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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 48260
   :PG.Title: Geoffrey the Lollard
   :PG.Released: 2015-02-14
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Frances Eastwood
   :DC.Title: Geoffrey the Lollard
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1872
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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GEOFFREY THE LOLLARD
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      :alt: The Rescue.--Page 149.

      The Rescue.--Page `149`_.

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      *GEOFFREY*
      THE LOLLARD.

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      BY

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      FRANCES EASTWOOD,

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      AUTHOR OF "MARCELLA OF ROME."

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   |  "Blessed are those who die for God,
   |    And earn the Martyr's crown of light,
   |  Yet he who lives for God may lie
   |    A greater conqueror in His sight."
   |                      --A. PROCTOR.

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      New Edition

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      LONDON:
      JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
      48 PATERNOSTER ROW.

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   PREFACE.

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My chief authority for the facts which are
interwoven with the fiction of this story is
Fox, among whose horrors many curious and
interesting accounts of the peculiar doctrines
of the so-called Lollards may be found.
Their views on the Sacraments and some
other points did not entirely agree with those
of the great Reformers, but their purity of life,
their love for the Bible and devotion to the
cause of religious liberty, will entitle this
spiritual awakening to be called the dawn
of the Reformation.  Its political aspect--though
a very important one--I have avoided
entering upon in this volume, and therefore
the trial of Cobham and his companions has
been very imperfectly described, but the full
account of it which Fox gives will be found
to be very interesting in an historical as well
as religious point of view.

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FRANCES EASTWOOD.

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   CONTENTS

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\I.

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`The Church Underground`_


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\II.

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`Putting on the Yoke`_


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\III.

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`Forest Tower and its Inmates`_


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\IV.

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`Farewell to Home`_


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\V.

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`In London`_


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\VI.

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`The Trial`_


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\VII.

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`As the Stars forever and ever`_


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\VIII.

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`Quiet Days`_


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\IX.

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`Hide and Seek in Forest Tower`_


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\X.

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`The Birds Flown to the Mountains`_


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\XI.

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`The Lesson of Forgiveness`_


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\XII.

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`Caught and Caged`_


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\XIII.

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`Kate the Quick-Witted`_


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\XIV.

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`Remorse and its Effects`_


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\XV.

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`Plots and Counterplots`_


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\XVI.

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`The Convent Ghost`_


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\XVII.

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`A Midnight Supper`_


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\XVIII.

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`Free Again`_


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\XIX.

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`From Darkness to Light`_


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\XX.

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`One more Lamb safe in the Fold`_


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\XXI.

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`Father Paul`_


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\XXII.

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`Meeting and Parting`_


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\XXIII.

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`Waiting for the Dawn`_





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.. _`The Church Underground`:

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   GEOFFREY THE LOLLARD.

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CHAPTER I.

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*The Church Under Ground.*

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The sun had set some time ago.  Only a
long, narrow line of crimson could be
seen in the distant western sky, and even
that was fast disappearing.  Darkness had
shrouded almost entirely the thick woods and
rocky dells of this wild region; and thick
clouds rapidly climbing the sky, and chilly
winds sighing among the branches of the
trees, foretold a stormy night.

So thought the elder of two lads who were
leaning against the trunk of an ancient oak
that marked the spot where three paths
crossed each other, and then vanished in
different directions in the forest.  He wrapped
his cloak more closely around him, and
advanced a few paces down one of the paths,
paused as if to listen, and then returned, with
a disappointed look, to his companion.  "Not
come yet, Geoffrey?" said the younger.  "No,
he could not have received the message.  It
is more than an hour past sunset, and he was
to leave Thomas Flynman's at noon.  Could
he have been discovered?  Arundel's men
were seen in Bristol, they say, three days ago,
and it is not like they came for naught."

The last words were spoken more to
himself than to his companion, and again, with
hasty steps, he strode away into the darkness.
He was coming back again without any
intelligence, when suddenly the bushes were
parted, and a tall man stepped out and fronted
the two boys.  For a moment they hardly
knew whether to consider him as friend or foe,
but the stranger lifted the Scottish bonnet
which had shrouded his features, and said in
a low voice:

"The sword of the Lord, and of Gideon.
That is the watchword, I believe.  Have they
come?  Is all ready?  It is through great
peril that I have come here, and I must be on
my way before the dawn."

To these hurried questions the youths only
answered at first by doffing their caps with
profound reverence and respect; then a few
low sentences were interchanged, and the
three struck off down the path together.  The
elder lad led the way, only breaking the
silence by occasional warnings about the road.
"Have a care there, that root is high;" or,
"Here is a low branch, beware!"

Then suddenly he left the path, descended a
steep bank, and, bidding his companions stop
a moment, drew from under a large stone a
pine torch and a little lamp.  Having lighted
the former, and replaced the latter in its
concealment, he stepped down upon some stones
which formed the bed of a running brook, while
he held the torch low, so as to show the best
stepping-places; and all passed on in the
deepest silence.

A long and weary march it was; and all
were glad when the guide stopped before what
seemed a mere mass of vines and bushes, at
the foot of a rock.  These he drew aside with
a careful hand, and disclosed a low door,
through which they passed; the younger lad
closed it softly again, and they advanced as
before.

But it was now a very different way.  The
fresh, pure, evening air had been exchanged
for the damp, musty smell of this underground
passage.  The sides were so close together
that two persons could hardly have passed
each other; the stranger had to stoop his head
many a time to escape a blow from the jutting
points of the roof; while the masses of rock
which had fallen so encumbered the way that
it required, at times, no small skill in climbing,
to pass at all.  Descending some flights of
rough steps, and passing through another door,
they found themselves in a much wider space,
though it was still all dark and stony, but the
roof was higher and the floor was smooth.  A
low hum of distant voices was now heard,
which grew louder as they turned a corner
and stopped before a door.  A light tap was
answered by one from within, and, as the door
opened, such a flood of light poured upon
them, that they shrunk back, with pained eyes,
from the glare.

The light of many torches revealed a low,
broad, windowless room, with a raised
platform, and rude reading-desk at one end,
and between thirty and forty persons--men,
women and children.  Some were engaged
in earnest conversation, some sat in silent
thought, while others were attending to the
children.

At the entrance of the new comer, all arose
and stood respectfully, while he threw aside
his long cloak and cap, and stepped up to the
platform.  The two boys stood at his side, and
all turned to him with expectant looks.

