accompanied with a protestation, wherein he declared, that "he did not pretend to advance or defend any thing contrary to the holy scriptures, or to the doctrine of the fathers, received and observed by the church of Rome, or to the canons and decretals of the popes: nevertheless, he thought he had the liberty either to approve or disapprove the opinions of St. Thomas, Bonaventure, and other school-men and canonists, which are not grounded upon any text." The emperor Maximilian was equally solicitous with the pope about putting a stop to the propagation of Luther's opinions in Saxony; troublesome both to the church and empire. Maximilian, therefore, applied to Leo, in a letter dated August 5, 1518, and begged him to forbid, by his authority, these useless, rash, and dangerous disputes; assuring him also, that he would strictly execute in the empire whatever his holiness should enjoin. In the meantime Luther, as soon an he understood what was transacting about him at Rome, used all imaginable means to prevent his being carried thither, and to obtain a hearing of his cause in Germany. The elector was also against Luther's going to Rome, and desired of cardinal Cajetan, that he might be heard before him, as the pope's legate in Germany. Upon these addresses, the pope consented that the cause should be tried before cardinal Cajetan, to whom he had given power to decide it. Luther, therefore, set off immediately for Augsburg, and carried with him letters from the elector. He arrived here in October, 1518, and, upon an assurance of his safety, was admitted into the cardinal's presence. But Luther was soon convinced that he had more to fear from the cardinal's power, than from disputations of any kind; and, therefore, apprehensive of being seized, if he did not submit, withdrew from Augsburg upon the 20th. But, before his departure, he published a formal appeal to the pope, and finding himself protected by the elector, continued to teach the same doctrines at Wittemberg, and sent a challenge to all the inquisitors to come and dispute with him. As to Luther, Miltitius, the pope's chamberlain, had orders to require the elector to oblige him to retract, or to deny him his protection; but things were not now to be carried with so high a hand, Luther's credit being too firmly established. Besides, the emperor Maximilian happened to die upon the 12th of this month, whose death greatly altered the face of affairs, and made the elector more able to determine Luther's fate. Miltitius thought it best, therefore, to try what could be done by fair and gentle means, and to that end came to some conference with Luther. During all these treaties, the doctrine of Luther spread, and prevailed greatly; and he himself received great encouragement at home and abroad. The Bohemians about this time sent him a book of the celebrated John Huss, who had fallen a martyr in the work of reformation; and also letters, in which they exhorted him to constancy and perseverance, owning, that the divinity which he taught was the pure, sound, and orthodox divinity. Many great and learned men had joined themselves to him. In 1519, he had a famous dispute at Leipsic with John Eccius. But this dispute ended at length like all others, the parties not the least nearer in opinion, but more to enmity with each other's persons. About the end of this year, Luther published a book, in which he contended for the communion being celebrated in both kinds; which was condemned by the bishop of Misnia, January 24, 1520. While Luther was labouring to excuse himself to the new emperor and the bishops of Germany, Eccius had gone to Rome, to solicit his condemnation; which, it may easily be conceived, was now become not difficult to be attained. Indeed the continual importunities of Luther's adversaries with Leo, caused him at length to publish a formal condemnation of him, and he did so accordingly, in a bull, dated June 15, 1520; this was carried into Germany, and published there by Eccius, who had solicited it at Rome; and who, together with Jerom Alexander, a person eminent for his learning and eloquence, was entrusted by the pope with the execution of it. In the meantime, Charles V. of Spain, after he had set things to rights in the Low Countries, went into Germany, and was crowned emperor, October the 21st, at Aix-la-Chapelle. The diet of Worms was held in the beginning of 1521; which ended at length in this single and peremptory declaration of Luther, that "unless he was convinced by texts of scripture or evident reason (for he did not think himself obliged to submit to the pope or his councils,) he neither could nor would retract any thing, because it was not lawful for him to act against his conscience." Before the diet of Worms was dissolved, Charles V. caused an edict to be drawn up, which was dated the 8th of May, and decreed that Martin Luther be, agreeably to the sentence of the pope, henceforward looked upon as a member separated from the church, a schismatic, and an obstinate and notorious heretic. While the bull of Leo X. executed by Charles V. was thundering throughout the empire, Luther was safely shut up in the castle of Wittemberg; but weary at length of his retirement, he appeared publickly again at Wittemberg, March 6, 1522, after he had been absent about ten months. Luther now made open war with the pope and bishops; and, that he might make the people despise their authority as much as possible, he wrote one book against the pope's bull, and another against the order falsely called "the order of bishops." He published also, a translation of the "New Testament" in the German tongue, which was afterward corrected by himself and Melancthon. Affairs were now in great confusion in Germany; and they were not less so in Italy, for a quarrel arose between the pope and the emperor, during which Rome was twice taken, and the pope imprisoned. While the princes were thus employed in quarrelling with each other, Luther persisted in carrying on the work of the reformation, as well by opposing the papists, as by combating the Anabaptists and other fanatical sects; which, having taken the advantage of his contest with the church of Rome, had sprung up and established themselves in several places. In 1527, Luther was suddenly seized with a coagulation of the blood about the heart, which had like to have put an end to his life. The troubles of Germany being not likely to have any end, the emperor was forced to call a diet at Spires, in 1529, to require the assistance of the princes of the empire against the Turks. Fourteen cities, viz. Stratsburg, Nuremberg, Ulm, Constance, Retlingen, Windsheim, Memmingen, Lindow, Kempten, Hailbron, Isny, Weissemburg, Nortlingen, S. Gal, joined against the decree of the diet protestation, which was put into writing, and published the 19th of April, 1529. This was the famous protestation, which gave the name of Protestants to the reformers in Germany. After this, the protestant princes laboured to make a firm league and enjoined the elector of Saxony and his allies to approve of what the diet had done; but the deputies drew up an appeal, and the protestants afterwards presented an apology for their "Confession"--that famous confession which was drawn up by the temperate Melancthon, as also the apology. These were signed by a variety of princes, and Luther had now nothing else to do, but to sit down and contemplate the mighty work he had finished: for that a single monk should be able to give the church of Rome so rude a shock, that there needed but such another entirely to overthrow it, may be well esteemed a mighty work. In 1533, Luther wrote a consolatory epistle to the citizens of Oschatz, who had suffered some hardships for adhering to the Augsburg confession of faith: and in 1534, the Bible translated by him into German was first printed, as the old privilege, dated at Bibliopolis, under the elector's own hand, shows; and it was published in the year after. He also published this year a book "against masses and the consecration of priests." In February, 1537, an assembly was held at Smalkald about matters of religion, to which Luther and Melancthon were called. At this meeting Luther was seized with so grievous an illness, that there was no hope of his recovery. As he was carried along he made his will, in which he bequeathed his detestation of popery to his friends and brethren. In this manner was he employed till his death, which happened in 1546. That year, accompanied by Melancthon, he paid a visit to his own country, which he had not seen for many years, and returned again in safety. But soon after, he was called thither again by the earls of Mansfelt, to compose some differences which had arisen about their boundaries, where he was received by 100 horsemen, or more, and conducted in a very honourable manner; but was at the same time so very ill, that it was feared he would die. He said, that these fits of sickness often came upon him, when he had any great business to undertake; of this, however, he did not recover, but died February 18, in his 63d year. A little before he expired, he admonished those that were about him to pray to God for the propagation of the gospel; "because," said he, "the council of Trent, which had sat once or twice, and the pope, will devise strange things against it." Soon after, his body was put into a leaden coffin, and carried with funeral pomp to the church at Iselbein, when Dr. Jonas preached a sermon upon the occasion. The earls of Mansfelt desired that his body should be interred in their territories; but the elector of Saxony insisted upon his being brought back to Wittemberg, which was accordingly done; and there he was buried with the greatest pomp that perhaps ever happened to any private man. Princes, earls, nobles, and students without number, attended the procession of this extraordinary reformer; and Melancthon made his funeral oration. We will close this account of the great founder of the reformation, by subjoining a few opinions, which have been passed upon him, by both papists and Protestants. "Luther," says Father Simon, "was the first Protestant who ventured to translate the Bible into the vulgar tongue from the Hebrew text, although he understood Hebrew but very indifferently. As he was of a free and bold spirit, he accuses St Jerom of ignorance in the Hebrew tongue; but he had more reason to accuse himself of this fault, and for having so precipitately undertaken a work of this nature, which required more time than he employed about it. There is nothing great or learned in his commentaries upon the Bible; every thing low and mean: and though he had studied divinity, he has rather composed a rhapsody of theological questions, than a commentary upon the scripture text: to which we may add, that he wanted understanding, and usually followed his senses instead of his reason." This is the language of those in the church of Rome who speak of Luther with any degree of moderation; for the generality allow him neither parts, nor learning, nor any attainment intellectual or moral. But let us leave these impotent railers, and attend a little to more equitable judges. "Luther," says Wharton, in his appendix to Cave's Historia Literaria, "was a man of prodigious sagacity and acuteness, very warm, and formed for great undertakings; being a man, if ever there was one, whom nothing could daunt or intimidate. When the cause of religion was concerned, he never regarded whose love he was likely to gain, or whose displeasure to incur." He is also highly spoken of by Atterbury and others. _John Calvin._ This reformer was born at Noyon in Picardy, July 10, 1409. He was instructed in grammar learning at Paris under Maturinus Corderius, and studied philosophy in the college of Montaign under a Spanish professor. His father, who discovered many marks of his early piety, particularly in his reprehensions of the vices of his companions, designed him at first for the church, and got him presented, May 21, 1521, to the chapel of Notre Dame de la Gesine, in the church of Noyon. In 1527 he was presented to the rectory of Marieville, which he exchanged in 1529 for the rectory of Pont l'Eveque, near Noyon. His father afterward changed his resolution, and would have him study law; to which Calvin, who, by reading the scriptures, had conceived a dislike to the superstitions of popery, readily consented, and resigned the chapel of Gesine and the rectory of Pont l'Eveque, in 1534. He made a great progress in that science, and improved no less in the knowledge of divinity by his private studies. At Bourges he applied to the Greek tongue, under the direction of professor Wolmar. His father's death having called him back to Noyon, he stayed there a short time, and then went to Paris, where a speech of Nicholas Cop, rector of the university of Paris, of which Calvin furnished the materials, having greatly displeased the Sarbonne and the parliament, gave rise to a persecution against the protestants, and Calvin, who narrowly escaped being taken in the college of Forteret, was forced to retire to Xaintonge, after having had the honour to be introduced to the queen of Navarre, who had raised this first storm against the protestants. Calvin returned to Paris in 1534. This year the reformed met with severe treatment, which determined him to leave France, after publishing a treatise against those who believe that departed souls are in a kind of sleep. He retired to Basil, where he studied Hebrew: at this time he published his Institutions of the Christian religion; a work well adapted to spread his fame, though he himself was desirous of living in obscurity. It is dedicated to the French king, Francis I. Calvin next wrote an apology for the protestants who were burnt for their religion in France. After the publication of this work, Calvin went to Italy to pay a visit to the duchess of Ferrara, a lady of eminent piety, by whom he was very kindly received. From Italy he came back to France, and having settled his private affairs, he proposed to go to Strasbourg or Basil, in company with his sole surviving brother, Antony Calvin; but as the roads were not safe on account of the war, except through the duke of Savoy's territories, he chose that road. "This was a particular direction of Providence," says Bayle; "it was his destiny that he should settle at Geneva, and when he was wholly intent upon going farther, he found himself detained by an order from heaven, if I may so speak." At Geneva, Calvin therefore was obliged to comply with the choice which the consistory and magistrates made of him, with the consent of the people, to be one of their ministers, and professor of divinity. He wanted to undertake only this last office, and not the other; but in the end he was obliged to take both upon him, in August, 1536. The year following, he made all the people declare, upon oath, their assent to the confession of faith, which contained a renunciation of popery. He next intimated, that he could not submit to a regulation which the canton of Berne had lately made. Whereupon the syndics of Geneva, summoned an assembly of the people; and it was ordered that Calvin, Farel, and another minister, should leave the town in a few days, for refusing to administer the sacrament. Calvin retired to Strasbourg, and established a French church in that city, of which he was the first minister: he was also appointed to be professor of divinity there. Meanwhile the people of Geneva entreated him so earnestly to return to them, that at last he consented and arrived September 13, 1541, to the great satisfaction both of the people and the magistrates; and the first thing he did, after his arrival, was to establish a form of church discipline, and a consistorial jurisdiction, invested with power of inflicting censures and canonical punishments, as far as excommunication, inclusively. _Agency of Calvin in the death of Michael Servetus._ It has long been the delight of both infidels and some professed christians, when they wish to bring odium upon the opinions of Calvin, to refer to his agency in the death of Michael Servetus. This action is used on all occasions by those who have been unable to overthrow his opinions, as a conclusive argument against his whole system. Calvin burnt Servetus!--Calvin burnt Servetus! is good proof with a certain class of reasoners, that the doctrine of the Trinity is not true--that divine sovereignty is anti-scriptural,--and christianity a cheat. We have no wish to palliate any act of Calvin's which is manifestly wrong. All his proceedings, in relation to the unhappy affair of Servetus, we think, cannot be defended. Still it should be remembered that the true principles of religious toleration were very little understood in the time of Calvin. All the other reformers then living, approved of Calvin's conduct. Even the gentle and amiable Melancthon expressed himself in relation to this affair, in the following manner. In a letter addressed to Bullinger, he says, "I have read your statement respecting the blasphemy of Servetus, and praise your piety and judgment; and am persuaded that the Council of Geneva has done right in putting to death this obstinate man, who would never have ceased his blasphemies. I am astonished, that any one can be found to disapprove of this proceeding." Farel expressly says, that "Servetus deserved a capital punishment." Bucer did not hesitate to declare, that "Servetus deserved something worse than death." The truth is, although Calvin had some hand in the arrest and imprisonment of Servetus, he was unwilling that he should be burnt at all. "I desire," says he, "that the severity of the punishment should be remitted." "We endeavoured to commute the kind of death, but in vain." "By wishing to mitigate the severity of the punishment," says Farel to Calvin, "you discharge the office of a friend towards your greatest enemy." "That Calvin was the instigator of the magistrates that Servetus might be burned," says Turritine, "historians neither any where affirm, nor does it appear from any considerations. Nay, it is certain, that he, with the college of pastors, dissuaded from that kind of punishment." It has been often asserted, that Calvin possessed so much influence with the magistrates of Geneva, that he might have obtained the release of Servetus, had he not been desirous of his destruction. This however, is not true. So far from it, that Calvin was himself once banished from Geneva, by these very magistrates, and often opposed their arbitrary measures in vain. So little desirous was Calvin of procuring the death of Servetus, that he warned him of his danger and suffered him to remain several weeks at Geneva, before he was arrested. But his language, which was then accounted blasphemous, was the cause of his imprisonment. When in prison, Calvin visited him, and used every argument to persuade him to retract his horrible blasphemies, without reference to his peculiar sentiments. This was the extent of Calvin's agency in this unhappy affair. It cannot, however, be denied, that in this instance, Calvin acted contrary to the benignant spirit of the gospel. It is better to drop a tear over the inconsistency of human nature, and to bewail those infirmities which cannot be justified. He declares he acted conscientiously, and publicly justified the act. Cranmer acted the same part towards the poor Anabaptists in the reign of Edward VI. This doctrine they had learned at Rome, and it is certain, that, with a very few exceptions, it was at this time the opinion of all parties. The author of the Memoirs of Literature says, "If the religion of protestants depended on the doctrine and conduct of the reformers, he should take care how he published his account of Servetus; but as the protestant religion is entirely founded on Holy Scripture, so the defaults of the reformers ought not to have any ill influence on the reformation. The doctrine of non-toleration, which obtained to the sixteenth century, among some protestants, was that pernicious error which they had imbibed in the Church of Rome; and I believe, I can say, without doing any injury to that church, that she is, in a great measure, answerable for the execution of Servetus. If the Roman catholics had never put any person to death for the sake of religion, I dare say that Servetus had never been condemned to die in any protestant city. Let us remember, that Calvin, and all the magistrates of Geneva, in the year 1553, were born and bred up in the church of Rome: this is the best apology that can be made for them."