Chapter Nineteen.

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.”

“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 takeme, 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 Heseemedas 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.’”

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 takeme, 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 Heseemedas 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 Himveryhard,—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,aliasSmith,aliasDownes,aliasMay!’ 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.)

“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 Himveryhard,—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,aliasSmith,aliasDownes,aliasMay!’ 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 inHiseyes!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.

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 inHiseyes!

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!

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 meansgeneral; 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 herselftheCatholic 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.

“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 meansgeneral; 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 herselftheCatholic 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.Wedwell 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?

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.Wedwell 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?

Back to IndexNext