He held his hand over his eyes for a
moment in secret prayer, and then, opening the
huge leather-bound book on the desk, began
to read.  His rich, clear voice gave emphasis
to every word in that glorious fourth chapter
of Second Corinthians: "Therefore, seeing we
have this ministry, as we have received mercy,
we faint not; but have renounced the hidden
things of dishonesty, not walking in craftiness,
nor handling the word of God deceitfully; but
by manifestation of the truth, commending
ourselves to every man's conscience in the
sight of God," etc.  "We are troubled on
every side, yet not distressed."  Here the
reader's tones became more firmly joyful, his
form grew more erect, his whole countenance
beamed.  He read on through that chapter,
and nine verses of the following one; then
turning back to the eighth of Romans, he read
on rapidly to the thirty-first verse, when his
voice rose until it rang again, and the stone
walls echoed back his exultant words: "If
God be for us, who can be against us?  He
that spared not his own Son, but delivered
him up for us all, how shall he not with him
also freely give us all things? ... Who shall
separate us from the love of Christ?  Shall
tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or
famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?"

Here his voice faltered, and his clasped
hands were raised, while the tears, rolling from
his up-turned eyes, fell upon his white beard:
"For thy sake, we are killed all the day long;
we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter."  All
the sorrow had left his tones now, his tall
frame was raised to its utmost height, his
clenched right hand was stretched toward
heaven, the other grasped his robe, and he
almost shouted:

"Nay, in all these things we are more than
conquerors through him that loved us."

His audience, hardly knowing what they did,
rose to their feet, and repeated with him the
closing verses.

When the last words were spoken, silence
reigned in the room, only broken by the low
sobs of some of the assembly.  Then a feeble,
aged voice, near the centre of the room, said:
"Let us pray."

Every knee was bent while the old man
prayed in simple, touching words for their
persecutors, Arundel the archbishop, the king,
and others, and then for many near and dear
ones who were even then in the persecutors'
power.  But he prayed more that they might
be enabled to hold fast the faith without
wavering, than that they might be delivered
from bodily pain.

As he mentioned each by name, the deep
though suppressed groan from some weeping
member of the assembly told where a loving
heart was longing for the safety of some dear
one.  But when they arose from their knees,
all were calm and composed, grave but not
sad, for the words of comfort had entered into
many hearts.

Afterward the preacher discoursed for some
time on the disputed doctrines of the day,
proving the Lollard views by passages from
the Bible, and from the writings of Wickliffe.
He closed with an earnest appeal to all to
stand fast in the faith.  "Lo, friends and
brethren, I know the power of Antichrist.
Full many times have I suffered bonds and
imprisonments for the truth's sake, yet
therefore do not I boast.  I do triumph, but not
through myself, but that Christ may be
glorified in my poor body.  Yea, the flames and
the stake would be welcome to me, if through
my pains and steadfastness his name might
be glorified and souls turned to him.  And
now I go to London, and it seemeth to me it
is the Lord's will that there I should end this
earthly journey.  Even so, come, Lord Jesus!
Henceforth is laid up for me a crown of
righteousness.  Come then, my soul, and be of
good courage.  Look at the home prepared
for thee in heaven.  The smart of the flames
is naught when it leadeth to everlasting glory
above.  Be of good courage, O my soul, for
behold, Christ giveth thee the victory!"

Some of the women and children now
prepared to depart, but not by means of the
secret passage, which was known only to a
few.  The preacher was surrounded by the
men, and eager questions were interchanged
in regard to the safety of various individuals.
A fine-looking, elderly man, evidently the
father of the two boys, related the seizure of
Lord Cobham and his trial, his manly
defense before the council, his condemnation
and imprisonment in the Tower, and the faint
hopes which were entertained of his escape.

All this was new to the preacher, who had
only just arrived from the southern counties;
and he received the tidings with surprise and
grief.

"Lord, how long," he said, "how long shall
thy people be down-trodden by the oppressor?
Look upon thy church lest we be utterly consumed."

Refreshment was now brought to the stranger,
for it wanted but two hours of daybreak,
and he must soon be on the way.

Geoffrey, meanwhile, had gone through the
secret entrance to the wood, to see if any
danger were near, if any spy lurked on the road
through which the traveller must pass.  He
had not been long gone before he returned,
bringing with him another stranger, also
closely wrapped in the coarse, loose cloak
usually worn by the peasantry.  His garments
were dripping with the rain, which had
fallen plentifully during the night, and stained
with mud; and his wooden shoes were filled
with water.  Such was the person that
Geoffrey, with a wondering, anxious look,
presented to his father and the preacher.  All he
knew was that the stranger had given the
pass-word, which entitled him to the secret
passage through the rocks.  He looked
attentively upon the men before him, and then
threw away his cloak, and raised the cap from
his brow.  For a moment they looked at the
features thus suddenly disclosed, when, with a
cry of joy, the preacher flung himself on the
ground before him, clasping his knees, and
exclaiming: "My lord, O my lord, alive and
safe!  My God in heaven, this is too much
mercy!  What, John De Forest, know you
not the Lord of Cobham, the father of the
church?"

Great joy was there over their distinguished
guest; and ejaculations of wonder and thanksgiving
burst forth as he detailed his trial,
imprisonment, and escape from the Tower.  He
concluded by craving protection and concealment
from De Forest until he should rest, and
find an opportunity for escaping to Wales.
Gladly were refreshment and rest given to the
weary noble, than whom a better was not to
be found in all England: the supporter of the
poor, persecuted Lollards; the firm advocate
of the Bible and a reformed church; the
humble servant of God in the darkest age of
superstition, priestcraft, and bigotry.

But now it was time the preacher should
depart, for he must put many miles between
him and Forest tower before the day broke.
He rose, and giving his hand to Cobham, said:

"Be of good courage, my lord, Christ giveth
the victory."

"Truly, John Beverly," said Cobham, "the
Lord is good, and I shall trust in him.  When
shall we meet again?"

"In the Lord's kingdom," said Beverly, a
smile beaming upon his noble features; and,
pointing to the remains of the meal, he added:
"At the supper of the Lamb, my lord, who so
loved the world that he gave himself to the
death for it, and, for whose sake, we are
willing to lay down our lives for the brethren."

Thus they parted; the one to linger a few
years in banishment and then meet at once his
sufferings and reward; the other, with a heart
full of faith, went at once to lay down his life
that he might receive it new at the hands of
the Saviour he had so faithfully served, both
in life and in death.