--_Biographia Evangelica_, vol. II. p. 42. The apostles John and James would have called down fire from heaven; Calvin and Cranmer kindled it on earth. This, however, is the only fault alleged against Calvin; but "Let him that is without sin cast the first stone." "It ought, however," says a sensible writer, "to be acknowledged that persecution for religious principles was not at that time peculiar to any party of christians, but common to all, whenever they were invested with civil power." It was a detestable error; but it was the error of the age. They looked upon heresy in the same light as we look upon those crimes which are inimical to the peace of civil society; and, accordingly, proceeded to punish heretics by the sword of the civil magistrate. If Socinians did not persecute their adversaries so much as Trinitarians, it was because they were not equally invested with the power of doing so. Mr. Lindsay acknowledges, that Faustus Socinus himself was not free from persecution in the case of Francis David, superintendent of the Unitarian churches in Transylvania. David had disputed with Socinus on the invocation of Christ, and died in prison in consequence of his opinion, and some offence taken at his supposed indiscreet propagation of it from the pulpit. "I wish I could say," adds Mr. Lindsay, "that Socinus, or his friend Blandrata, had done all in their power to prevent his commitment, or procure his release afterwards." The difference between Socinus and David was very slight. They both held Christ to be a mere man. The former, however, was for praying to him; which the latter, with much greater consistency, disapproved. Considering this, the persecution to which Socinus was accessary was as great as that of Calvin; and there is no reason to think, but that if David had differed as much from Socinus, as Servetus did from Calvin, and if the civil magistrates had been for burning him, Socinus would have concurred with them. To this it might be added, that the conduct of Socinus was marked with disingenuity: in that he considered the opinion of David in no very heinous point of light; but was afraid of increasing the odium under which he and his party already lay, among other Christian churches. It was the opinion, that _erroneous religious principles are punishable by the civil magistrate_, that did the mischief, whether at Geneva, in Transylvania, or in Britain; and to this, rather than to Trinitarianism, or Unitarianism, it ought to be imputed. The inflexible rigour with which Calvin asserted, on all occasions, the rights of his consistory, procured him many enemies: but nothing daunted him; and one would hardly believe, if there were not unquestionable proofs of it, that, amidst all the commotions at home, he could take so much care as he did of the churches abroad, in France, Germany, England, and Poland, and write so many books and letters. He did more by his pen than his presence; nevertheless on some occasions, he acted in person, particularly at Frankfort, in 1556, whither he went to put an end to the disputes which divided the French church in that city. He was always employed, having almost constantly his pen in his hand, even when sickness confined him to his bed; and he continued the discharge of all those duties, which his zeal for the general good of the churches imposed on him, till the day of his death, May 27, 1564. He was a man whom God had endowed with very eminent talents; a clear understanding, a solid judgment, and a happy memory: he was a judicious, elegant, and indefatigable writer, and possessed of very extensive learning and a great zeal for truth. Joseph Scaliger, who was not lavish of his praise, could not forbear admiring Calvin; none of the commentators, he said, had so well hit the sense of the prophets; and he particularly commended him for not attempting to give a comment on the Revelation. We understand from Guy Patin, that many of the Roman catholics would do justice to Calvin's merit, if they dared to speak their minds. It must excite a laugh at those who have been so stupid as to accuse him of being a lover of wine, good cheer, company, money, &c. Artful slanderers would have owned that he was sober by constitution, and that he was not solicitous to heap up riches. That a men who had acquired so great a reputation and such an authority, should yet have had but a salary of 100 crowns, and refuse to accept more; and after living 55 years with the utmost frugality, should leave but 300 crowns to his heirs, including the value of his library, which sold very dear, is something so heroical, that one must have lost all feeling not to admire. When Calvin took his leave of Strasbourg, to return to Geneva, they wanted to continue to him the privileges of a freeman of their town, and the revenues of a prebend, which had been assigned to him; the former he accepted, but absolutely refused the other. He carried one of the brothers with him to Geneva, but he never took any pains to get him preferred to an honourable post, as any other possessed of his credit would have done. He took care indeed of the honour of his brother's family, by getting him freed from an adultress, and obtaining leave for him to marry again; but even his enemies relate that he made him learn the trade of a bookbinder, which he followed all his life after. _Calvin as a friend of civil liberty._ The Rev. Dr. Wisner, in his late discourse at Plymouth, on the anniversary of the landing of the pilgrims, makes the following assertion:--"Much as the name of Calvin has been scoffed at and loaded with reproach by many sons of freedom, there is not an historical proposition more susceptible of complete demonstration than this, that _no man has lived to whom the world is under greater obligations for the freedom it now enjoys, than John Calvin_." In a note appended to the sermon, Dr. Wisner gives the following testimonies, from history, of the truth of this proposition--testimonies which deserve the more attention, as they come from Calvin's opposers. We copy the note from the Boston Recorder. "It may not be unacceptable to the reader, to add a few particulars in confirmation of the statement in reference to the influence of Calvin in forming the opinions and character of the Puritans, and thus contributing to the discovery and establishment of the principles of religious and civil liberty. "The peculiarities of the religious doctrines of the Puritans had an important influence in producing in them determined and persevering resistance to arbitrary power, and a successful vindication of their religious and political rights. The fact is sufficiently illustrated in the quotation in the sermon from the Edinburg Review. It is admitted by Hume, and by all, whatever their religious opinions, who have thoroughly investigated the springs of action in those discoverers, and founders of religious and civil freedom. But the doctrinal views of the Puritans were derived from Calvin. "Their disapprobation of the rites and ceremonies enjoined by the English government was a prominent means of leading them to the discovery, and stimulating to the successful vindication of the principles of religious and civil liberty. And that disapprobation may be directly traced to the influence of Calvin. With him many of the leading Puritan divines studied theology, and were taught the importance of laying aside the whole mass of popish additions to the simplicity of apostolic worship. When the difficulties arose among the exiles at Frankfort, in Mary's reign, about the use of King Edward's Liturgy, they asked advice of Calvin, "who having perused the English Liturgy, took notice, 'that there were many tolerable weaknesses in it, which, because at first they could not be amended, were to be suffered; but that it behooved the learned, grave, and godly ministers of Christ to enterprise farther, and to set up something more filed from rust, and purer.' 'If religion,' says he 'had flourished till this day in England, many of these things would have been corrected. But since the reformation is overthrown and a church is to be set up in another place where you are at liberty to establish what order is most for edification, I cannot tell what they mean, who are so fond of the leavings of popish dregs.'" When the conformist party had triumphed at Frankfort, they "wrote to Mr. Calvin to countenance their proceedings; which that great divine could not do; but after a modest excuse for intermeddling in their affairs, told them, that, 'in his opinion, they were too much addicted to the English ceremonies; nor could he see to what purpose it was to burden the church with such hurtful and offensive things, when there was liberty to have simple and more pure order.'" The puritan part of the exiles retired to Geneva, and there prepared and published a service book, in the dedication of which they say, that "they had set up such an order as, in the judgment of Mr. Calvin and other learned divines, was most agreeable to scripture, and the best reformed churches. And when, subsequently, the important step was taken, by several puritans in and about London, of breaking off from the established churches and setting up a separate congregation, they adopted for use, (as they say in their 'agreement' thus to separate) a book and order of preaching, administration of sacraments and discipline, that the great Mr. Calvin had approved of, and which was free from the superstitions of the English service."--_Neal, i. 152, 153, 154, 155, 252._ But most important of all, in its influence on religious and civil liberty, was the attachment of the puritans to a popular church government. And of the origin of this system, we have the following account from 'the judicious Hooker,' prefixed to his famous work on Ecclesiastical Polity, written expressly against it. "A founder it had, whom, for mine own part, I think incomparably the wisest man that ever the French (protestant) church, did enjoy, since the hour it enjoyed him. His bringing up was in the civil law. Divine knowledge he gathered, not by hearing or reading, so much as by teaching others. For thousands were debtors to him, as touching knowledge in that kind, yet he to none, but only to God, the author of that most blessed fountain the Book of Life, and of the admirable dexterity of wit, together with the helps of other learning, which were his guides. Two things of principal moment there are, which have deservedly procured him honour throughout the world; the one, his exceeding pains in composing the institutions of the christian religion; this other, his no less industrious travels for the exposition of holy scripture, according to the same institutions. In which two things, whosoever they were that after him bestowed their labour, he gained the advantage, of prejudice against them if they gainsayed, and of glory above them if they consented. Of what account the Master of Sentences was in the church of Rome, the same, and more, among the preachers of the reformed churches, Calvin had purchased; so that the perfectest divines were judged they who were skilfulest in Calvin's writings; his books being almost the very canon to judge both doctrine and discipline by." "These statements are confirmed by abundant testimony from writers of authority who had no good opinion of Calvin or his principles. Says Hume, (History of England, iii. 57,) "These disputes [about ceremonies, &c.] which had been started during the reign of Edward, were carried abroad by the protestants who fled from the persecutions of Mary; and as the zeal of these men had received an increase from the pious zeal of their enemies, they were generally inclined to carry their opposition to the utmost extremity against the practices of the church of Rome. Their communication with Calvin, and the other reformers who followed the discipline and worship of Geneva, confirmed them in this obstinate reluctance; and though some of the refugees, particularly those who were established at Frankfort, still adhered to king Edward's Liturgy, the prevailing spirit carried these confessors to seek a still further reformation." "The celebrated Dean Swift, in a sermon preached on what tories and high churchmen in England, have styled, "the martyrdom of king Charles I." makes the following statements:--Upon the cruel persecution raised against the protestants under queen Mary, among great numbers who fled the kingdom to seek for shelter, several went and resided at Geneva, which is a commonwealth, governed without a king, where the religion contrived by Calvin is without the order of bishops. When the protestant faith was restored by queen Elizabeth, those who fled to Geneva returned, among the rest, home to England, and were grown so fond of the government and religion of the place they had left, that they used all possible endeavours to introduce both into their own country; at the same time continually preaching and railing against ceremonies and distinct habits of the clergy, taxing whatever they disliked as a remnant of popery; and continued exceedingly troublesome to the church and state, under that great queen, as well as her successor, king James I. These people called themselves puritans, as pretending to a purer faith than those of the established church. And these were the founders of our dissenters. They did not think it sufficient to leave all the errors of popery; but threw off many laudable and edifying institutions of the primitive church, and at last even the government of bishops, which, having been ordained by the apostles themselves, had continued without interruption, in all christian churches, for above fifteen hundred years. And all this they did, not because those things were evil, but because they were kept by the papists. From hence they proceeded, by degrees, to quarrel with the kingly government, because, as I have already said, the city of Geneva, to which their fathers had flown for refuge, was a commonwealth, or government of the people." Having thus stated the foundation and principles of puritanism, the Dean proceeds with an account of its growth till the breaking out of the civil war, and concludes the narrative as follows: "That odious parliament had early turned the bishops out of the House of Lords, in a few years after they murdered their king; then immediately abolished the whole House of Lords; and so, at last obtained their wishes of having a government of the people, and a new religion, both after the manner of Geneva, without a king, a bishop, or a nobleman; and this they blasphemously called, 'The kingdom of Christ and His Saints.'" "In the same way, Dryden traced the origin of republicanism in England, as appears from his political poem called the _Hind and the Panther_; in which he characterizes the Romish church under the name of the Hind, the English church under that of the Panther, and the Presbyterian under that of the Wolf. In the following extract, the 'kennel' means the city of Geneva; the 'puddle' its lake, and the 'wall' its rampart. "The last of all the litter scap'd by chance, And from Geneva first invested France. Some authors thus his pedigree will trace; But others write him of an upstart race, Because of Wickliffe's brood no mark he brings _But his innate antipathy to kings._ * * * * * What though your native kennel still be small, Bounded betwixt a puddle and a wall? Yet your victorious colonies are sent, Where the north ocean girds the continent. Quicken'd with fire below, your monster's breed, In fenny Holland, and in fruitful Tweed; And like the first, the last effects to be Drawn to the dregs of a _democracy_. * * * * * But as the poisons of the deadliest kind Are to their own unhappy coasts confined, So Presbyt'ry and pestilential zeal, _Can only flourish in a_ COMMONWEAL." _The Life of the Rev. John Fox._ John Fox, was born at Boston, in Lincolnshire, in 1517, where his parents are stated to have lived in respectable circumstances. He was deprived of his father at an early age; and notwithstanding his mother soon married again, he still remained under the parental roof. From an early display of talents and inclination to learning, his friends were induced to send him to Oxford, in order to cultivate and bring them to maturity. During his residence at this place, he was distinguished for the excellence and acuteness of his intellect, which was improved by the emulation of his fellow-collegians, united to an indefatigable zeal and industry on his part. These qualities soon gained him the admiration of all; and as a reward for his exertions and amiable conduct, he was chosen fellow of Magdalen college; which was accounted a great honour in the university, and seldom bestowed unless in cases of great distinction. It appears that the first display of his genius was in poetry; and that he composed some Latin comedies, which are still extant. But he soon directed his thoughts to a more serious subject, the study of the sacred scriptures: to divinity, indeed, he applied himself with more fervency than circumspection, and discovered his partiality to the reformation, which had then commenced, before he was known to its supporters, or to those who protected them; a circumstance which proved to him the source of his first troubles. He is said to have often affirmed, that the first matter which occasioned his search into the popish doctrine, was, that he saw divers things, most repugnant in their nature to one another, forced upon men at the same time; upon this foundation his resolution and intended obedience to that church were somewhat shaken, and by degrees a dislike to the rest took place. His first care was to look into both the ancient and modern history of the church; to ascertain its beginning and progress; to consider the causes of all those controversies which in the meantime had sprung up, and diligently to weigh their effects, solidity, infirmities, &c. Before he had attained his thirtieth year, he had studied the Greek and Latin fathers, and other learned authors, the transactions of the councils, and decrees of the consistories, and had acquired a very competent skill in the Hebrew language. In these occupations, he frequently spent a considerable part, or even the whole of the night, and in order to unbend his mind after such incessant study, he would resort to a grove near the college, a place much frequented by the students in the evening, on account of its sequestered gloominess. In these solitary walks, he has been heard to ejaculate