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.. _`Putting on the Yoke`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   *Putting on the Yoke.*

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Forest Tower had been built in the
time of the Normans, on the site of one
destroyed by them, which dated several
centuries further back.  It was a low, massive
building, of gray stone, with a square tower in the
centre, from which it took its name.  The
windows were mere slits in the wall.  The
moat was well kept, free from weeds, and filled
with water.  It was crossed by a drawbridge,
which had not been raised for some time,
judging from the earth and grass which nearly
covered it.  Within there was little for show,
everything for defense.  The great hall was
dimly lighted by narrow windows, set in
immense depth of wall, entirely destitute of glass,
and closed at night by wooden shutters.  A
large fire-place stood at each end, but without
any chimney, and the smoke was permitted to
escape by the windows, or wreathe itself in
thick folds among the soot-hung rafters.
Across the upper end was the dais, or
platform, raised two steps from the rest of the
floor, and containing a stone table and a few
roughly-made arm-chairs.  Below, down the
middle of the room, ran another long table,
supplied with benches and stools of the rudest
workmanship.  The sleeping apartments were
still less furnished--a chest for a wardrobe,
and a heap of straw covered with a coarse
blanket being all they contained, for this old
fortalice was a little behind the age, even then,
in the luxuries of life.

Forest Tower had been owned by the De
Forests ever since its erection.  Once its
domain had embraced many miles of the
adjacent country on every side.  Its halls had
been thronged with retainers, and Sir Thomas
De Forest had led out a hundred yeomen to
fight in the Scottish battles under king
Edward the First.  But times were now changed.
The loyal De Forests had refused to acknowledge
Henry Mortimer when he had seized the
crown, and had taken part in every rebellion
that had had for its object the restoration of
the miserable Richard the Third.  Consequently
its fortunes had greatly declined.
Manor after manor was confiscated by the
crown or sold by its needy proprietors to pay
their fines.  Its bands of yeomen and retainers
had all gone to serve other masters or been
slain in the numerous combats, and only a few
white-haired old domestics remained to keep
up the shadow of its ancient splendor.

Nor were matters improved when the
present John, Baron De Forest, embraced the
Lollard faith.  Many who had until then been
his best friends, became his fiercest enemies.
His very servants, with but few exceptions,
became spies upon him, and reported his
heretical doings to the authorities of the
church.  But, nothing daunted, he continued
to labor for the cause of the Reformation,
fully anticipating a martyr's death, but
unshrinking in the performance of every duty
however perilous.

He had lost his wife shortly after the birth
of his youngest son, and his two boys had
grown up in close companionship with him,
sharing his thoughts, his plans, his spiritual
hopes and joys.  Geoffrey, the elder, was now
fourteen, tall and robust, with a body capable
of bearing fatigue and exposure with impunity,
and a soul fired with the very spirit of Lollardism.

Hubert, his brother, younger by nearly four
years, was cast in a different mould.  He had
the delicate features and expression of his
mother, the gentle Lady Margaret; and while
Geoffrey's hair hung in thick, black curls over
a low, square forehead, Hubert's high, fair
brow, and gentle blue eyes, gave a pensive
and retiring expression to his face.  It was his
dearest delight to pore over an old manuscript
Bible which his father, with much difficulty,
had procured, and to store his mind with
chapter after chapter of its contents.  He would
sometimes obtain one of Wickliffe's tracts,
which he loved to copy out for himself on
parchment.  Different as the boys were in
dispositions, they loved each other with all
their hearts; for, with no other playmates, and
no mother's love to look to, they were
naturally drawn nearer together than most
children.  Geoffrey, with all an elder brother's
sense of responsibility and guardianship,
reverenced in Hubert that love of learning which
he did not possess; and Hubert looked up to
Geoffrey, exulting in his superior strength and
fearlessness.  They were never long separated,
each was unhappy without the other; so
sometimes Geoffrey would leave his out-of-door
sports to sit by his brother's side, and
try to make out the crabbed letters in the big
book; and sometimes Hubert would brave
the storms and forests to keep Geoffrey company.

It was popularly said that Forest Tower
might be divided into three parts, one above
ground, one below ground, and one consisting
of concealed chambers and passages.  The
rock upon which the castle was built
contained many natural caverns, and these had
been enlarged, and connected by artificial
vaults, all extending many feet below the hall
pavement, where the cheerful sunbeams had
never penetrated, and where, at the time of
the Norman conquest, many a Saxon had
pined away his life.  Besides this, there were
fearful stories told by old women in the
cottage chimney-corners, of rich Jews seized by
the old barons of the forest in the reigns of
John and Richard.  It was said that those
who passed near those vaults at night have
heard shrieks for mercy, and cries of agony,
and they might also see the ghosts of these
unfortunate men wandering among the rocks,
and seeking their stolen gold.

The barons took no pains to undeceive the
people, for it was greatly to their interest to
keep off curious and untimely visitors.
During the perilous times of the Border warfare
and civil wars, they had had occasion to build
many secret retreats--some in the thickness
of the massy walls, others in the adjacent
rocks and concealed passages leading from the
interior of the building far out into the open
country in different directions.  It was no
wonder then that the ignorant peasantry
thought they must be aided by supernatural
powers, and attributed their miraculous
appearances and disappearances to satanic
agency.

During the preaching of Wickliffe, John
De Forest had become convinced of the
errors of the church, but had never taken
any very active part in the Reformation, until
Lord Cobham had sent a preacher, John
Beverly, into the neighborhood, whose stirring
appeals had aroused him to a sense of its
importance.  From that time he had become
the most zealous supporter of Lollardism in
the West.  Refugees from every part of the
country bent their steps toward Forest Tower,
sure of a retreat in its many hiding places;
communication by means of signals, known
only to the initiated, was kept up with the
principal reformers and preachers, and meetings
for worship were frequently held in some
of its largest vaults.

The reason why it had been exempted from
the visitation of the law was partly on account
of the ghostly legends connected with it, and
partly on account of its well-known resources
for defense or concealment.  At the time of
which we are writing, the archbishop had sent
a band of men to scour the country for
heretics, and spies abounded everywhere.
Nevertheless, from far and near, the people had
gathered, by twos and threes, for this great
meeting held in the tower vaults.





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.. _`Forest Tower and its Inmates`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   *Forest Tower and its Inmates.*

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After the departure of the preacher,
Lord Cobham was led up the stairs by
his host to where a door in the wall revealed
a small room, with a stone floor, and bed of
straw.

"It is better to sleep securely than softly,
my lord," said Sir John; "our forest beds have
no French hangings."

"My Master had not where to lay his head,
and why should I, the least of his servants,
have more?" replied Lord Cobham; "but
now I shall hasten to my rest, for this body is
sadly wearied with the labors of the last two
days.  A few hours will, however, be sufficient,
and then, my trusty friend, I would see you
again; the Lord be with you."

Sir John bowed and departed, while Lord
Cobham knelt on the stones and offered up a
simple prayer to Him who thus far led him in
safety, and delivered him from those who
sought to take his life.  They were no Latin
Ave Marias or Litanies that he poured forth,
nor were his petitions recorded on a string of
amber beads.  In his own mother tongue, in
the sweet and touching words and phrases of
the Bible he loved so well, he talked with his
God, and angels alone recorded the conversation.
And then he laid him down upon his
bed and slept like a child--slept as the apostle
Peter slept, ere the angel awakened him to go
forth from his dungeon.

Meanwhile Geoffrey and Hubert, cross-bow
in hand, were rapidly treading the intricate
forest paths.  It was not the chase upon which
they were bent, though a brace or two of birds,
and a squirrel, hung over their shoulders; it
was not the deer they were seeking when they
gazed earnestly down the paths, or peered
curiously into the hollow cavity of the oak
which was mentioned in the first chapter.
Deep holes, formed partly by time, and partly
by man's hand, were found among the roots,
each opening toward one of the different roads
which led off into the forest.  This was what
might be called the Lollards' general news
office or telegraph station.  From one of these
Geoffrey drew forth a small twig with two
branches.  After looking at it carefully, he
threw it away, saying, cheerfully, to his brother:
"No danger there, Hubert; Peter Lainton
has seen that all is safe as far as the
mountains; that is well for my Lord of Cobham,
who will have to pass that way to-night.  Now
for the southern road."  The forked stick was
there also, denoting safety; but the next
cavity contained a number of pebbles arranged
two in a row, while in the centre was stuck a
bit of red leaf.  The boys immediately
comprehended the signal.  "Four, eight, ten
horsemen," said Hubert, with a troubled look,
"brother, is there not danger there?"  "Certainly,
Arundel's men can not be far off," said
Geoffrey, thoughtfully, "probably though
beyond Norris's Ford, else Peter Lainton had
heard something.  I will put the signal for
him to be on the watch, perhaps they are only
bound for Bristol, where they say there has
been some trouble between the troops and the
people."  While he was speaking, he had been
looking around for the twig of a tree.  Having
found it, he peeled the bark off it in rings,
and partly breaking off the top, stuck it in
the ground in the hollow opening to the
southern road, and scratched two marks in the
ground behind it.  "Two hours after sunset,"
said Hubert, "is not that rather soon?  There
will be full moon to-night."  "Still, father
says it were better for him to start early than
late, there is no telling when the soldiers may
be here.  How is it with the London road?"  This
hole contained two peeled sticks tied
with cords in several places, and bent over
toward the south-east.  Around them were
grouped several black beans.  Too well the
boys knew the meaning of the signal.  The
road to which it referred led to London.  On
that road had been seen, that morning, two
Lollards, one a preacher, for one of the sticks
was pointed a little at the top, and the black
beans represented the dreaded emissaries of
the church.  The boys looked at each other;
one name was trembling on the lips of both,
but it was too fearful a thought to utter.
There had been no preacher to their knowledge
in the forest save him whose holy words
had filled them with such awe and rapture the
previous night.  For John Beverly to be taken
before Arundel's court was certain death, and
death in its most fearful shape, the lingering
agony of the chain and the flame.

Geoffrey's face grew pale, and he bent
closer over the little signal as though he
hoped to discover some additional circumstance
that might contradict his suppositions.
It was not absolutely certain that the prisoner
and the preacher were the same.  Beverly
had intended to take the northern road; but
it was very likely that he had heard of the
band of soldiers there, and had turned aside.
With this poor comfort they were forced to
be content, and silently turned their steps
toward the Tower.

Sir John heard their tidings, and construed
them even more favorably than his son.  The
preacher, he said, when he believed his duty
called him in a certain direction, was not one
to turn back through fear.  He had firmly
signified his intention of meeting an assembly
of Lollards in Flintshire the following
Sabbath.  At any rate, it were better not to
alarm Lord Cobham with these uncertainties.
Hubert's spirits rose at this new view of the
case; but Geoffrey read in his father's face a
contradiction of his words.  Still he said
nothing, but followed him to the room in the hall.

Lord Cobham laid aside the Bible from
which he had been reading, and replied to
their respectful salutations that he had slept
well, and was quite refreshed.  He then
turned to Geoffrey, and looked earnestly at
his tall, well-proportioned form and sinewy
limbs.  "Wouldst thou be a soldier, my son?"
he said.

"Yea, my lord," replied the boy, "so I be
able to fight for freedom and God's word."

The old soldier's face glowed at hearing the
brave words; but he said nothing, only turned
to the younger.

"And what wouldst thou do, my son?"

"O my lord!" said Hubert, his voice quivering
with the strong emotion working in his
breast, "could I but preach the word, as doth
the good man who has just left us, then were
I highly favored."

"The Lord grant thee thy desire, my child!"
said Cobham.  "Yea, and I think he will;
for there is none that striveth to do his work
unto whom some part shall not be given.  It
may not be according to his desire, in the
way which he has marked out for himself;
but to work in the Lord's vineyard will not
be denied him.  But come, let us see how
thou wilt teach the people.  Wouldst thou
tell him who has done evil to go and confess
him to the priest that he may, by him, be
absolved, and then go and sin over again?"

"Nay, surely," answered the boy, his eye
kindling, "for the priest hath no power by his
word to forgive sins, but God only; neither
will *he* do it unless the sinner earnestly repent
him of his sins, steadfastly purposing to lead a
new life in the future, by God's help.  Unto
the Lord only must the people shrive themselves."

"Yet the priests will tell thee that in the
Scriptures standeth this verse: 'Confess your
sins one to another.'  What sayest thou then?"

"Let the priest bend the knee before me
and the people, and confess his wickedness;
then at the end--if there be any end--I will
in my turn shrive myself to him, and to all
people, for so saith the Scriptures."

Cobham smiled at the boy's logic.

"True, my son, thou sayest rightly; but
suppose then that they put thee to the test,
how instructest thou the people then?"

"I shall tell the people," said the boy stoutly,
"that there is no more of the real flesh and
blood of our Saviour in the wafer and wine of
the holy mysteries after the words of consecration
than before."

"Yet, my son, beware lest thou then fall
into error.  Christ doth say when he presenteth
the paten and the chalice to his disciples,
'This is my body, this is my blood;' therefore
he *is* present under the form of bread and
wine in the sacrament, though the substance
of the bread and wine be still therein
contained.  Take heed not to fall into the great
error either of declaring the elements to be
absolutely changed into the flesh and blood of
Christ, or, on the other hand, of denying his
perfect spiritual presence in the mysteries he
has ordained.  Thou hast been well taught;
hold fast the form of sound words contained
in this Holy Book, then shall our Lord hold
thee fast in his heavenly kingdom.  But now,
my son, thou knowest well that the priest is
not convinced by this, but is rather incensed
thereby, because he loveth darkness rather
than light; and to stop thy mouth he will
excommunicate thee as a heretic forever from
the church of God.  What will thou do then?"