heavy sobs and sighs, and with tears to pour forth his prayers to God. These nightly retirements, in the sequel, gave rise to the first suspicion of his alienation from the church of Rome. Being pressed for an explanation of this alteration in his conduct, he scorned to call in fiction to his excuse; he stated his opinions; and was, by the sentence of the college _convicted, condemned as a heretic, and expelled_. His friends, upon the report of this circumstance, were highly offended, and especially his father-in-law, who was now grown altogether implacable, either through a real hatred conceived against him for this cause, or pretending himself aggrieved, that he might now, with more show of justice, or at least with more security, withhold from Mr. Fox his paternal estate; for he knew it could not be safe for one publicly hated, and in danger of the law, to seek a remedy for his injustice. When he was thus forsaken by his own friends, a refuge offered itself in the house of Sir Thomas Lucy, of Warwickshire, by whom he was sent for to instruct his children. In this house he afterwards married. But the fear of the popish inquisitors hastened his departure thence; as they were not contented to pursue public offences, but began also to dive into the secrets of private families. He now began to consider what was best to be done to free himself from further inconvenience, and resolved either to go to his wife's father or to his father in-law. His wife's father was a citizen of Coventry, whose heart was not alienated from him, and he was more likely to be well entreated, for his daughter's sake. He resolved first to go to him; and, in the meanwhile, by letters, to try whether his father-in-law would receive him or not. This he accordingly did, and he received for answer, "that it seemed to him a hard condition to take one into his house whom he knew to be guilty and condemned for a capital offence; neither was he ignorant what hazard he should undergo in so doing; he would, however, show himself a kinsman, and neglect his own danger." If he would alter his mind, he might come, on condition to stay as long as he himself desired; but if he could not be persuaded to that, he must content himself with a shorter stay, and not bring him and his mother into danger. No condition was to be refused; besides, he was secretly advised by his mother to come, and not to fear his father-in-law's severity; "for that, perchance, it was needful to write as he did, but when occasion should be offered, he would make recompense for his words with his actions." In fact he was better received by both of them than he had hoped for. By these means he kept himself concealed for some time, and afterwards made a journey to London, in the latter part of the reign of Henry, VIII. Here, being unknown, he was in much distress, and was even reduced to the danger of being starved to death, had not Providence interfered in his favour in the following manner: One day as Mr. Fox was sitting in St. Paul's church, exhausted with long fasting, a stranger took a seat by his side, and courteously saluted him, thrust a sum of money into his hand, and bade him cheer up his spirits; at the same time informing him, that in a few days new prospects would present themselves for his future subsistence. Who this stranger was, he could never learn, but at the end of three days he received an invitation from the dutchess of Richmond to undertake the tuition of the children of the earl of Surry who, together with his father, the duke of Norfolk, was imprisoned in the Tower, by the jealousy and ingratitude of the king. The children thus confided to his care were, Thomas, who succeeded to the dukedom; Henry, afterwards earl of Northampton; and Jane who became countess to Westmoreland. In the performance of his duties, he fully satisfied the expectations of the dutchess, their aunt. These halcyon days continued during the latter part of the reign of Henry VIII. and the five years of the reign of Edward VI. till Mary came to the crown, who, soon after her accession, gave all power into the hands of the papists. At this time Mr. Fox, who was still under the protection of his noble pupil, the duke, began to excite the envy and hatred of many, particularly Dr. Gardiner, then bishop of Winchester, who in the sequel became his most violent enemy. Mr. Fox, aware of this, and seeing the dreadful persecutions then commencing, began to think of quitting the kingdom. As soon as the duke knew his intention, he endeavoured to persuade him to remain; and his arguments were so powerful, and given with so much sincerity, that he gave up the thought of abandoning his asylum for the present. At that time the bishop of Winchester was very intimate with the duke (by the patronage of whose family he had risen to the dignity he then enjoyed,) and frequently waited on him to present his service when he several times requested that he might see his old tutor. At first the duke denied his request, at one time alleging his absence, at another, indisposition. At length it happened that Mr. Fox, not knowing the bishop was in the house, entered the room where the duke and he were in discourse; and seeing the bishop, withdrew. Gardiner asked who that was; the duke answered, "his physician, who was somewhat uncourtly, as being new come from the university." "I like his countenance and aspect very well," replied the bishop "and when occasion offers, I will send for him." The duke understood that speech as the messenger of some approaching danger; and now himself thought it high time for Mr. Fox to quit the city, and even the country. He accordingly caused every thing necessary for his flight to be provided in silence, by sending one of his servants to Ipswich to hire a bark, and prepare all the requisites for his departure. He also fixed on the house of one of his servants, who was a farmer, where he might lodge till the wind became favourable; and every thing being in readiness, Mr. Fox took leave of his noble patron, and with his wife, who was pregnant at the time, secretly departed for the ship. The vessel was scarcely under sail, when a most violent storm came on, which lasted all day and night, and the next day drove them back to the port from which they had departed. During the time that the vessel had been at sea, an officer, despatched by the bishop of Winchester, had broken open the house of the farmer with a warrant to apprehend Mr. Fox wherever he might be found, and bring him back to the city. On hearing this news he hired a horse, under the pretence of leaving the town immediately; but secretly returned the same night, and agreed with the captain of the vessel to sail for any place as soon as the wind should shift, only desiring him to proceed, and not to doubt that God would prosper his undertaking. The mariner suffered himself to be persuaded, and within two days landed his passengers in safety at Nieuport. After spending a few days in that place, Mr. Fox set out for Basle, where he found a number of English refugees, who had quitted their country to avoid the cruelty of the persecutors, with these he associated, and began to write his "History of the Acts and Monuments of the Church," which was first published in Latin at Basle, and shortly after in English. In the meantime the reformed religion began again to flourish in England, and the popish faction much to decline, by the death of Queen Mary; which induced the greater number of the protestant exiles to return to their native country. Among others, on the accession of Elizabeth to the throne, Mr. Fox returned to England; where, on his arrival, he found a faithful and active friend in his late pupil, the duke of Norfolk, till death deprived him of his benefactor: after which event, Mr. Fox inherited a pension bequeathed to him by the duke, and ratified by his son, the earl of Suffolk. Nor did the good man's successes stop here. On being recommended to the queen by her secretary of state, the great Cecil, her majesty granted him the prebendary of Shipton, in the cathedral of Salisbury, which was in a manner forced upon him; for it was with difficulty that he could be persuaded to accept it. On his resettlement in England, he employed himself in revising and enlarging his admirable Martyrology. With prodigious pains and constant study he completed that celebrated work in eleven years. For the sake of greater correctness, he wrote every line of this vast book with his own hand, and transcribed all the records and papers himself. But, in consequence of such excessive toil, leaving no part of his time free from study, nor affording himself either the repose or recreation which nature required, his health was so reduced, and his person became so emaciated and altered, that such of his friends and relations as only conversed with him occasionally, could scarcely recognise his person. Yet, though he grew daily more exhausted, he proceeded in his studies as briskly as ever, nor would he be persuaded to diminish his accustomed labours. The papists, forseeing how detrimental his history of their errors and cruelties would prove to their cause, had recourse to every artifice to lessen the reputation of his work; but their malice was of signal service, both to Mr. Fox himself, and to the church of God at large, as it eventually made his book more intrinsically valuable, by inducing him to weigh, with the most scrupulous attention, the certainty of the facts which he recorded, and the validity of the authorities from which he drew his information. But while he was thus indefatigably employed in promoting the cause of truth, he did not neglect the other duties of his station; he was charitable, humane, and attentive to the wants, both spiritual and temporal, of his neighbours. With the view of being more extensively useful, although he had no desire to cultivate the acquaintance of the rich and great on his own account, he did not decline the friendship of those in a higher rank who proffered it, and never failed to employ his influence with them in behalf of the poor and needy. In consequence of his well known probity and charity, he was frequently presented with sums of money by persons possessed of wealth, which he accepted and distributed among those who were distressed. He would also occasionally attend the table of his friends, not so much for the sake of pleasure, as from civility, and to convince them that his absence was not occasioned by a fear of being exposed to the temptations of the appetite. In short, his character as a man and as a christian, was without reproach. Of the esteem in which he was held, the names of the following respectable friends and noble patrons, will afford ample proof. It has been already mentioned that the attachment of the duke of Norfolk was so great to his tutor, that he granted him a pension for life; he also enjoyed the patronage of the earls of Bedford and Warwick, and the intimate friendship of Sir Francis Walsingham, (secretary of state,) Sir Thomas, and Mr. Michael Hennage, of whom he was frequently heard to observe, that Sir Thomas had every requisite for a complete courtier, but that Mr. Michael possessed all the merits of his brother, besides his own, still untainted by the court. He was on very intimate and affectionate terms with Sir Drue Drury, Sir Francis Drake, Dr. Grindal, archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Elmar, bishop of London, Dr. Pilkington, bishop of Durham, and Dr. Nowell, dean of St. Paul's. Others of his most intimate acquaintances and friends were, Doctors Umphrey, Whitaker, and Fulk, Mr. John Crowly, and Mr. Baldwin Collins. Among the eminent citizens, we find he was much venerated by Sir Thomas Gresham, Sir Thomas Roe, Alderman Bacchus, Mr. Smith, Mr. Dale, Mr. Sherrington, &c. &c. &c. At length, having long served both the church and the world by his ministry, by his pen, and by the unsullied lustre of a benevolent useful, and holy life, he meekly resigned his soul to Christ, on the 18th of April, 1587, being then in the seventieth year of his age. He was interred in the chancel of St Giles', Cripplegate; of which parish he had been, in the beginning of Elizabeth's reign, for some time vicar. The Lord had given him a foresight of his departure; and so fully was he assured that the time was just at hand when his soul should quit the body, that (probably to enjoy unmolested communion with God, and to have no worldly interruptions in his last hours) he purposely sent his two sons from home, though he loved them with great tenderness; and before they returned, his spirit, as he had foreseen would be the case, had flown to heaven. His death occasioned great lamentations throughout the city, and his funeral was honoured with a great concourse of people, each of whom appeared to bewail the loss of a father or a brother. In his able martyrology he has elaborately treated of the vices and absurdities of papal hierarchy, of which the following is a brief enumeration. _Errors, Rites, Ceremonies, and Superstitious Practices, of the Romish Church._ TRADITIONS.] The church of Rome having deprived the laity of the Bible, substitutes in its stead apostolic and ecclesiastical traditions; and obliges her disciples to admit for truth whatever she teaches them: but what do the holy scriptures say? "Why do ye transgress the commandment of God by your tradition?" Matt. xv. 3, 9, &c. They also command us "to call no man master (in spiritual concerns;) to try the spirit, and beware of false teachers." PRAYERS AND DIVINE SERVICES IN LATIN.] The Roman Catholics will not interpret the scriptures otherwise than according to the sense of holy mother church, and the pretended unanimous consent of the fathers: they assert also, that the scriptures ought not to be read publicly, nor indifferently by all; and, that the common people may be enslaved by gross ignorance, they perform public worship in an unknown tongue, contrary to the rule laid down by the apostle, "That all things should be done to edification." St. Paul says, "If I pray in an unknown tongue, my spirit prayeth, but my understanding is unfruitful." SEVEN SACRAMENTS.] Two only were instituted by Christ, to which the Romish church has added five more, making in all seven, necessary to salvation, namely, the eucharist, baptism, confirmation, penance, extreme unction, orders, and matrimony. To those two which Christ instituted, she has added a mixture of her own inventions; for in the sacrament of baptism, she uses, salt, oil, or spittle; and in the sacrament of the Lord's supper, the laity have only the bread administered to them; and even that not after the manner ordained by Christ, who broke the bread and gave it to his disciples; instead of which the church of Rome administers to her members not bread, but a wafer, and the priests only drink the wine, though our blessed Lord said, "Drink ye ALL of this." Matt. xxvi. 27. THE MASS.] Roman catholics believe it to be a true, proper, and propitiatory sacrifice, and therefore call it the sacrament of the altar; whereas, the death of Christ was a full and complete sacrifice, "in which he hath, by one suffering, perfected for ever them that are sanctified. He himself is a priest for ever; who, being raised from the dead, died no more; and who, through the eternal Spirit, offered himself without spot to God." Paul's Epist. to the Hebrews, ch. ix. 10. It was on account of this gross absurdity, and the irreligious application of it, that our first reformers suffered, and so many were put to death in the reign of queen Mary. TRANSUBSTANTIATION.] Roman catholics profess, that in the most holy sacrament of the Lord's supper, there is really and substantially the body and blood, together with the soul and divinity, of Christ, and that the whole substance of the bread is turned into his body, and the whole substance of the wine into his blood; which conversion, so contradictory to our senses, they call transubstantiation, but at the same time they affirm, that, under either kind or species, only one whole entire Christ, and the true sacrament, is received. But why are those words, "This is my body," to be taken in a literal sense, any more than those concerning the cup? Our Saviour says, "I am the true vine, I am the door." St. Paul says, "Our fathers drank of the rock that followed them, and that rock was Christ;" and writing to the Corinthians, he affirms, that, "he had fed them with milk." Can these passages be taken literally? Why then must we be forced to interpret our Saviour's words in a literal sense, when the apostle has explained the intention of the sacrament to be "to show forth the Lord's death till he come!" PURGATORY.] This, they say, is a certain place, in which, as in a prison, after death, those souls, by the prayers of the faithful, are purged, which in this life could not be fully cleansed; no not by the blood of Christ: and notwithstanding it is asserted in the scriptures, "if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." 