To understand the full force of excommunication,
we must remember that the excommunicated
person was put under a sentence of
absolute outlawry.  His relations and friends
were forbidden to give him any comfort or
assistance under penalty of the same curse.
None might give or sell him shelter, food, or
clothing; and at his death his unburied body
was cast into unhallowed ground, or left for
the beasts and birds of prey to feed upon.

The boy did not shrink from the dreadful
picture thus brought before his mind, but said
quietly:

"He who hath made the heavens saith: 'I
shut and no man openeth, and I open and no
man shutteth.'  Their power then is only in
words which cannot hurt the soul.  Having
favor with God, who alone is powerful,
wherefore care we for the wrath of men?"

"Truly saith the lad, Sir John," cried
Cobham, cheerily, "if we have the lion on our
side, care we for the barking of the foxes?
But listen now: they will not stop here, but
will then deliver thee to the secular power,
and thou mayest languish long years in a
dungeon.  What sayest thou to that?"

"Paul and Silas sang for joy in their prison-house,
and angels have visited oftentimes the
prisons of the saints and loosened their bonds."

"Yet again," said the Lollard, rising and
fixing his dark, piercing eye full on the boy's
face.  "Yet once more: the dungeon, be it
never so dark, is too fair a dwelling for the
heretic.  They will gird thee in an iron chain
and hang thee on the accursed gallows, and
kindle under thee the smarting flame which
will slowly creep up thy quivering limbs as
though loath to end thy sufferings.  Think,
boy, of the smart, of the anguish--think and
answer before God and man--wilt thou die for
the Lord's sake?"

For a moment Hubert grew very pale--his
whole frame seemed to shrink with horror
from the thought.  Every quivering nerve
cried out to him to draw back; but the faith
in that young heart was strong, and
triumphed.  The blood rushed back into his
face, and tears, not of sorrow, dimmed the fire
of his eyes:

"*I will, so help me Christ!*"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Farewell To Home`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *Farewell To Home.*

.. vspace:: 2

"Look you, John De Forest," said the
Lord of Cobham solemnly, "wilt thou
give this thy son unto the Lord, that he may
serve the Lord from his youth?  God hath
surely put his mark upon him in that he hath
taken away from him both the love and the
fear of the world.  The Lord receiveth not
the grudged gift, the Lord loveth the cheerful
giver; answer then from the heart before God
and man--wilt thou give this thy son unto the
Lord or no?"

John De Forest bowed his head upon his
hands for a moment, then raised it, and said
firmly:

"Yea, truly, as the Lord hath given them
to me, so give I them back into his hands."

Silence reigned in the room for some
moments; Sir John had sunk his head upon his
hands again; then the old Lollard arose, and
laying his hands on the boys' heads, blessed
them in scripture phrase:

"The Lord bless you and keep you; the
Lord look upon you with his mercy.  I pray
not that he may give unto you the peace of
this world; in these latter days Christ is
making true his word that he came to send a sword
into the world, and peace is the portion of the
coward.  The Lord give unto you a Christian
warfare, a martyr's death, a victor's crown!"

John De Cobham next proceeded to inform
the boys concerning the arrangements which
he and their father had made for them.  The
latter was anxious for them to be away from
the Tower for various reasons.  He was fully
aware that an attack upon it was meditated by
Arundel, and he wished his sons, who could
be no assistance to him, to be as far removed
from the danger as possible.  Then, besides,
he wished that they should enjoy the
instructions of some learned man, an advantage it
was impossible for them to obtain in their
retired home.  Lord Cobham agreed with him,
and mentioned a certain Roger Markham,
formerly curate of Romney in Kent.  The
nobleman was also desirous of sending
messages concerning his escape and other
matters to his friends in London, for which place
he wished the boys immediately to depart.

Geoffrey's free, high spirit longed for more
of the world than was to be seen from the
narrow boundaries of the Tower domain.  He
had been once to London, and it seemed to
him a land of delights; so that the very
thought of going there to view all its wonders,
and mingle with those of his own age, caused
his face to flush with pleasure and his heart
to beat fast with hope.  Hubert's heart also
leaped for joy; but his thoughts were not his
brother's thoughts.  His prayer was answered;
he might now go forth and labor for the Lord,
and learn how to preach the glad gospel
tidings--gospel in the fullest sense of the
word, good news of freedom from Satan's
chain, and the galling yoke of popish
traditions.  He might read the whole of those
tracts from the pen of Wickliffe, of which he
had only as yet seen fragments.  But more
than all, he might see a *whole Bible*!  The
one which his father had procured with
difficulty, and kept with danger, was not
entire--some chapters from the New Testament were
wanting, and nearly all the historical books of
the Old.  These this Lollard child longed to
feast upon with an earnestness which would
shame many a Christian of the present day,
whose legible, perfect Bible is ever *at* his
hand, but seldom *in* it.

These joyful thoughts were followed by
painful ones.  Their father, who had been the
only companion and protector of their solitary
boyhood, father and mother in one, was united
to them by no common tie.  They had shared,
as children seldom do, not only in his cares,
and doubts, and sorrows, but also in his joys,
and hopes, and consolation.  Him they must
leave, and also the dear old Tower, every
corner of which was associated with pleasant
home remembrances, and it must be a long
time before they saw either their home or
their father again, if, in these uncertain times,
they ever should.  But the Lord had need of
them; they had put their hands to the
plough--should they draw back?

Lord Cobham next handed them some
folded pieces of parchment.  "This one," he
said, "ye shall show at such places as ye stop;
they will then receive you in my name, or
rather"--and the Lollard bowed low--"in the
name and for the sake of Him whom I serve.
Ye shall tell them of my safety, no more;
also that they be of good cheer and hold fast
the Lord Jesus Christ, looking to the reward.
And when ye arrive at the city, ye shall go
straight to the house of Philip Naseby, a
trader, who dwells near Whitefriars, just by the
bridge.  Ye shall give him this watchword--not
openly, but in the midst of other words--'The
Lord is my help all the day long;' and
he will answer: 'How long is the day?'  When
ye are entirely alone with him, bid him
tell Sir Roger Ashton that the bird has flown
to the mountain.  Will ye remember all this?"

The texts were familiar to both the boys,
and besides, they were too much accustomed
to the various methods of communicating by
signals not to perceive their signification and
importance; and having indicated their
assent, Cobham continued:

"These letters the trader will give as they
are directed; but this last ye shall give
yourselves to good Roger Markham, and he will
instruct you in all useful and clerkly things,
for he is well learned in the schools of Oxford.
In due time, my son, thou shalt preach; but
see that thou preach only 'Christ and him
crucified,' so shall his Spirit rest upon thee
and thy labors, and shall instruct thee, as no
man can, in the holy mysteries.  The Lord
bless you both and give you of his work to do,
whether it be to sit and wait his good pleasure,
or to teach his doctrines unto men, or to
die for the truth's sake.  He keepeth the
reward, and verily it can never fail."

It did not take either of the boys long to
prepare for their journey.  The letters and a
few pages of Scripture were sewed into the
inner lining of their tunics, a wallet containing
some provision was hung at their sides, and,
staff in hand, like the patriarchs of old, they
stood.  Their father was too poor to give
them horses, and the long, weary journey
must be made on foot.

It would not have been wise to depart
openly, so when the sun had set more than an
hour, they, with Lord Cobham, passed along
one of the subterranean passages which opened
far out into the open country.  There they
parted with the noble Lollard.  He, with their
father, who was to accompany him a few miles
on his way, turned toward the Welsh mountains;
they, with stout hearts, but tear-filled
eyes, set their faces toward the east.

Half an hour later they stood on the summit
of a hill overlooking the tower.  The full
moon was casting its sheets of silver over the
brown autumn landscape.  The storm of the
preceding night had entirely passed away, and
only left a breezy freshness in the evening air.
Far to the west loomed up the mountains
of Wales, their peaks already glistening with
snow.  Far beneath them in the valley lay their
home.  The gray towers cast their shadows
across the moat, and looked even more massive
than they were in reality.  Only a single
light appeared in the buttery window, like a
twinkling star.  Never had the scene appeared
so lovely to the young Lollards as it did when
they were about leaving it, perhaps forever.
But again the boys' thoughts were different.
The elder looked back to the long, unbroken
line of ancestry which for so many hundred
years had looked upon those walls and said,
"They are mine."  Far to the right hand and
left lay the broad acres of woodland and
pasturage which had owned his grandsire lord.
Now all was changed.  Close and narrow were
the lines which bounded the patrimony one
day to be his.  But why?  Were his arms
less sinewy, his frame less well-knit than all
the Geoffreys, and Johns, and Richards that
had gone before?  Why should Henry the
usurper, who had no more just claim to the
throne of England than himself, have a right to
take away his father's lands because he would
not forsake the cause of his rightful monarch?
And now he, and the brother he loved so well,
must become dependents on the bounty of
others because they wished to read the word of
God in their own tongue, and worship him in
their own way.  Must this always last?  Should
the oppressor always walk about the earth?

God thinks it right to speak no more to men
in dreams and visions, or to point out to them
the dim shadows of coming events.  Faith in
his wisdom is to be our only guide.  But do I
err when I say that sometimes the Comforter,
who is expressly said to take of the things of
God and show them unto us, whispers to the
fainting soul words of cheering, and lifts,
though it be but a very little way, the veil
that hides the future?  Thus it was with the
Lollard boys.  A voice in their hearts said to
their inward eyes, "Ephatha!" be ye opened! and
straightway they saw dimly, but surely, a
glorious sight.  The looked-for time of
refreshing they saw arrived; England, their
beautiful England, was free; and the pure
Word of God in all its sweetness and power,
reigned in every heart and home.  The night
of popish ignorance had fled away forever, the
martyr's blood had ceased dropping its precious
seed into the earth, and instead thereof
had sprung up an abundant harvest through
the length and breadth of the world.  Thus it
was that the elder brother's heart responded
joyfully to the younger's lips in the sublime
words of the prophet:

"Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and
the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.  For
behold, the darkness shall cover the earth, and
thick darkness the people; but the Lord shall
arise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen
upon thee.  Violence shall no more be heard
in thy land, wasting nor destruction within
thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls
Salvation, and thy gates Praise.  Therefore
the redeemed of the Lord shall return and
come with singing to Zion, and everlasting
joy shall be upon their head: they shall
obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and
sighing shall flee away."

And then he added the words of a greater
than Isaiah: "Verily I say unto you, there is
no one that hath left houses, or brethren, or
sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or
children, for my sake and the Gospel's, but he
shall receive an hundred-fold now in this
present time, houses, and brethren, and
sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands,
with persecutions; and in the world to come,
*life everlasting*."

One quick glance they cast toward their
earthly possessions, and a long eager one
toward their heavenly home--then they passed
on their way.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`In London`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *In London.*

.. vspace:: 2

The snow was falling fast and thick in
London, covering with its pure mantle
the quaint houses which formed that part of
the metropolis called White Friars, and
making the Thames, which flowed close under
their walls, look all the blacker by contrast.
Upon one of the bridges spanning this river,
stood the two young Lollards.  They looked
very weary and travel-worn, and the younger
had sunk down exhausted on one of the stone
seats.  They had been more than a month on
their journey, having been detained more than
once by storms and sickness, so that the
month of December was fairly commenced.
Hubert had suffered most from the fatigue,
cold, and exposure, but even Geoffrey looked
pale and weary, though he strove to cheer his
brother with the thought of how near they
were to their journey's end, and of the
wonders that lay before them.

"Look, Hubert! this is the bridge we were
told of, and yonder high wall must be White
Friars; it cannot be many steps to good
Philip Naseby's."  Then as the other did not
seem to attend, he added, lower: "We must
not be seen loitering here as though we were
strangers--Mark Catliffe may have dispatched
word of our coming, and it were best to be
among friends ere our enemies know we have come."

The boy raised himself with an effort, and
they proceeded.  Fortunately, it was but a
stone's throw; and having passed under the
high wall of the monastery, they turned into a
narrow lane, and stopped at the open front of
a shop.  The master stood upon the step;
they both knew him from the description they
had heard of him; but it was best to be on
the safe side; so they approached as though
wishing to purchase.

"Have you a warm cloak, master trader,
that may serve to keep the snow and rain
from my shoulders this cold Christmas?"

The man looked rather suspiciously at the
boys' tattered garments, but a glance at their
faces changed his tone to one of respect and
pity.  "The Lord save you, young masters, it
is truly but sorry weather to travel in.  Will
ye not step in and rest a bit?"

"I thank you, Philip Naseby," said Geoffrey,
stepping within the shop; "the Lord is
truly my help all the day long."

The trader's face lighted up as he gave the
necessary answer to the password, and
grasping a hand of each, he led them to a little
back-apartment, and placed stools for them.
He received them as eagerly as though they
were his nearest relations, though as yet he
knew neither their name nor their errand.
Lord Cobham's message explained all, and
then they were overwhelmed with questions.
Good news always makes the bearers welcome,
and the fact that they brought intelligence of
Lord Cobham's escape, as well as their father's
name, was a full passport to the honest
trader's heart.

He called his wife, and having told her who
were their guests, she dispatched their
daughter to bring some refreshment, while she and
her husband removed their torn and soaked
outer garments.