1 John i. 9. This place of purgatory is in the power of the pope, who dispenses the indulgences, and directs the treasury of his merits, by which the pains are mitigated, and the deliverance hastened. For the tormented sufferers, in this ideal inquisition, his monks and friars say masses, all of whom must be paid for their trouble; because, no penny, no pater-noster; by which bubble the church of Rome amasses great wealth. IDOLATRY AND CREATURE-WORSHIP.] In all the Romish worship the blessed virgin is a principal object of adoration. She is styled the queen of Heaven, lady of the world, the only hope of sinners, queen of angels, patroness of men, advocate for sinners, mother of mercies, under which titles they desire her, by the power of a mother, to command her Son. In some prayers, they invoke God to bring them to heaven by the merits and mediation of the Virgin Mary and all her saints, and that they may enjoy perpetual soundness both of body and mind by her glorious intercession. Hence it might be imagined by a papist, that the sacred writings were full of encomiums on this pretended mother of God; whereas, on the contrary, we do not find Christ in any part of scripture called the Son of Mary, nor that he at any time calls her mother; and when the woman cried, "Blessed is the womb that bore thee, and the paps that thou hast sucked." "Yea, (returns our Lord) rather blessed are they that hear the word of God, and keep it." Nor does our Saviour own any relation but that of a disciple; for when his mother and brethren stood without, desiring to speak with him, Jesus answered, "Who are my mother and brethren?" And looking round upon his disciples, he saith, "Behold my mother and my brethren; for whosoever shalt do the will of my Father who is in heaven, the same is my brother, sister, and mother." Of the same nature are their prayers to other saints and angels, by which they derogate from the honour of our Christ, and transfer his offices to others; though the scriptures expressly assert, there is but one mediator between God and man. Nor must we omit under this head the idolatry of the mass, in the elevation of the host. Thus is the second commandment infringed, which the Romish church has endeavoured as much as possible to suppress, and in many of their little manuals it is altogether omitted. PAPAL SOVEREIGNTY.] This is politically supported by a pretended infallibility; auricular confession, founded upon the priest's power to forgive sins; indulgences; pretended relics; penance; strings of beads for Ave-Marys and pater-nosters; celibacy; merits and works of supererogations; restrictions; monkish austerities; religious vows and orders; palms; candles; decorated images; holy water; christening of bells; hallowed flowers and branches; agnus dei; oblations; consecrations, &c., &c. LUDICROUS FORMS AND CEREMONIES.] At the feast of Christmas, the Roman catholics have exhibited in their churches a cradle, with an image of an infant in it, which is rocked with great seeming devotion; and on Good-Friday they have the figure of our Saviour on the cross, and then they perform the service which they call the Tenebres; having abundance of lighted candles, all of which they extinguish one by one, after which the body is taken down from the cross and put into a sepulchre, and men stand to watch it. CRUEL MAXIMS.] Papists hold that heretics may not be termed children and kindred; that no faith is to be kept with heretics; and that it is lawful to torture or kill them for the good of their souls. CHAPTER XXIII. SKETCH OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION OF 1789, AS CONNECTED WITH THE HISTORY OF PERSECUTION. The design of those who were the primary agents in originating the causes of the French Revolution, was the utter subversion of the christian religion. Voltaire, the leader in this crusade against religion, boasted that "with one hand he would pull down, what took twelve Apostles to build up." The motto on the seal of his letters was, "Crush the wretch," having reference to Jesus Christ, and the system of religion, which he promulgated. To effect his object he wrote and published a great variety of infidel tracts, containing the most licentious sentiments and the most blasphemous attacks upon the religion of the Bible. Innumerable copies of these tracts were printed, and gratuitously circulated in France and other countries. As they were adapted to the capacity of all classes of persons, they were eagerly sought after, and read with avidity. The doctrines inculcated in them were subversive of every principle of morality and religion. The everlasting distinctions between virtue and vice, were completely broken down. Marriage was ridiculed--obedience to parents treated as the most abject slavery--subordination to civil government, the most odious despotism--and the acknowledgement of a God, the height of folly and absurdity. Deeply tinged with such sentiments, the revolution of 1789, found the popular mind in France prepared for all the atrocities which followed. The public conscience had become so perverted, that scenes of treachery, cruelty and blood were regarded with indifference, and sometimes excited the most unbounded applause in the spectators. Such a change had been effected in the French character, by the propagation of Infidel and Atheistical opinions, "that from being one of the most light hearted and kind tempered of nations," says Scott, "the French seemed upon the revolution to have been animated, not merely with the courage, but with the rabid fury of wild beasts." When the Bastile was stormed "Fouton and Berthier, two individuals whom they considered as enemies of the people, were put to death, with circumstances of cruelty and insult fitting only at the death stake of an Indian encampment; and in imitation of literal cannibals, there were men, or rather monsters found, not only to tear asunder, the limbs of their victims, but to eat their hearts, and drink their blood." Croly, in his new interpretation of the Apocalypse, holds the following language. The primary cause of the French revolution was the exile of Protestantism. Its decency of manners had largely restrained the licentious tendencies of the higher orders; its learning had compelled the Romish Ecclesiastics to similar labours; and while christianity could appeal to such a church in France, the progress of the infidel writers was checked by the living evidence of the purity, peacefulness and wisdom of the Gospel. It is not even without sanction of scripture and history to conceive that, the presence of such a body of the servants of God was a divine protection to their country. But the fall of the church was followed by the most palpable, immediate, and ominous change. The great names of the Romish priesthood, the vigorous literature of Bossnett, the majestic oratory of Massillon, the pathetic and classic elegance of Fenelon, the mildest of all enthusiasts; a race of men who towered above the genius of their country and of their religion; passed away without a successor. In the beginning of the 18th century, the most profligate man in France was an ecclesiastic, the Cardinal Dubois, prime minister to the most profligate prince in Europe, the Regent Orleans. The country was convulsed with bitter personal disputes between Jesuit and Jansenist, fighting even to mutual persecution upon points either beyond or beneath the human intellect. A third party stood by, unseen, occasionally stimulating each, but equally despising both, a potential fiend, sneering at the blind zealotry and miserable rage that were doing its unsuspected will. Rome, that boasts of her freedom from schism should blot the 18th century from her page. The French mind, subtle, satirical, and delighting to turn even matters of seriousness into ridicule, was immeasurably captivated by the true burlesque of those disputes, the childish virulence, the extravagant pretensions, and the still more extravagant impostures fabricated in support of the rival pre-eminence in absurdity; the visions of half-mad nuns and friars; the Convulsionaries; the miracles at the tomb of the Abbe Paris, trespasses on the common sense of man, scarcely conceivable by us if they had not been renewed under our eyes by popery. All France was in a burst of laughter. In the midst of this tempest of scorn an extraordinary man arose, to guide and deepen it into public ruin, VOLTAIRE; a personal profligate; possessing a vast variety of that superficial knowledge which gives importance to folly; frantic for popularity, which he solicited at all hazards; and sufficiently opulent to relieve him from the necessity of any labours but those of national undoing. Holding but an inferior and struggling rank in all the manlier provinces of the mind, in science, poetry, and philosophy; he was the prince of scorners. The splenetic pleasantry which stimulates the wearied tastes of high life; the grossness which half concealed captivates the loose, without offence to their feeble decorum; and the easy brilliancy which throws what colours it will on the darker features of its purpose; made Voltaire, the very genius of France. But under this smooth and sparkling surface, reflecting like ice all the lights flung upon it, there was a dark fathomless depth of malignity. He hated government; he hated morals; he hated man, he hated religion. He sometimes bursts out into exclamations of rage and insane fury against all that we honour as best and holiest, that sound less the voice of human lips than the echoes of the final place of agony and despair. A tribe worthy of his succession, showy, ambitious, and malignant, followed; each with some vivid literary contribution, some powerful and popular work, a new despotic of combustion in that mighty mine on which stood in thin and fatal security the throne of France. Rousseau, the most impassioned of all romancers, the great corrupter of the female mind. Buffon, a lofty and splendid speculator, who dazzled the whole multitude of the minor philosophers, and fixed the creed of Materialism. Moutesquieu, eminent for knowledge and sagacity in his "Spirit of Laws" striking all the establishments of his country into contempt; and in his "Persian Letters," levelling the same blow at her morals. D'Alembert, the first mathematician of his day, an eloquent writer, the declared pupil of Voltaire, and, by his secretary-ship of the French academy, furnished with all the facilities for propagating his master's opinions. And Diderot, the projector and chief conductor of the Encyclopedia, a work justly exciting the admiration of Europe, by the novelty and magnificence of its design, and by the comprehensive and solid extent of its knowledge; but in its principles utterly evil, a condensation of all the treasons of the school of anarchy, the _lex scripta_ of the Revolution. All those men were open infidels; and their attacks on religion, such as they saw it before them, roused the Gallican church. But the warfare was totally unequal. The priesthood came armed with the antiquated and unwieldy weapons of old controversy, forgotten traditions and exhausted legends. They could have conquered them only by the bible; they fought them only with the breviary. The histories of the saints, and the wonders of images were but fresh food for the most overwhelming scorn. The bible itself, which popery has always laboured to close, was brought into the contest, and used resistlessly against the priesthood. They were contemptuously asked, in what part of the sacred volume had they found the worship of the Virgin, of the Saints, or of the Host? where was the privilege that conferred Saintship at the hands of the pope? where was the prohibition of the general use of scripture by every man who had a soul to be saved? where was the revelation of that purgatory, from which a monk and a mass could extract a sinner? where was the command to imprison, torture, and slay men for their difference of opinion with an Italian priest and the college of cardinals? To those formidable questions the clerics answered by fragments from the fathers, angry harangues, and more legends of more miracles. They tried to enlist the nobles and the court in a crusade. But the nobles were already among the most zealous, though secret, converts to the Encyclopedia; and the gentle spirit of the monarch was not to be urged into a civil war. The threat of force only inflamed contempt into vengeance. The populace of Paris, like all mobs, licentious, restless, and fickle; but beyond all, taking an interest in public matters, had not been neglected by the deep designers who saw in the quarrel of the pen the growing quarrel of the sword. The Fronde was not yet out of their minds; the barrier days of Paris; the municipal council which in 1648, had levied war against the government; the mob-army which had fought, and terrified that government into forgiveness; were the strong memorials on which the anarchists of 1793 founded their seduction. The perpetual ridicule of the national belief was kept alive among them. The populace of the provinces, whose religion was in their rosary, were prepared for rebellion by similar means and the terrible and fated visitation of France began. After passing through many scenes from the recital of which the mind turns away with loathing and disgust, the reign of terror commenced. Previous to this, however, there had been dreadful riots, and disorders in Paris. The Swiss Guards had been cut to pieces, and the king and royal family imprisoned. The priests had nearly all perished or been banished from France. The national assembly was divided into desperate factions, which often turned their arms against one another. When one party triumphed, proscription followed, and the guillotine was put in requisition, and blood flowed in torrents. The grossest irreligion likewise prevailed. Leaders of the atheistical mob would extend their arms to heaven and dare a God, if he existed, to vindicate his insulted majesty, and crush them with his thunderbolts. Over the entrance of their grave yards was placed this inscription, "DEATH AN ETERNAL SLEEP." Men who dared to think differently from the dominant faction, were immediately executed, in mockery, often, of all the forms of justice. The most ferocious of the bloody factions, were the jacobins, so called from their place of meeting. The leaders of this party were Danton, Robespierre, and Marat. They are thus described by Scott in his life of Napoleon. Three men of terror, whose names will long remain, we trust, unmatched in history by those of any similar miscreants, had now the unrivalled leading of the jacobins, and were called the Triumvirate. Danton deserves to be named first, as unrivalled by his colleagues in talent and audacity. He was a man of gigantic size, and possessed a voice of thunder. His countenance was that of an Ogre on the shoulders of a Hercules. He was as fond of the pleasures of vice as of the practice of cruelty; and it was said there were times when he became humanized amidst his debauchery, laughed at the terror which his furious declamation excited, and might be approached with safety like the Maelstrom at the turn of tide. His profusion was indulged to an extent hazardous to his popularity, for the populace are jealous of a lavish expenditure, as raising their favourites too much above their own degree; and the charge of peculation finds always ready credit with them, when brought against public men. Robespierre possessed this advantage over Danton, that he did not seem to seek for wealth, either for hoarding or expending, but lived in strict and economical retirement, to justify the name of the Incorruptible, with which he was honoured by his partisans. He appears to have possessed little talent, saving a deep fund of hypocrisy, considerable powers of sophistry, and a cold exaggerated strain of oratory, as foreign to good taste, as the measures he recommended were to ordinary humanity. It seemed wonderful, that even the seething and boiling of the revolutionary cauldron should have sent up from the bottom, and long supported on the surface, a thing so miserably void of claims to public distinction; but Robespierre had to impose on the minds of the vulgar, and he knew how to beguile them, by accommodating his flattery to their passions and scale of understanding, and by acts of cunning and hypocrisy, which weigh more with the multitude than the words of eloquence, or the arguments of wisdom. The people listened as to their Cicero, when he twanged out his apostrophes of _Pauvre Peuple, Peuple verteueux!_ and hastened to execute whatever came recommended by such honied phrases, though devised by the worst of men for the worst and most inhuman of purposes. Vanity was Robespierre's ruling passion, and though his countenance was the image of his mind, he was vain even of his personal appearance, and never adopted the external habits of a sans culotte. Amongst his fellow jacobins he was distinguished by the nicety with which his hair was arranged and powdered; and the neatness of his dress was carefully attended to, so as to counterbalance, if possible, the vulgarity of his person. His apartments, though small, were elegant, and vanity had filled them with representations of the occupant. Robespierre's picture at length hung in one place, his miniature in another, his bust occupied a niche, and on the table were disposed a few medallions exhibiting his head in profile. The vanity which all this indicated was of the coldest and most selfish character, being such as considers neglect as insult, and receives homage merely as a tribute; so that, while praise is received without gratitude, it is withheld at the risk of mortal hate. Self-love of this dangerous character is closely allied with envy, and Robespierre was one of the most envious and vindictive men that ever lived. He never was known to pardon any opposition, affront, or even rivalry; and to be marked in his tablets on such an account was a sure, though perhaps not an immediate sentence of death. Danton was a hero, compared with this cold, calculating, creeping miscreant; for his passions, though exaggerated, had at least some touch of humanity, and his brutal ferocity was supported by brutal courage. Robespierre was a coward, who signed death-warrants with a hand that shook, though his heart was relentless. He possessed no passions on which to charge his crimes; they were perpetrated in cold blood, and upon mature deliberation. Marat, the third of this infernal triumvirate, had attracted the attention of the lower orders, by the violence of his sentiments in the journal which he conducted from the commencement of the revolution, upon such principles that it took the lead in forwarding its successive changes. His political exhortations began and ended like the howl of a blood-hound for murder; or, if a wolf could have written a journal, the gaunt and famished wretch could not have ravined more eagerly for slaughter. It was blood which was Marat's constant demand, not in drops from the breast of an individual, not in puny streams from the slaughter of families, but blood in the profusion of an ocean. His usual calculation of the heads which he demanded amounted to two hundred and sixty thousand; and though he sometimes raised it as high as three hundred thousand, it never fell beneath the smaller number. It may be hoped, and, for the honour of human nature, we are inclined to believe, there was a touch of insanity in this unnatural strain of ferocity; and the wild and squalid features of the wretch appear to have intimated a degree of alienation of mind. Marat was, like Robespierre, a coward. Repeatedly denounced in the Assembly, he skulked instead of defending himself, and lay concealed in some obscure garret or cellar, among his cut-throats, until a storm appeared, when, like a bird of ill omen, his death-screech was again heard. Such was the strange and fatal triumvirate, in which the same degree of cannibal cruelty existed under different aspects. Danton murdered to glut his rage; Robespierre to avenge his injured vanity, or to remove a rival whom he envied! Marat, from the same instinctive love of blood, which induces a wolf to continue his ravage of the flocks long after his hunger is appeased. These monsters ruled France for a time with the most despotic sway. The most sanguinary laws were enacted--and the most vigilant system of police maintained. Spies and informers were employed--and every murmur, and every expression unfavourable to the ruling powers was followed with the sentence of death and its immediate execution. "Men," says Scott, "read Livy for the sake of discovering what degree of private crime might be committed under the mask of public virtue. The deed of the younger Brutus, served any man as an apology to betray to ruin and to death, a friend or a patron, whose patriotism might not be of the pitch which suited the time. Under the example of the elder Brutus, the nearest ties of blood were repeatedly made to give way before the ferocity of party zeal--a zeal too often assumed for the most infamous and selfish purposes. As some fanatics of yore studied the old testament for the purpose of finding examples of bad actions to vindicate those which themselves were tempted to commit, so the republicans of France, we mean the desperate and outrageous bigots of the revolution, read history to justify, by classical instances, their public and private crimes. Informers, those scourges of a state, were encouraged to a degree scarce known in ancient Rome in the time of the emperors, though Tacitus has hurled his thunders against them, as the poison and pest of his time. The duty of lodging such informations was unblushingly urged as indispensable. The safety of the republic being the supreme charge of every citizen, he was on no account to hesitate in _denouncing_, as it was termed, any one whomsoever, or howsoever connected with him,--the friend of his counsels, or the wife of his bosom,--providing he had reason to suspect the devoted individual of the crime of _incivism_,--a crime the more mysteriously dreadful, as no one knew exactly its nature." In this place we shall give an account of some of the scenes to which France was subject during this awful period. In order to render the triumph complete, the leaders of the Jacobins determined upon a general massacre of all the friends of the unfortunate Louis and the constitution in the kingdom. For this purpose, suspected persons of all ranks were collected in the prisons and jails, and on the 2d of September, 1792, the work of death commenced. _Massacre of Prisoners._ The number of individuals accumulated in the various prisons of Paris had increased by the arrests and domiciliary visits subsequent to the 10th of August, to about eight thousand persons. It was the object of this infernal scheme to destroy the greater part of these under one general system of murder, not to be executed by the sudden and furious impulse of an armed multitude, but with a certain degree of cold blood and deliberate investigation. A force of armed banditti, Marsellois partly, and partly chosen ruffians of the Fauxbourgs, proceeded to the several prisons, into which they either forced their passage, or were admitted by the jailers, most of whom had been apprised of what was to take place, though some even of these steeled officials exerted themselves to save those under their charge. A revolutionary tribunal was formed from among the armed ruffians themselves, who examined the registers of the prison, and summoned the captives individually to undergo the form of a trial. If the judges, as was almost always the case, declared for death, their doom, to prevent the efforts of men in despair, was expressed in the words "Give the prisoner freedom." The victim was then thrust out into the street, or yard; he was despatched by men and women, who, with sleeves tucked up, arms dyed elbow-deep in blood, hands holding axes, pikes, and sabres, were executioners of the sentence; and, by the manner in which they did their office on the living, and mangled the bodies of the dead, showed that they occupied the post as much from pleasure as from love of hire. They often exchanged places; the judges going out to take the executioners' duty, the executioners, with reeking hands, sitting as judges in their turn. Mailard, a ruffian alleged to have distinguished himself at the siege of the Bastile, but better known by his exploits on the march to Versailles, presided during these brief and sanguinary investigations. His companions on the bench were persons of the same stamp. Yet there were occasions when they showed some transient gleams of humanity, and it is not unimportant to remark, that boldness had more influence on them than any appeal to mercy or compassion. An avowed royalist was occasionally dismissed uninjured, while the constitutionalists were sure to be massacred. Another trait of a singular nature is, that two of the ruffians who were appointed to guard one of these intended victims home in safety, as if they were acquitted, insisted on seeing his meeting with his family, seemed to share in the transports of the moment, and on taking leave, shook the hand of their late prisoner, while their own were clotted with the gore of his friends, and had been just raised to shed his own. Few, indeed, and brief, were these symptoms of relenting. In general, the doom of the prisoner was death, and that doom was instantly accomplished. In the meanwhile, the captives were penned up in their dungeons like cattle in a shambles, and in many instances might, from windows which looked outwards, mark the fate of their comrades, hear their cries, and behold their struggles, and learn from the horrible scene, how they might best meet their own approaching fate. They observed, according to St. Meard, who, in his well-named Agony of Thirty-Six Hours, has given the account of this fearful scene, that those who intercepted the blows of the executioners, by holding up their hands, suffered protracted torment, while those who offered no show of struggle were more easily despatched; and they encouraged each other to submit to their fate, in the manner least likely to prolong their sufferings. Many ladies, especially those belonging to the court, were thus murdered. The Princess de Lamballe, whose only crime seems to have been her friendship for Marie Antoinette, was literally hewn to pieces, and her head, and that of others, paraded on pikes through the metropolis. It was carried to the temple on that accursed weapon, the features yet beautiful in death, and the long fair curls of the hair floating around the spear. The murderers insisted that the King and Queen should be compelled to come to the window to view this dreadful trophy. The municipal officers who were upon duty over the royal prisoners, had difficulty, not merely in saving them from this horrible inhumanity, but also in preventing their prison from being forced. Three-coloured ribbons were extended across the street, and this frail barrier was found sufficient to intimate that the Temple was under the safeguard of the nation. We do not read that the efficiency of the three-coloured ribbons was tried for the protection of any of the other prisoners. No doubt the executioners had their instructions where and when they should be respected. The clergy, who had declined the constitutional oath from pious scruples, were, during the massacre, the peculiar objects of insult and cruelty, and their conduct was such as corresponded with their religious and conscientious professions. They were seen confessing themselves to each other, or receiving the confessions of their lay companions in misfortune, and encouraging them to undergo the evil hour, with as much calmness as if they had not been to share its bitterness. As protestants, we cannot abstractedly approve of the doctrines which render the established clergy of one country dependant upon the sovereign pontiff, the prince of an alien state. But these priests did not make the laws for which they suffered; they only obeyed them; and as men and christians we must regard them as martyrs, who preferred death to what they considered as apostacy. In the brief intervals of this dreadful butchery, which lasted four days, the judges and executioners ate, drank, and slept: and awoke from slumber, or arose from their meal, with fresh appetite for murder. There were places arranged for the male, and for the female murderers, for the work had been incomplete without the intervention of the latter. Prison after prison was invested, entered, and under the same form of proceeding made the scene of the same inhuman butchery. The Jacobins had reckoned on making the massacre universal over France. But the example was not generally followed. It required, as in the case of St. Bartholomew, the only massacre which can be compared to this in atrocity, the excitation of a large capital, in a violent crisis, to render such horrors possible. The community of Paris were not in fault for this. They did all they could to extend the sphere of murder. Their warrant brought from Orleans near sixty persons, including the Duke de Cosse-Brissac, De Lesart the late minister, and other royalists of distinction, who were to have been tried before the high court of that department. A band of assassins met them, by appointment of the community, at Versailles, who, uniting with their escort, murdered almost the whole of the unhappy men. From the 2d to the 6th of September, these infernal crimes proceeded uninterrupted, protracted by the actors for the sake of the daily pay of a louis to each, openly distributed amongst them, by order of the Commune. It was either from a desire to continue as long as possible a labour so well requited, or because these beings had acquired an insatiable lust of murder, that, when the jails were emptied of state criminals, the assassins attacked the Bicetre, a prison where ordinary delinquents were confined. These unhappy wretches offered a degree of resistance which cost the assailants more dear than any they had experienced from their proper victims. They were obliged to fire on them with cannon, and many hundreds of the miserable creatures were in thus way exterminated, by wretches worse than themselves. No exact account was ever made of the number of persons murdered during this dreadful period; but not above two or three hundred of the prisoners arrested for state offences were known to escape, or be discharged, and the most moderate computation raises the number of those who fell to two or three thousand, though some carry it to twice the extent. Truchod announced to the Legislative Assembly, that four thousand had perished. Some exertion was made to save the lives of those imprisoned for debt, whose numbers, with those of common felons, may make up the balance betwixt the number slain and eight thousand who were prisoners when the massacre began. The bodies were interred in heaps, in immense trenches, prepared beforehand by order of the community of Paris; but their bones have since been transferred to the subterranean catacombs, which form the general charnel-house of the city. In those melancholy regions, while other relics of mortality lie exposed all around, the remains of those who perished in the massacres of September, are alone secluded from the eye. The vault in which they repose is closed with a screen of freestone, as if relating to crimes unfit to be thought of even in the proper abode of death; and which France would willingly hide in oblivion. After this dreadful massacre, the Jacobins eagerly demanded the life of Louis XVI. He was accordingly tried by the convention and condemned to be beheaded. _Death of Louis XVI. and other Members of the Royal Family._ On the 21st of January, 1793, Louis XVI. was publicly beheaded in the midst of his own metropolis, in the _Place Louis Quinze_, erected to the memory of his grandfather. It is possible, for the critical eye of the historian, to discover much weakness in the conduct of this unhappy monarch; for he had neither the determination to fight for his rights, nor the power of submitting with apparent indifference to circumstances where resistance inferred danger. He submitted, indeed, but with so bad a grace, that he only made himself suspected of cowardice, without getting credit for voluntary concession. But yet his behaviour on many trying occasions effectually vindicate him from the charge of timidity, and showed that the unwillingness to shed blood, by which he was peculiarly distinguished, arose from benevolence, not from pusillanimity. Upon the scaffold, he behaved with the firmness which became a noble spirit, and the patience beseeming one who was reconciled to heaven. As one of the few marks of sympathy with which his sufferings were softened, the attendance of a confessor, who had not taken the constitutional oath, was permitted to the dethroned monarch. He who undertook the honourable but dangerous office, was a gentleman of gifted family of Edgeworth of Edgeworthstown; and the devoted zeal with which he rendered the last duties to Louis, had like in the issue to have proved fatal to himself. As the instrument of death descended, the confessor pronounced the impressive words,--"Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!" There was a last will of Louis XVI. circulated upon good authority, bearing this remarkable passage:--"I recommend to my son, should you have the misfortune to become king, to recollect that his whole faculties are due to the service of the public; that he ought to consult the happiness of his people, by governing according to the laws, forgetting all injuries and misfortunes, and in particular those which I may have sustained. But while I exhort him to govern under the authority of the laws, I cannot but add, that this will be only in his power, in so far as he shall be endowed with authority to cause right to be respected, and wrong punished; and that without such authority, his situation in the government must be more hurtful than advantageous to the state." Not to mingle the fate of the illustrious victim of the royal family with the general tale of the sufferers under the reign of terror, we must here mention the deaths of the rest of that illustrious house, which closed for a time a monarchy, that existing through three dynasties, had given sixty-six kings to France. It was not to be supposed, that the queen was to be long permitted to survive her husband. She had been even more than he the object of revolutionary detestation; nay, many were disposed to throw on Marie Antoinette, almost exclusively, the blame of those measures which they considered as counter-revolutionary. The terms of her accusation were too basely depraved to be even hinted at here. She scorned to reply to it, but appealed to all who had been mothers, against the very possibility of the horrors which were stated against her. The widow of a king, the sister of an emperor, was condemned to death, dragged in an open tumbril to the place of execution, and beheaded on the 16th October, 1793. She suffered death in her 39th year. The princess Elizabeth, sister of Louis, of whom it might he said, in the words of lord Clarendon, that she resembled a chapel in a king's palace, into which nothing but piety and morality enter, while all around is filled with sin, idleness, and folly, did not, by the most harmless demeanour and inoffensive character, escape the miserable fate in which the Jacobins had determined to involve the whole family of Louis XVI. Part of the accusation redounded to the honour of her character. She was accused of having admitted to the apartments of the Tuilleries some of the national guards, of the section of Filles de Saint Thomas, and causing the wounds to be looked to which they had received in a skirmish with the Marsellois, immediately before the 10th of August. The princess admitted her having done so, and it was exactly in consistence with her whole conduct. Another charge stated the ridiculous accusation, that she had distributed bullets chewed by herself and her attendants, to render then more fatal, to the defenders of the castle of the Tuilleries; a ridiculous fable, of which there was no proof whatever. She was beheaded in May, 1794, and met her death as became the manner in which her life had been spent. We are weary of recounting these atrocities, as others must be of reading them. Yet it is not useless that men should see how far human nature can be carried, in contradiction to every feeling the most sacred, to every pleading, whether of justice or of humanity. The Dauphin we have already described as a promising child of seven years old, an age at which no offence could have been given, and from which no danger could have been apprehended. Nevertheless, it was resolved to destroy the innocent child, and by means to which ordinary murders seem deeds of mercy. The unhappy boy was put in charge of the most hard-hearted villain whom the community of Paris, well acquainted where such agents were to be found, were able to select from their band of Jacobins. This wretch, a shoemaker called Simon, asked his employers, "what was to be done with the young wolf-whelp; Was he to be slain?"--"No?"--"Poisoned?"--"No."--"Starved to death?"--"No." "What then?"--"He was to be got rid of." Accordingly, by a continuance of the most severe treatment--by beating, cold, vigils, fasts, and ill usage of every kind, so frail a blossom was soon blighted. He died on the 8th June, 1795. After this last horrible crime, there was a relaxation in favour of the daughter, and now the sole child of this unhappy house. The princess royal, whose qualities have honoured even her birth and blood, experienced from this period a mitigated captivity. Finally, on the 19th December, 1795, this last remaining relic of the family of Louis, was permitted to leave her prison and her country, in exchange for La Fayette and others, whom, on that condition, Austria delivered from captivity. She became afterwards the wife of her cousin, the duke d'Angouleme, eldest son of the reigning monarch of France, and obtained, by the manner in which she conducted herself at Bourdeaux in 1815, the highest praise for gallantry and spirit. _Dreadful scenes in La Vendée._ In La Vendée, one of the departments of France, an insurrection broke out against the Jacobinical government, in 1793. Upwards of two hundred battles and skirmishes were fought in this devoted country. The revolutionary fever was in its access; the shedding of blood seemed to have become positive pleasure to the perpetrators of slaughter, and was varied by each invention which cruelty could invent to give it new zest. The habitations of the Vendeans were destroyed, their families subjected to violation and massacre, their cattle houghed and slaughtered, and their crops burnt and wasted. One republican column assumed and merited the name of the Infernal, by the horrid atrocities which they committed. At Pilau, they roasted the women and children in a heated oven. Many similar horrors could be added, did not the heart and hand recoil from the task. Without quoting any more special instances of horror, we use the words of a republican eye witness, to express the general spectacle presented by the theatre of public conflict. "I did not see a single male being at the towns of St. Hermand, Chantonnay, or Herbiers. A few women alone had escaped the sword. Country-seats, cottages, habitations of whichever kind, were burnt. The herds and flocks were wandering in terror around their usual places of shelter, now smoking in ruins. I was surprised by night, but the wavering and dismal blaze of conflagration afforded light over the country. To the bleating of the terrified flocks, and bellowing of the terrified cattle, was joined the deep hoarse notes of carrion crows, and the yells of wild animals coming from the recesses of the woods to prey upon the carcasses of the slain. At length a distant colume of fire, widening and increasing as I approached, served me as a beacon. It was the town of Mortagne in flames. When I arrived there, no living creatures were to be seen, save a few wretched women who were striving to save some remnants of their property from the general conflagration."