"Poor boy!" said the good woman, as she
noticed Hubert's bleeding and blistered feet,
"thou hast walked far to day?"

"A good twenty miles since midnight,"
sighed the weary child, the very mention of
the distance bringing back, with redoubled
force, the memory of suffering.

"But why did you not stop at the house of
good Mark Catliffe, the miller of Lianton?
He has given a bed and a welcome to many a
weary traveler, and especially to those who
love the Master."

Hubert's face grew very sad, but Geoffrey's
eyes flashed with indignation, and he answered
before his brother could speak.  "He is a
Judas; he hath sold his faith for silver; the
Lord requite him!"

"How! sayest thou that Mark Catliffe is a
renegade?" said the trader, astonished.

"Ay, that he hath returned to the bosom
of the holy church"--and the boy's mouth
curled with contempt--"and has received as
a reward for informing where the vile traitor,
John Beverly, might be found, the right to
levy a large toll on the flour he grinds, and a
good chest of white money beside.  He saith
that it is his firm hope, that those arch-traitors,
Lord Cobham and John De Forest, will
speedily be taken and committed to the
flames, their ashes being scattered to the
winds, and their souls sent to their father,
the Devil; always praying the saints that he
may stand by and see."

The trader lifted up his hands and eyes in
horror; but before he could speak, his wife
had asked eagerly:

"And how escaped ye, my young masters?
Did he not try to deliver you up also?"

"God delivered us from his hands, good
dame," said the boy, reverently.  "As we
drew near to his house, we heard him in
conversation with the priest, so while we
waited behind the hedge for him to be through
before we presented ourselves, we heard his
words.  We fear he has sent a messenger
after us, for he observed us as we ran away;
but we kept to the by-paths and so escaped,
but found no place to rest.  But now, good
master Naseby, we will to our beds, if it
please you, for we are sore wearied."

The next day, Geoffrey told his host of the
message he had from Lord Cobham to Sir
Roger Ashton.

"Then it was he who favored his escape,"
said the merchant.  "I thought as much.  I
am glad that holy man has escaped, but I
would it were some other than Sir Roger that
must give his life for his friends."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Geoffrey,
"not that Sir Roger is a prisoner?"

"Ay, ay," said the tradesman, mournfully,
"in the self-same dungeon whence he aided
his friend to escape; and they say he is to
be tried this week, for treason and heresy,
with John Beverly the preacher, and many
others; for Arundel is thirsting for blood all
the more now his nobler prey has escaped
him.  There is nothing left for them all but
the stake and the flame, and that right speedily."

The boy bowed his head on his hands in
deep grief He saw again that noble old man
speaking, as though they were his own, the
words of the apostle: "If God be for us, who
can be against us?"  Now he was to prove
their truth; but the boy felt no fear of his
failing; he was rather trying to answer a
question of his own heart, thinking whether he
was also ready, for never had death appeared
so near.  But quickly there came to his mind
the words of his Master, "I have prayed for
you that your faith fail not," and rousing
himself, he spoke cheerfully to his friend:

"Do you think I could see them?"

"I doubt it," replied the trader; "and yet
you might if you made friends with the keepers,
under pretence of taking them something."

"I will go now," said the boy, rising, "lest
it be too late to-morrow.  Give me that cloak
of russet--I will change dresses with your
apprentice, and take it to Sir Roger as though
he had ordered it."

In a few moments Geoffrey, with the bundle
on his shoulder, had started for the Tower.
Philip Naseby accompanied him as far as he
dared, then pointed out the rest of the way,
and left the young Lollard to go on his
perilous errand alone.  The first gate was easily
passed, as a party was just entering, and
having gone through the first, the porters
at the inner one did not attempt to detain him.

So far, so well; and, having had the position
of the passages and buildings pointed out
to him, his retentive memory enabled him to
find his way without difficulty.  He soon
reached the guard-room filled with idle
soldiers, who were only too glad to find
amusement in questioning, and perhaps teasing the
poor 'prentice.  However, he tipped his cap a
little on one side, and began as bravely as
possible.

"My masters, can you tell me in which part
of this castle my Lord Sir Roger Ashton, and
John Beverly the preacher, are confined?"

"Halloo! who have we here?" exclaimed
one of the soldiers, setting down his cup of
beer, and wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand.  "What want you with the heretics,
the traitors, the sniveling rogues?  Hast thou
there a nice package of rope-ladder, and other
comfortable things, for their great relief and
satisfaction, that they may fly out as did that
arch-traitor Cobham?  Had I been Arundel,
he should have had no chance to try his wings;
what need is there of a trial for a heretic who
worships the Devil?  Let the Devil help his
friends, say I, and I would hasten their
progress to their master by a good bonfire in the
market-place.  I tell you," he said, bringing
his great fist down on the table with a force
that made the pewter tankards and plates ring
again, "a heretic should have no more trial
than my dog that had run mad."

During this speech Geoffrey had been
unfastening his bundle, and now held up the
cloak before them.  "Look ye, my masters,
here is no treason," he said humbly, "only a
russet cloak which was ordered a week ago,
and now my master sends it.  I pray you look
at it; it is of good cloth, and it were pity they
should not see it."

"Ha! of good cloth, indeed!  Confess
your master stole it; it is as full of holes as
the sails of an Indian ship that hath stood
many a blow in the lower sea.  Well, and
how much doth your honest master receive
for such a pretty thing?"

This was a rather hard question for Geoffrey,
for, having taken up the trade only for the
occasion, he had not the least idea what the
usual price of such an article was; so he had
to answer as best he might.

"Two nobles, my gentle masters, which
same is but little, seeing it is fair cloth.
Though not good enough, mayhap, for your
worships, it will keep out the rain and the cold."

"Then there is no need of it for those heretics
yonder, for we are about to fit on them
so fine a garment of gay crimson, that having
once tried it on, they shall never more feel the
cold and rain as we poor fellows have to, but
shall dance as gayly as harlequins at a fair.
It will be a sight to do the heart good of a
true son of the church.  Holy Virgin!  I
would take an extra year in purgatory rather
than miss that sight."

The boy's heart grew sick, and his cheek
pale at the thought of the fearful fate to which
the soldier's jesting words referred; when
another man, with a pleasanter face, filled a cup
and pushed it toward him, saying:

"There, drink that, my lad, and it will bring
back the color to your face.  When you have
fought a few battles in France under king
Harry, and waded ankle-deep in the blood of
the fine French gentry, you will have a stouter
heart.  Come now, quit your trade and be one
of us."

Geoffrey drank, and did feel stronger; but
just as he was about to answer, a stir within
turned the attention of the whole company
another way.  The door opened wide, and the
Lieutenant of the Tower entered, followed by
the sheriff and other officers leading two men
heavily fettered.