--_Les Memoires d'un Ancien Administrateur des Armees Republicaines._ _Scenes at Marseilles and Lyons._ Marseilles, Toulon, and Lyons, had declared themselves against the Jacobin supremacy. Rich from commerce and their maratime situation, and, in the case of Lyons, from their command of internal navigation, the wealthy merchants and manufacturers of those cities foresaw the total insecurity of property, and in consequence of their own ruin, in the system of arbitrary spoliation and murder upon which the government of the Jacobins was founded. But property, for which they were solicitous, though, if its natural force is used in time, the most powerful barrier to withstand revolution, becomes, after a certain period of delay, its helpless victim. If the rich are in due season liberal of their means, they have the power of enlisting in their cause, and as adherents, those among the lower orders, who, if they see their superiors dejected and despairing, will be tempted to consider them as objects of plunder. But this must be done early, or those who might be made the most active defenders of property, will join with such as are prepared to make a prey of it. Marseilles showed at once her good will and her impotency of means. The utmost exertions of that wealthy city, whose revolutionary band had contributed so much to the downfall of the monarchy in the attack on the Tuilleries, were able to equip only a small and doubtful army of about 3000 men, who were despatched to the relief of Lyons. This inconsiderable army threw themselves into Avignon, and were defeated with the utmost ease, by the republican general Cartaux, despicable as a military officer, and whose forces would not have stood a single _engaillement_ of Vendean sharp-shooters. Marseilles received the victors, and bowed her head to the subsequent horrors which it pleased Cartaux, with two formidable Jacobins, Barras and Ferron, to inflict on that flourishing city. The place underwent the usual terrors of Jacobin purifaction, and was for a time affectedly called "nameless commune." Lyons made a more honourable stand. That noble city had been subjected for some time to the domination of Chalier, one of the most ferocious, and at the same time one of the most extravagantly absurd, of the Jacobins. He was at the head of a formidable club, which was worthy of being affiliated with the mother society, and ambitious of treading in its footsteps; and he was supported by a garrison of two revolutionary regiments, besides a numerous artillery, and a large addition of volunteers, amounting in all to about ten thousand men, forming what was called a revolutionary army. This Chalier, was an apostate priest, an atheist, and a thorough-paced pupil in the school of terror. He had been procureur of the community, and had imposed on the wealthy citizens a tax, which was raised from six to thirty millions of livres. But blood as well as gold was his object. The massacre of a few priests and aristocrats confined in the fortress of Pierre-Scixe, was a pitiful sacrifice; and Chalier, ambitious of deeds more decisive, caused a general arrest of an hundred principal citizens, whom he destined as a hecatomb more worthy of the demon whom he served. This sacrifice was prevented by the courage of the Lyonnois; a courage which, if assumed by the Parisians, might have prevented most of the horrors which disgraced the revolution. The meditated slaughter was already announced by Chalier to the Jacobin club. "Three hundred heads," he said, "are marked for slaughter. Let us lose no time in seizing the members of the departmental office-bearers, the presidents and secretaries of the sections, all the local authorities who obstruct our revolutionary measures. Let us make one fagot of the whole, and deliver them at once to the guillotine." But ere he could execute his threat, terror was awakened into the courage of despair. The citizens rose in arms and besieged the Hotel de Ville, in which Chalier, with his revolutionary troops, made a desperate, and for some time a successful, yet ultimately a vain defence. But the Lyonnois unhappily knew not how to avail themselves of their triumph. They were not sufficiently aware of the nature of the vengeance which they had provoked, or of the necessity of supporting the bold step which they had taken, by measures which precluded a compromise. Their resistance to the violence and atrocity of the Jacobins had no political character, any more than that offered by the traveller against robbers who threaten him with plunder and murder. They were not sufficiently aware, that, having done so much, they must necessarily do more. They ought, by declaring themselves royalists, to have endeavoured to prevail on the troops of Savoy, if not on the Swiss, (who had embraced a species of neutrality, which, after the 10th of August, was dishonourable to their ancient reputation,) to send in all haste, soldiery to the assistance of a city which had no fortifications or regular troops to defend it; but which possessed, nevertheless, treasures to pay their auxiliaries, and strong hands and able officers to avail themselves of the localities of their situation, which, when well defended, are sometimes as formidable as the regular protection erected by scientific engineers. The people of Lyons vainly endeavoured to establish a revolutionary character for themselves upon the system of Gironde; two of whose proscribed deputies tried to draw them over to their unpopular and hopeless cause: and they inconsistently sought protection by affecting a republican zeal, even while resisting the decrees, and defeating the troops of the Jacobins. There were undoubtedly many of royalist principles among the insurgents, and some of their leaders were decidedly such; but these were not numerous or influential enough to establish the true principle of open resistance, and the ultimate chance of rescue, by a bold proclamation of the king's interest. They still appealed to the convention as their legitimate sovereign, in whose eyes they endeavoured to vindicate themselves, and at the same time tried to secure the interest of two Jacobin deputies, who had countenanced every violation attempted by Chalier, that they might prevail upon them to represent their conduct favourably. Of course they had enough of promises to this effect, while Messrs. Guathier and Nioche, the deputies in question, remained in their power; promises, doubtless the more readily given, that the Lyonnois, though desirous to conciliate the favour of the convention, did not hesitate in proceeding to the punishment of the Jacobin Chalier. He was condemned and executed, along with one of his principal associates, termed Reard. To defend these vigourous proceedings, the unhappy insurgents placed themselves under the interim government of a council, who, still desirous to temporize and maintain the revolutionary character, termed themselves "the popular and republican commission of public safety of the department of the Rhine and Loire;" a title which, while it excited no popular enthusiasm, and attracted no foreign aid, no ways soothed, but rather exasperated, the resentment of the convention, now under the absolute domination of the Jacobins, by whom every thing short of complete fraternization was accounted presumptuous defiance. Those who were not with them, it was their policy to hold as their most decided enemies. The Lyonnois had indeed letters of encouragement, and promised concurrence, from several departments; but no effectual support was ever directed to their city, excepting the petty reinforcement from Marseilles, which we have seen was intercepted and dispersed with little trouble by the Jacobin general, Cartaux. Lyons had expected to become the patroness and focus of an Anti-Jacobin league, formed by the great commercial towns, against Paris and the predominant part of the convention. She found herself isolated and unsupported, and left to oppose her own proper forces and means of defence, to an army of sixty thousand men, and to the numerous Jacobins contained within her own walls. About the end of July, after a lapse of an interval of two months, a regular blockade was formed around the city, and in the first week of August, hostilities took place. The besieging army was directed in its military character by general Kellerman, who, with other distinguished soldiers, had now began to hold an eminent rank in the republican armies. But for the purpose of executing the vengeance for which they thirsted, the Jacobins relied chiefly on the exertions of the deputies they had sent along with the commander, and especially of the representative, Dubois Crance, a man whose sole merit appears to have been his frantic Jacobinism. General Percy, formerly an officer in the royal service, undertook the almost hopeless task of defence, and by forming redoubts on the most commanding situations around the town, commenced a resistance against the immensely superior force of the besiegers, which was honourable if it could have been useful. The Lyonnois, at the same time, still endeavoured to make fair weather with the besieging army, by representing themselves as firm republicans. They celebrated as a public festival the anniversary of the 10th of August, while Dubois Crance, to show the credit he gave them for their republican zeal, fixed the same day for commencing his fire on the place, and caused the first gun to be discharged by his own concubine, a female born in Lyons. Bombs and red-hot bullets were next resorted to, against the second city of the French empire; while the besieged sustained the attack with a constancy, and on many parts repelled it with a courage highly honourable to their character. But their fate was determined. The deputies announced to the convention their purpose of pouring their instruments of havoc on every quarter of the town at once, and when it was on fire in several places, to attempt a general storm. "The city," they said, "must surrender, or there shall not remain one stone upon another, and this we hope to accomplish in spite of the suggestions of false compassion. Do not then be surprised when you hear that Lyons exists no longer." The fury of the attack threatened to make good these promises. The sufferings of the citizens became intolerable. Several quarters of the city were on fire at the same time, immense magazines were burnt to the ground, and a loss incurred, during two night's bombardment, which was calculated at two hundred millions of livres. A black flag was hoisted by the besieged on the Great Hospital, as a sign that the fire of the assailants should not be directed on that asylum of hopeless misery. The signal seemed only to draw the republican bombs to the spot where they could create the most frightful distresses, and outrage in the highest degree the feelings of humanity. The devastations of famine were soon added to those of slaughter; and after two months of such horrors had been sustained, it became obvious that farther resistance was impossible. The parylitic Couthon, with Collot D'Herbois, and other deputies were sent to Lyons by the committee of public safety, to execute the vengeance which the Jacobins demanded; while Dubois Crance was recalled, for having put, it was thought, less energy to his proceedings than the prosecution of the siege required. Collot D'Herbois had a personal motive of a singular nature for delighting in the task intrusted to him and his colleagues. In his capacity of a play-actor, he had been hissed from the stage at Lyons, and the door to revenge was now open. The instructions of this committee enjoined them to take the most satisfactory revenge for the death of Chalier and the insurrection of Lyons, not merely on the citizens, but on the town itself. The principal streets and buildings were to be levelled with the ground, and a monument erected where they stood, was to record the cause:--"_Lyons rebelled against the Republic--Lyons is no more._" Such fragments of the town as might be permitted to remain, were to bear the name of Ville Affranchie. It will scarce be believed that a doom like that which might have passed the lips of some eastern despot, in all the frantic madness of arbitrary power and utter ignorance, could have been seriously pronounced, and as seriously enforced, in one of the most civilized nations in Europe; and that to the present enlightened age, men who pretended to wisdom and philosophy, should have considered the labours of the architect as a proper subject of punishment. So it was, however; and to give the demolition more effect, the impotent Couthon was carried from house to house, devoting each to ruin, by striking the door with a silver hammer, and pronouncing these words--"House of a rebel. I condemn thee in the name of the law." Workmen followed in great multitudes, who executed the sentence by pulling the house down to the foundations. This wanton demolition continued for six months, and is said to have been carried on at an expense equal to that which the superb military hospital, the Hotel des Invalides, cost its founder, Louis XIV. But republican vengeance did not waste itself exclusively upon senseless lime and stone--it sought out sentient victims. The deserved death of Chalier had been atoned by an apotheosis executed after Lyons had surrendered; but Collot D'Herbois declared that every drop of that patriotic blood fell as if scalding his own heart, and that the murder demanded atonement. All ordinary process, and every usual mode of execution, was thought too tardy to avenge the death of a Jacobin proconsul. The judges of the revolutionary commission were worn out with fatigue--the arm of the executioner was weary--the very steel of the guillotine was blunted. Collot D'Herbois devised a more summary mode of slaughter. A number of from two to three hundred victims at once were dragged from prison to the place de Baotteaux, one of the largest squares in Lyons, and there subjected to a fire of grape-shot. Efficacious as this mode of execution may seem, it was neither speedy nor merciful. The sufferers fell to the ground like singed flies, mutilated but not slain, and imploring their executioners to despatch them speedily. This was done with sabres and bayonets, and with such haste and zeal, that some of the jailers and assistants were slain along with those whom they had assisted in dragging to death; and the mistake was not discerned, until, upon counting the dead bodies, the military murderers found them to amount to more than the destined tale. The bodies of the dead were thrown into the Rhone, to carry news of the republican vengeance, as Collot D'Herbois expressed himself, to Toulon, then also in a state of revolt. But the sullen stream rejected the office imposed on it, and headed back the dead in heaps upon the banks; and the committee of Representatives was compelled at length to allow the relics of their cruelty to be interred, to prevent the risk of contagion. _The Installation of the Goddess of Reason._ At length the zeal of the infuriated Atheists in France hurried them to the perpetration of one of the most ridiculous, and at the same time impious transactions which ever disgraced the annals of any nation. It was no less than a formal renunciation of the existence of a Supreme Being, and the installation of the _Goddess of Reason_, in 1793. "There is," says Scott, "a fanaticism of atheism, as well as of superstitious belief; and a philosopher can harbour and express as much malice against those who persevere in believing what he is pleased to denounce as unworthy of credence, as an ignorant and bigoted priest can bear against a man who cannot yield faith to dogmata which he thinks insufficiently proved." Accordingly, the throne being totally annihilated, it appeared to the philosophers of the school of Hebert, (who was author of the most gross and beastly periodical paper of the time, called the _Pere du Chene_) that in totally destroying such vestiges of religion and public worship as were still retained by the people of France, there was room for a splendid triumph of liberal opinions. It was not enough, they said, for a regenerate nation to have dethroned earthly kings, unless she stretched out the arm of defiance towards those powers which superstition had represented as reigning over boundless space. An unhappy man, named Gobet, constitutional bishop of Paris, was brought forward to play the principal part in the most impudent and scandalous farce ever acted in the face of a national representation. It is said that the leaders of the scene had some difficulty in inducing the bishop to comply with the task assigned him, which, after all, he executed, not without present tears and subsequent remorse. But he did play the part prescribed. He was brought forward in full procession, to declare to the convention, that the religion which he had taught so many years, was, in every respect, a piece of priestcraft, which had no foundation either in history or sacred truth. He disowned, in solemn and explicit terms, the existence of the Deity to whose worship he had been consecrated, and devoted himself in future to the homage of liberty, equality, virtue, and morality. He then laid on the table his episcopal decorations, and received a fraternal embrace from the president of the convention. Several apostate priests followed the example of this prelate. The gold and silver plate of the churches was seized upon and desecrated, processions entered the convention, travestied in priestly garments, and singing the most profane hymns; while many of the chalices and sacred vessels were applied by Chaumette and Hebert to the celebration of their own impious orgies. The world for the first time, heard an assembly of men, born and educated in civilization, and assuming the right to govern one of the finest of the European nations, uplift their united voice to deny the most solemn truth which man's soul receives, and renounce unanimously the belief and worship of a Deity. For a short time the same mad profanity continued to be acted upon. One of the ceremonies of this insane time stands unrivalled for absurdity, combined with impiety. The doors of the convention were thrown open to a band of musicians; preceded by whom, the members of the municipal body entered in solemn procession, singing a hymn in praise of liberty, and escorting, as the object of their future worship, a veiled female, whom they termed the Goddess of Reason. Being brought within the bar, she was unveiled with great form, and placed on the right hand of the president; when she was generally recognized as a dancing-girl of the opera, with whose charms most of the persons present were acquainted from her appearance on the stage, while the experience of individuals was farther extended. To this person, as the fittest representative of that reason whom they worshipped the national convention of France rendered public homage. This impious and ridiculous mummery had a certain fashion; and the installation of the Goddess of reason was renewed and imitated throughout the nation, in such places where the inhabitants desired to show themselves equal to all the heights of the revolution. The churches were, in most districts of France, closed against priests and worshippers--the bells were broken and cast into cannon--the whole ecclesiastical establishment destroyed--and the republican inscription over the cemeteries, declaring death to be perpetual sleep, announced to those who lived under that dominion, that they were to hope no redress even in the next world. Intimately connected with these laws affecting religion, was that which reduced the union of marriage, the most sacred engagement which human beings can form, and the permanence of which leads most strongly to the consolidation of society, to the state of a mere civil contract of a transitory character, which any two persons might engage in, and cast loose at pleasure, when their taste was changed, or their appetite gratified. If fiends had set themselves to work, to discover a mode of most effectually destroying whatever is venerable, graceful, or permanent in domestic life, and of obtaining at the same time an assurance that the mischief which it was their object to create should be perpetuated from one generation to another, they could not have invented a more effectual plan than the degradation of marriage into a state of mere occasional co-habitation, or licensed concubinage. Sophie Arnoult, an actress famous for the witty things she said, described the republican marriage as the sacrament of adultery. _Fall of Danton, Robespierre, Marat and other Jacobins._ These monsters fell victims by the same means they had used for the destruction of others. Marat was poignarded in 1793, by Charlotte Corday, a young female, who had cherished in a feeling between lunacy and heroism, the ambition of ridding the world of a tyrant. Danton was guillotined in 1794. Robespierre followed soon after. His fall is thus described by Scott in his life of Napoleon. At length his fate urged him on to the encounter. Robespierre descended to the convention, where he had of late but rarely appeared, like the far nobler dictator of Rome; and in his case also, a band of senators was ready to poignard the tyrant on the spot, had they not been afraid of the popularity he was supposed to enjoy, and which they feared might render them instant victims to the revenge of the Jacobins. The speech which Robespierre addressed to the convention was as menacing as the first distant rustle of the hurricane, and dark and lurid as the eclipse which announces its approach. Anxious murmurs had been heard among the populace who filled the tribunes, or crowded the entrances of the hall of the convention, indicating that a second 31st of May (being the day on which the Jacobins proscribed the Girondists) was about to witness a similar operation. The first theme of the gloomy orator was the display of his own virtues and his services as a patriot, distinguishing as enemies to their country all whose opinions were contrary to his own. He then reviewed successively the various departments of the government, and loaded them in turn with censure and contempt. He declaimed against the supineness of the committees of public safety and public security, as if the guillotine had never been in exercise; and he accused the committee of finance of having _counter-revolutionized_ the revenues of the republic. He enlarged with no less bitterness on withdrawing the artillery-men (always violent Jacobins) from Paris, and on the mode of management adopted in the conquered countries of Belgium. It seemed as if he wished to collect within the same lists all the functionaries of the state, and in the same breath to utter defiance to them all. The usual honorary motion was made to print the discourse; but then the storm of opposition broke forth, and many speakers vociferously demanded, that before so far adopting the grave inculpations which it contained, the discourse should be referred to the two committees. Robespierre in his turn, exclaimed, that this was subjecting his speech to the partial criticism and revision of the very parties whom he had accused. Exculpations and defences were heard on all sides against the charges which had been thus sweepingly brought forward; and there were many deputies who complained in no obscure terms of individual tyranny, and of a conspiracy on foot to outlaw and murder such part of the convention as might be disposed to offer resistance. Robespierre was but feebly supported, save by Saint Just, Couthon, and by his own brother. After a stormy debate, in which the convention were alternately swayed by their fear and their hatred of Robespierre, the discourse was finally referred to the committees, instead of being printed; and the haughty and sullen dictator saw in the open slight, thus put on his measures and opinions, the sure mark of his approaching fall. He carried his complaints to the Jacobin Club, to repose, as he expressed it, his patriotic sorrows in their virtuous bosoms, where alone he hoped to find succour and sympathy. To this partial audience he renewed, in a tone of yet greater audacity, the complaints with which he had loaded every branch of the government, and the representative body itself. He reminded those around him of various heroic eras, when their presence and their pikes had decided the votes of the trembling deputies. He reminded them of their pristine actions of revolutionary vigour--asked them if they had forgot the road to the convention, and concluded by pathetically assuring them, that if they forsook him, "he stood resigned to his fate; and they should behold with what courage he would drink the fatal hemlock." The artist David, caught him by the hand as he closed, exclaiming, in rapture at his elocution, "I will drink it with thee." The distinguished painter has been reproached, as having, on the subsequent day, declined the pledge which he seemed so eagerly to embrace. But there were many of his original opinion, at the time he expressed it so boldly; and had Robespierre possessed either military talents, or even decided courage, there was nothing to have prevented him from placing himself that very night at the head of a desperate insurrection of the Jacobins and their followers. Payan, the successor of Hebert, actually proposed that the Jacobins should instantly march against the two committees, which Robespierre charged with being the focus of the anti-revolutionary machinations, surprise their handful of guards, and stifle the evil with which the state was menaced, even in the very cradle. This plan was deemed too hazardous to be adopted, although it was one of those sudden and master strokes of policy which Machiavel would have recommended. The fire of the Jacobins spent itself in tumult, and threatening, and in expelling from the bosom of their society Collot d'Herbois, Tallien, and about thirty other deputies of the mountain party, whom they considered as specially leagued to effect the downfall of Robespierre, and whom they drove from their society with execration and even blows. Collot d'Herbois, thus outraged, went straight from the meeting of the Jacobins to the place where the committee of public safety was still sitting, in consultation on the report which they had to make to the convention the next day upon the speech of Robespierre. Saint Just, one of their number, though warmly attached to the dictator, had been intrusted by the committee with the delicate task of drawing up that report. It was a step towards reconciliation; but the entrance of Collot d'Herbois, frantic with the insults he had received, broke off all hope of accommodation betwixt the friends of Danton and those of Robespierre. D'Herbois exhausted himself in threats against Saint Just, Couthon, and their master, Robespierre, and they parted on terms of mortal and avowed enmity. Every exertion now was used by the associated conspirators against the power of Robespierre, to collect and combine against him the whole forces of the convention, to alarm the deputies of the plain with fears for themselves, and to awaken the rage of the mountaineers, against whose throat the dictator now waved the sword, which their short sighted policy had placed in his hands. Lists of proscribed deputies were handed around, said to have been copied from the tablets of the dictator; genuine or false, they obtained universal credit and currency; and these whose names stood on the fatal scrolls, engaged themselves for protection in the league against their enemy. The opinion that his fall could not be delayed now became general. This sentiment was so commonly entertained in Paris on the 9th Thermidor, or 27th July, that a herd of about eighty victims, who were in the act of being dragged to the guillotine, were nearly saved by means of it. The people, in a generous burst of compassion, began to gather in crowds, and interrupted the melancholy procession, as if the power which presided over these hideous exhibitions had already been deprived of energy. But the hour was not come. The vile Henriot, commandant of the national guards, came up with fresh forces also on the day destined to be the last of his own life, proved the means of carrying to execution this crowd of unhappy and doubtless innocent persons. On this eventful day, Robespierre arrived in the convention, and beheld the mountain in close array and completely manned, while, as in the case of Catiline, the bench on which he himself was accustomed to sit, seemed purposely deserted. Saint Just, Couthon, Le Bas (his brother-in-law,) and the younger Robespierre, were the only deputies of name who stood prepared to support him. But could he make an effectual struggle, he might depend upon the aid of the servile Barrere, a sort of Belial in the convention, the meanest, yet not the least able, amongst those fallen spirits, who, with great adroitness and ingenuity, as well as wit and eloquence, caught opportunities as they arose, and was eminently dexterous in being always strong upon the strongest, and safe upon the safest side. There was a tolerably numerous party ready, in times so dangerous, to attach themselves to Barrere, as a leader who professed to guide them to safety if not to honour; and it was the existence of this vacillating and uncertain body, whose ultimate motions could never be calculated upon, which rendered it impossible to presage with assurance the event of any debate in the convention during this dangerous period. Saint Just arose, in the name of the committee of public safety, to make, after his own manner, not theirs, a report on the discourse of Robespierre on the previous evening. He had begun a harangue in the tone of his patron, declaring that, were the tribune which he occupied the Tarpeian rock itself, he would not the less, placed as he stood there, discharge the duties of a patriot. "I am about," he said, "to lift the veil."--"I tear it asunder," said Tallien, interrupting him. "The public interest is sacrificed by individuals, who come hither exclusively in their own name, and conduct themselves as superior to the whole convention." He forced Saint Just from the tribune, and a violent debate ensued. Billaud Varennes called the attention of the assembly to the sitting of the Jacobin club on the preceding evening. He declared the military force of Paris was placed under the command of Henriot, a traitor and a parricide, who was ready to march the soldiers whom he commanded, against the convention. He denounced Robespierre himself as a second Catiline, artful as well as ambitious, whose system it had been to nurse jealousies and inflame dissentions in the convention, so as to disunite parties, and even individuals from each other, attack them in detail, and thus destroy those antagonists separately, upon whose combined and united strength he dared not have looked. The convention echoed with applause every violent expression of the orator, and when Robespierre sprung to the tribune, his voice was drowned by a general shout of "down with the tyrant!" Tallien moved the denunciation of Robespierre, with the arrest of Henriot, his staff-officers, and of others connected with the meditated violence on the convention. He had undertaken to lead the attack upon the tyrant he said, and to poignard him in the convention itself, if the members did not show courage enough to enforce the law against him. With these words he brandished an unsheathed poignard, as if about to make his purpose good. Robespierre still struggled hard to obtain audience, but the tribune was adjudged to Barrere; and the part taken against the fallen dictator by that versatile and self-interested statesman, was the most absolute sign that his overthrow was irrecoverable. Torrents of invective were now uttered from every quarter of the hall, against him whose single word was wont to hush it into silence. This scene was dreadful; yet not without its use to those who may be disposed to look at it as an extraordinary crisis, in which human passions were brought so singularly into collision. While the vaults of the hall echoed with exclamations from those who had hitherto been the accomplices, the flatterers, the followers, at least the timid and overawed assentors to the dethroned demagogue--he himself, breathless, foaming, exhausted, like the hunter of classical antiquity when on the point of being overpowered and torn to pieces by his own hounds, tried in vain to raise those screech-owl notes, by which the convention had formerly been terrified and put to silence. He appealed for a hearing from the president of the assembly, to the various parties of which it was composed. Rejected by the mountaineers, his former associates, who now headed the clamour against him, he applied to the Girondists, few and feeble as they were, and to the more numerous but equally helpless deputies of the plain, with whom they sheltered. The former shook him from them with disgust, the last with horror. It was in vain he reminded individuals that he had spared their lives, while at his mercy. This might have been applied to every member in the house; to every man in France; for who was it during two years that had lived on other terms than under Robespierre's permission? and deeply must he internally have regretted the clemency, as he might term it, which had left so many with ungashed throats to bay at him. But his agitated and repeated appeals were repulsed by some with indignation, by others with sullen, or embarrassed and timid silence. A British historian might say, that even Robespierre ought to have been heard in his defence; and that such calmness would have done honour to the convention, and dignified their final sentence of condemnation. As it was, they no doubt treated the guilty individual according to his deserts: but they fell short of that regularity and manly staidness of conduct which was due to themselves and to the law, and which would have given to the punishment of the demagogue the effect and weight of a solemn and deliberate sentence, in place of its seeming the result of the hasty and precipitate seizure of a temporary advantage. Haste was, however, necessary, and must have appeared more so at such a crisis, than perhaps it really was. Much must be pardoned to the terrors of the moment, the horrid character of the culprit, and the necessity of hurrying to a decisive conclusion. We have been told that his last audible words, contending against the exclamations of hundreds, and the bell which the president was ringing incessantly, had uttered in the highest tones which despair could give to a voice naturally shrill and discordant, dwelt long on the memory, and haunted the dreams of many who heard him:--"President of assassins," he screamed, "for the last time I demand privilege of speech!" After this exertion, his breath became short and faint; and while he still uttered broken murmurs and hoarse ejaculations, the members of the mountain called out, that the blood of Danton choked his voice. The tumult was closed by a decree of arrest against Robespierre, his brother, Couthon, and Saint Just; Le Bas was included on his own motion, and indeed could scarce have escaped the fate of his brother-in-law, though his conduct then, and subsequently, showed more energy than that of the others. Couthon hugging in his bosom the spaniel upon which he was wont to exhaust the overflowing of his affected sensibility, appealed to his decrepitude, and asked whether, maimed of proportion and activity as he was, _he_ could be suspected of nourishing plans of violence or ambition. "Wretch," said Legendre, "thou hast the strength of Hercules for the perpetration of crime." Dumas, president of the revolutionary tribunal, with Henriot, commandant of the national guards, and other satellites of Robespierre, were included in the doom of arrest. The convention had declared their sitting permanent, and had taken all precautions for appealing for protection to the large mass of citizens, who, wearied out by the reign of terror, were desirous to close it at all hazards. They quickly had deputations from several of the neighbouring sections, declaring their adherence to the national representatives, in whose defence they were arming, and (many undoubtedly prepared beforehand) were marching in all haste to the protection of the convention. But they heard also the less pleasing tidings, that Henriot, having effected the dispersion of those citizens who had obstructed, as elsewhere mentioned, the execution of the eighty condemned persons, and consummated that final act of murder, was approaching the Tuilleries, where they had held their sitting, with a numerous staff, and such of the Jacobinical forces as could hastily be collected. Happily for the convention, this commandant of the national guards, on whose presence of mind and courage the fate of France perhaps for the moment depended, was as stupid and cowardly as he was brutally ferocious. He suffered himself without resistance, to be arrested by a few gens d'armes, the immediate guards of the convention, headed by two of its members, who behaved in the emergency with equal prudence and spirit. But fortune, or the demon whom he had served, afforded Robespierre another chance for safety, perhaps even for empire; for moments which a man of self-possession might have employed for escape, one of desperate courage might have used for victory, which, considering the divided and extremely unsettled state of the capital, was likely to be gained by the boldest competitor. The arrested deputies had been carried from one prison to another, all the jailers refusing to receive under their official charge Robespierre, and those who had aided him in supplying their dark habitations with such a tide of successive inhabitants. At length the prisoners were secured in the office of the committee of public safety. But by this time all was in alarm amongst the commune of Paris, where Fleuriot the mayor, and Payan the successor of Hebert, convoked the civic body, despatched municipal officers to raise the city and the Fauxbourgs in their name, and caused the tocsin to be rung. Payan speedily assembled a force sufficient to liberate Henriot, Robespierre, and the other arrested deputies, and to carry them to the Hotel de Ville, where about two thousand men were congregated, consisting chiefly of artillerymen, and of insurgents from the suburb of Saint Antoine, who already expressed their resolution of marching against the convention. But the selfish and cowardly character of Robespierre was unfit for such a crisis. He appeared altogether confounded and overwhelmed with what had passed and was passing around him; and not one of all the victims of the reign of terror felt its disabling influence so completely as he, the despot who had so long directed its sway. He had not, even though the means must have been in his power, the presence of mind to disperse money in considerable sums, which of itself would not have failed to insure the support of the revolutionary rabble. Meantime the convention continued to maintain the bold and commanding front which they had so suddenly and critically assumed. Upon learning the escape of the arrested deputies, and hearing of the insurrection at the Hotel de Ville, they instantly passed a decree outlawing Robespierre and his associates, inflicting a similar doom upon the mayor of Paris, the procureur, and other members of the commune, and charging twelve of their members, the boldest that could be selected, to proceed with the armed force to the execution of the sentence. The drums of the national guards now beat to arms in all the sections under authority of the convention, while the tocsin continued to summon assistance with its iron voice to Robespierre and the civic magistrates. Every thing appeared to threaten a violent catastrophe, until it was seen clearly that the public voice, and especially amongst the national guards, was declaring itself generally against the terrorists. The Hotel de Ville was surrounded by about fifteen hundred men, and cannon turned upon the doors. The force of the assailants was weakest in point of number, but their leaders were men of spirit, and night concealed their inferiority of force. The deputies commissioned for the purpose read the decree of the assembly to those whom they found assembled in front of the city hall, and they shrunk from the attempt of defending it, some joining the assailants, others laying down their arms and dispersing. Meantime the deserted group of terrorists within conducted themselves like scorpions, which, when surrounded by a circle of fire, are said to turn their stings on each other, and on themselves. Mutual and ferocious upbraiding took place among these miserable men. "Wretch, were these the means you promised to furnish?" said Payan to Henriot, whom he found intoxicated and incapable of resolution or exertion; and seizing on him as he spoke, he precipitated the revolutionary general from a window. Henriot survived the fall only to drag himself into a drain, in which he was afterwards discovered and brought out to execution. The younger Robespierre threw himself from the window, but had not the good fortune to perish on the spot. It seemed as if even the melancholy fate of suicide, the last refuge of guilt and despair, was denied to men who had so long refused every species of mercy to their fellow-creatures. Le Bas alone had calmness enough to despatch himself with a pistol shot. Saint Just, after imploring his comrades to kill him, attempted his own life with an irresolute hand, and failed. Couthon lay beneath the table brandishing a knife, with which he repeatedly wounded his bosom, without daring to add force enough to reach his heart. Their chief, Robespierre, in an unsuccessful attempt to shoot himself, had only inflicted a horrible fracture on his under-jaw. In this situation they were found like wolves in their lair, foul with blood, mutilated, despairing, and yet not able to die. Robespierre lay on a table in an anti-room, his head supported by a deal box, and his hideous countenance half hidden by a bloody and dirty cloth bound round the shattered chin. The captives were carried in triumph to the convention, who, without admitting them to the bar, ordered them, as outlaws, for instant execution. As the fatal cars passed to the guillotine, those who filled them, but especially Robespierre, were overwhelmed with execrations from the friends and relatives of victims whom he had sent on the same melancholy road. The nature of his previous wound, from which the cloth had never been removed till the executioner tore it off, added to the torture of the sufferer. The shattered jaw dropped, and the wretch yelled aloud to the horror of the spectators. A masque taken from that dreadful head was long exhibited in different nations of Europe, and appalled the spectator by its ugliness, and the mixture of fiendish expression with that of bodily agony. Thus fell Maximilian Robespierre, after having been the first person in the French republic for nearly two years, during which time he governed it upon the principles of Nero or Caligula. His elevation to the situation which he held, involved more contradictions than perhaps attach to any similar event in history. A low-born and low-minded tyrant was permitted to rule with the rod of the most frightful despotism a people, whose anxiety for liberty had shortly before rendered them unable to endure the rule of a humane and lawful sovereign. A dastardly coward arose to the command of one of the bravest nations in the world; and it was under the auspices of a man who dared scarce fire a pistol, that the greatest generals in France began their careers of conquest. He had neither eloquence nor imagination; but substituted in their stead a miserable, affected, bombastic style, which, until other circumstances gave him consequence, drew on him general ridicule. Yet against so poor an orator, all the eloquence of the philosophical Girondists, all the terrible powers of his associate Danton, employed in a popular assembly, could not enable them to make an effectual resistance. It may seem trifling to mention, that in a nation where a good deal of prepossession is excited by amiable manners and beauty of external appearance, the person who ascended to the highest power was not only ill-looking, but singularly mean in person, awkward and constrained in his address, ignorant how to set about pleasing even when he most desired to give pleasure, and as tiresome nearly as he was odious and heartless. To compensate all these deficiencies, Robespierre had but an insatiable ambition, founded on a vanity which made him think himself capable of filling the highest situation; and therefore gave him daring, when to dare is frequently to achieve. He mixed a false and overstrained, but rather fluent species of bombastic composition, with the grossest flattery to the lowest classes of the people; in consideration of which, they could not but receive as genuine the praises which he always bestowed on himself. His prudent resolution to be satisfied with possessing the essence of power, without seeming to desire its rank and trappings, formed another art of cajoling the multitude. His watchful envy, his long-protracted but sure revenge, his craft, which to vulgar minds supplies the place of wisdom, were his only means of competing with his distinguished antagonists. And it seems to have been a merited punishment of the extravagances and abuses of the French revolution, that it engaged the country in a state of anarchy which permitted a wretch such as we have described, to be for a long period master of her destiny. Blood was his element, like that of the other terrorists and he never fastened with so much pleasure on a new victim; as when he was at the same time an ancient associate. In an epitaph, of which the following couplet may serve as a translation, his life was represented as incompatible with the existence of the human race:-- "Here lies Robespierre--let no tear be shed: Reader, if he had lived, thou hadst been dead." The fall of Robespierre ended the "_Reign of Terror_." Most of the leaders who had acted a conspicuous part in these horrid scenes, met a doom similar to that of their leaders. It is impossible to convey to the reader any adequate conception of the atrocities committed in France during this gloomy period, in the name of liberty. Men, women, and children were involved in the massacres which took place at the instigation of the Jacobin chiefs. Hundreds of both sexes were thrown into the Loire, and this was called republican marriage and republican baptism. And it should never be forgotten, that it was not till France as a nation, had denied the existence of a Deity, and the validity of his institutions, that she was visited by such terrible calamities. Let it be "burnt in on the memory" of every generation, that such is the legitimate tendency of infidel opinions. They first destroy the conscience--blunt the moral sense--harden the heart, and wither up all the social and kindly affections, and then their votaries are ripe for any deed of wickedness within the possibility of accomplishment by human agency. Says an eloquent writer--"When the Sabbath was abolished in France, the Mighty God whose being they had denied, and whose worship they abolished, stood aloof and gave them up,--and a scene of proscription, and assassination, and desolation, ensued, unparalleled in the annals of the civilized world. In the city of Paris, there were in 1803, eight hundred and seven suicides and murders. Among the criminals executed, there were seven fathers who had poisoned their children, ten husbands who had murdered their wives, six wives who had poisoned their husbands, and fifteen children who had destroyed their parents." It may be profitable here to record the end of several other Jacobin leaders who had been conspicuous during these scenes of atrocity and bloodshed. Public opinion demanded that some of the most obnoxious members should be condemned. After hesitating for some time, at length the convention, pressed by shame on the one side and fear on the other, saw the necessity of some active measure, and appointed a commission to consider and report upon the conduct of the four most obnoxious Jacobin chiefs, Collot d'Herbois, Billaud Varennes, Vadier, and Barrere. The report was of course unfavourable; yet upon the case being considered, the convention were satisfied to condemn them to transportation to Cayenne. Some resistance was offered to this sentence, so mild in proportion to what those who underwent it had been in the habit of inflicting; but it was borne down, and the sentence was carried into execution. Collot d'Herbois, the demolisher and depopulator of Lyons, is said to have died in the common hospital, in consequence of drinking off at once a whole bottle of ardent spirits. Billaud Varennes spent his time in teaching the innocent parrots of Guiana the frightful jargon of the revolutionary committee; and finally perished in misery. These men both belonged to that class of atheists, who, looking up towards heaven, loudly and literally defied the Deity to make his existence known by launching his thunderbolts. Miracles are not wrought on the challenge of a blasphemer more than on the demand of a sceptic; but both these unhappy men had probably before their death reason to confess, that in abandoning the wicked to their own free will, a greater penalty results even in this life, than if Providence had been pleased to inflict the immediate doom which they had impiously defied. Encouraged by the success of this decisive measure, the government proceeded against some of the terrorists whom they had hitherto spared, but whose fate was now determined, in order to strike dismay into their party. Six Jacobins, accounted among the most ferocious of the class, were arrested and delivered up to be tried by a military commission. They were all deputies of the mountain gang. Certain of their doom, they adopted a desperate resolution. Among the whole party, they possessed but one knife, but they resolved it should serve them all for the purpose of suicide. The instant their sentence was pronounced, one stabbed himself with this weapon; another snatched the knife from his companion's dying hand, plunged it in his own bosom, and handed it to the third, who imitated the dreadful example. Such was the consternation of the attendants, that no one arrested the fatal progress of the weapon--all fell either dead or desperately wounded--the last were despatched by the guillotine. After this decisive victory, and last dreadful catastrophe, Jacobinism, considered as a pure and unmixed party, can scarce be said to have again raised its head in France, although its leaven has gone to qualify and characterize, in some degree, more than one of the different parties which have succeeded them. As a political sect, the Jacobins can be compared to none that ever existed, for none but themselves ever thought of an organized, regular, and continued system of murdering and plundering the rich, that they might debauch the poor by the distribution of their spoils. They bear, however, some resemblance to the frantic followers of John of Leyden and Knipperdoling, who occupied Munster in the seventeenth century, and committed, in the name of religion, the same frantic horrors which the French Jacobins did in that of freedom. In both cases, the courses adopted by these parties were most foreign to, and inconsistent with, the alleged motives of their conduct. The Anabaptists practised every species of vice and cruelty, by the dictates, they said, of inspiration--the Jacobins imprisoned three hundred thousand of their countrymen in the name of liberty, and put to death more than half the number, under the sanction of fraternity. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired except where noted below. Page vi, "Vallie's" changed to "valleys" (the valleys of Piedmont) Page vii, "stupifies" changed to "stupefies (first stupefies the) Page xi, "Hawkes" changed to "Haukes" (Ardeley, Haukes, and) Page 18, "Icunum" changed to "Iconium" (Jerusalem, Iconium, Lystra) Page 23, "northen" changed to "northern" (restless northern nations) Page 26, "catechhmun" changed to "catechumen" (catechumen of Carthage) Page 33, "i ine" changed to "in fine" (in fine, he was) Page 39, "batoons" changed to "batons" (with batons, and) Page 42, "martrydom" changed to "martyrdom" (conclusion of her martyrdom) Page 51, "dioceas" changed to "diocese" (in the diocese) Page 51, "remand" changed to "remanded" (They remanded him) Page 60, "cardina" changed to "cardinal" (crowns of the cardinal) Page 64, "no" changed to "not" (reached not to) Page 73, "nflicted" changed to "inflicted" (inflicted twice without) Page 73, "quiety" changed to "quietly" (peaceably and quietly) Page 73, "hreatening" changed to "threatening" (threatening words to) Page 75, "erwise" changed to "otherwise" (far otherwise than) Page 77, "contributious" changed to "contributions" (last contributions to) Page 77, word "a" was inferred and placed in text do to spacing and context (such a procedure) Page 80, inconsistent quotation marks were retained as original intent could not be assertained. Page 91, "iner" changed to "Gardiner" (Gardiner was drawn) Page 91, "ne" changed to "near" (near the fire) Page 125, "Vilaro" changed to "Villaro" (of Villaro and Bobbio) Page 126, "apprended" changed to "apprehended" (Michialm, was apprehended) Page 132, "dorpped" changed to "dropped" (till they dropped) Page 134, "stil kep" changed to "still kept" (and still kept) Page 136, "s" changed to "his" (completed his regiment) Page 136, "retron" changed to "return" (and return thanks) Page 137, "Vilaro" changed to "Villaro" (rocks of Villaro) Page 137, word "to" inserted into text (put to death) Page 138, "that" changed to "than" (than their suffering) Page 158, "tr s" changed to "troops" (of his troops) Page 158, "un ook" changed to "undertook" (princes undertook the) Page 158, "wel" changed to "well" (were all well) Page 159, "w s" changed to "was" (Zisca was solicited) Page 175, "possesion" changed to "possession" (his possession.) Page 179, "ban- s hour" changed to "banish our" (banish our preachers) Page 180, "enj ned" changed to "enjoined" (strictly enjoined his) Page 204, "see" changed to "she" (whom she forgave) Page 206, "queen" changed to "Queen" (in Queen Mary's) Page 207, "Northhampton" changed to "Northampton" (preached at Northampton) Page 214, "halbered" changed to "halberd" (halberd struck him) Page 222, "Osmand" changed to "Osmond" (Thomas Watts, Thomas Osmond) Page 223, "Was" changed to "was" (he was brought) Page 224, "sherif" changed to "sheriff" (of the sheriff) Page 232, "passsed" changed to "passed" (he passed Bocardo) Page 232, word "be" deleted from text. Original read "he be bent himself" Page 235, the last four names in the article "Rev. T. Whittle, B. Green, T. Brown" do not match the names used in the article. As each was used only once, this was retained as author's intent could not be ascertained. Page 237, "charg" changed to "charge" (closely the charge) Page 239, "lest" changed to "lost" (forever lost his) Page 248, "Asking" changed to "Askin" (Askin and one John Guin) Page 251, "cemetry" changed to "cemetary" (their former cemetary) Page 260, "hallejahs" changed to "hallelujahs" (invocations and hallelujahs) Page 264, "he" changed to "the" (at the stake) Page 268, "fo" changed to "for" (for these Dr.) Page 268, word "I" inserted into text (I am unlearned) Page 276, "Preston" changed to "Prest" (Mrs. Prest for some) Page 278, "Duchman" changed to "Dutchman" (The Dutchman accused) Page 285, "nowithstanding" changed to "notwithstanding" (notwithstanding his passion) Page 292, "t" changed to "to" (every day, to) Page 293, "beesech" changed to "beseech" (humbly beseech your) Page 300, deleted repeated word "words". Original read "such words words fell" Page 310, "Englisman" changed to "Englishman" (an Englishman, who) Page 314, word "to" inserted into text (to his master) Page 321, "Richlieu" changed to "Richelieu" (Cardinal Richelieu, the) Page 321, duplicate word "in" deleted. Original read: "evening in in the city" Page 325, "massacreing" changed to "massacring" (besides massacring at) Page 326, "belley" changed to "belly" (up its belly) Page 336, "addess" changed to "address" (address to the king) Page 338, "religous" changed to "religious" (of religious duty) Page 341, word "any" inserted into text (that any person) Page 347, "Elb" changed to "Elba" (the Isle of Elba) Page 357, "owever" changed to "however" (This, however, would) Page 357, "no" changed to "not" (would not avail) Page 370, word "of" inserted in text. (member of the Roman) Page 376, "skekh" changed to "shekh" (The shekh declared) Page 377, "wordly" changed to "wordly" (other worldly motives) Page 386, word "but" presumed due to smudged text. (but when I) Page 386, word "the" presumed due to smudged text. (merely the gospel) Page 387, word "then" presumed due to smudged text. (and then there) Page 391, "evi" changed to "evil" (you an evil) Page 398, "o" changed to "to" (to which I was) Page 399, Footnote: word "a" inserted into text (to a distance) Page 406, the word "excellent" is presumed as the text was smudged. (a more excellent) Page 408, repeated word "the" deleted. Original read: "or the the palace" Page 410, "Assaad" changed to "Asaad" (history of Asaad) Page 413, "words" changed to "word" (This word tells) Page 416, "angy" changed to "angry" (more angry than ever) Page 419, "enter d th" changed to "entered the" (entered the garden) Page 425, word "I" inserted into text (period, I was) Page 426, "are" changed to "or" (if you or any other) Page 432, "word" changed to "words" (first words of) Page 432, "worne" changed to "worn" (worn out with fatigue) Page 437, "purose" changed to "purpose" (express purpose of) Page 442, "Woongypee" changed to "Woongyee" (a Woongyee and Woondouk) Page 445, "ion" changed to "accusation" (on an accusation) Page 448, "beeen" changed to "been" (having been transmitted) Page 453, "Misssionary" changed to "Missionary" (the Wesleyan Missionary) Page 456, "tell" changed to "Tell" (Tell and Winkelreid) Page 457, "enlighted" changed to "enlightened" (most enlightened cantons) Page 480, "exeedingly" changed to "exceedingly" (continued exceedingly troublesome) Page 481, word "in" inserted into text (in all christian) Page 483, "subsisttence" changed to "subsistence" (his future subsistence) Page 485, "cathdral" changed to "cathedral" (cathedral of Salisbury) Page 486, "Canterbery" changed to "Canterbury" (archbishop of Canterbury) Page 492, "unwieldly" changed to "unwieldy" (antiquated and unwieldy) Page 496, "accummulated" changed to "accumulated" (individuals accumulated in) Page 498, "t" changed to "It" (It required, as in) Page 499, repeated word "Louis" was deleted. Original text reads: "will of Louis Louis XVI." Page 501, "Vendee" changed to "Vendée" twice. (La Vendée) Page 503, "terrour" changed to "terror" (terror was awakened) Page 508, "poinarded" changed to "poignarded" (poignarded in 1793) Page 508, "poinard" changed to "poignard" (poignard the tyrant) Page 511, "l o" changed to "also" (also on the day destined) Page 512, "assentators" changed to "assentors" (overawed assentors to the) Varied capitalization of Christian, Jew, de Legal, and d'Herbois was retained. Inconsistent spacing in meanwhile/mean while was retained. Different spellings of proper names such as Benifield and Benefield, Tlowtdan and Tlowtdau, Wittenberg and Wittenburg were retained. Varied hyphenation was retained throughout.