Geoffrey looked up and recognized in one
of the noble, kingly-looking old men, the
preacher he had come to seek, and he had no
doubt but that his companion was Sir Roger.
In a moment the soldiers, at a word from the
Lieutenant, formed in a line on each side of
the sheriffs, and prepared to escort the
prisoners to the place of trial.  The boy had nothing
to do but to follow as fast as possible, and he
saw the whole train pass quickly through the
various courts to the river-gate, and there
embarking in some barges ready manned with
stout rowers, they passed out of sight around
an angle of the building.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Trial`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *The Trial.*

.. vspace:: 2

Arundel sat in his seat of judgment
in the great hall of one of the monasteries
belonging to the Dominican Friars.
Beside him, in full canonicals, sat the bishops
of London, Winchester, and others, ready to
assist him, by their learning and authority, to
cleanse the church from the stains of heresy
and schism.  Below the table, where clerks
sat ready with pens and parchment to take
down the evidence, there were men of every
degree and class.  Friars in black, and friars
in gray, friars whose portly persons reminded
the spectator more of midnight wassail than
of midnight prayer, and friars whose pale,
hungry-looking faces, gaunt bodies, and
knotted scourges hanging at their sides, were in
strict conformity with the stern rule of Saint
Benedict.

Pilgrims with "scallop-shell and sandal
shoon," were gathered in little knots, discussing
the various merits of the different shrines
and holy places they had visited.  One tall,
stalwart-looking fellow related that, after
walking bare-headed, with dried peas in his shoes,
to the tomb of the holy St. Thomas à Becket,
he had been suddenly cured of an ulcer in the
leg which had troubled him for five years.
Here a little man with a shrill voice
interrupted him, and declared that nothing could
equal the efficacy of the holy water from the
altar of our Lady of Lorreto, and that her
shrine was covered with offerings made to her
by those whose prayers for safety from
danger and recovery from sickness had been
answered, even though they were far away.  The
sonorous voice of a vender of reliquaries was
now heard, declaring that a morsel of the
finger-nail of St. Bridget, which he had there in
a leaden box, would keep a sailor from even
wetting his feet during the hardest storm that
ever blew on the Channel.  He had also a
crucifix, blessed by the Pope, containing a
hair of St. Joseph which would give to
whoever wore it next his heart long days of
uninterrupted happiness and prosperity, and all
this for a single noble!  A little at one side
stood a pardoner with his little pieces of
parchment inscribed with pardons for every
imaginable sin, and covering various periods, from a
week to a lifetime.  The prices were graded
according to the enormity of the offence, and
the length of time; one poor fellow who had
knocked down a priest having to pay a mark,
while another, who had only taken a chicken
from his neighbor's yard, went off happy and
secure from all transgressions for the next
month, on the payment of a few groats.  As
he turned to a new set of applicants, a sturdy
begging friar went around beseeching, or
rather demanding, charity, in the name of all
the saints in the calendar.

But now pilgrim, pardoner, and beggar
turned alike toward the judgment-seat, for the
crier had called upon John Beverly, Sir Roger
Ashton, and many others, to come into court,
and the men-at-arms were beating back the
crowd, to make room for the prisoners to
approach the table.  All eyes were turned
upon the nine-and-thirty men who marched
between soldiers armed to the teeth, up the
long hall, and took their places before their
judge.  A boy, who had just edged his way
through the crowd, stood, with flushed cheeks
and panting breath, as near to them as he
could get, and then the trial began.

The crime alleged to have been committed
by John Beverly and his companions, namely,
that of attending meetings for other worship
than the church allowed, and reading the
works of John De Wickliffe to the people,
needed no proof; they gloried in what their
enemies called their shame, and ever since
their arrest had only confirmed the accusation
by their conduct in prison.  They were
mostly men of little note, but with Sir Roger
Ashton it was different.  He was a man of
influence and position, who, until very lately,
had been considered a faithful son of the
church; and even now his character stood so
high among the people, that could he be induced
to recant, it would restore the ecclesiastical
body to that popular favor which they had
lost by their treatment of the favorite Lord
Cobham, and at the same time strike a heavy
blow at the progress of the reformed religion.

Having therefore read his accusation, they
began to question him concerning the
disputed points of faith.

.. _`76`:

As to the grand "test" question, as it was
called, whether the body of Christ is really
present in the sacrament, he answered so
boldly and distinctly as to set the question
of his Lollardism completely at rest.
Fearlessly he declared that the bread and wine
were no more blood and flesh after the priest
had pronounced the words of consecration,
than was that which was daily served at his
own table; nevertheless, they were in a
measure holy, having been set apart to
commemorate the Saviour's death, and as such,
were to be reverenced, but never worshipped.

Here the Benedictine friar raised his hands
and eyes in holy horror at the very thought,
and a hum of indignation was heard through
the hall.  The guards, however, soon enforced
silence, and Arundel put the next point.

Drawing out a small, richly ornamented
crucifix from under his robe, and holding it
up before Ashton, he said: "What think you
of this?"

Many of the assembly dropped on their
knees, and all bared their heads before the
sacred symbol; the nine-and-thirty alone stood
upright and unmoved.

"It is a pretty bauble," said the prisoner,
"and as such I would put it away carefully
lest it should be harmed."

"Know you not that that is the cross of
Christ through which salvation is come into
the world?  Infidel! saith not the scripture,
'God forbid that I should glory save in the
cross of Christ'?"

"Yes, truly so saith it, but not in a poor bit
of gold.  It is not the wooden tree that doth
save me from my sins, but he that died
thereon.  Him do I worship, and to him do I bow
the knee.  Cast aside these idols, these vain
things that draw away the hearts of the
people from the only God; pray to the living
Jesus, and carry about with you holy works
and righteous deeds, and it will be of more
service to your souls than a houseful of
glittering toys, or dead men's musty bones."

"Holy mother of Christ, and blessed saint
Patrick!" exclaimed the relic-vender.  "The
finger-bone of St. Catharine and the tooth of
St. Jerome of no avail!  God help the poor
sinners then, for they must surely perish."

"My Lord," whispered the bishop of London
to the Primate, "were it not best to end
this scene, lest the common people be led
away by these blasphemous doctrines?  There
can exist now no doubt of his being a heretic,
and that of the most dangerous kind."

The archbishop was anxious to return to
his palace, where an episcopal dinner was to
be given that day, and so agreed with him
perfectly.  He therefore turned to the
prisoners and said:

"It doth fully appear that ye are all
confirmed heretics, holding devilish doctrines
which the church doth declare false and
blasphemous; therefore, that we may cleanse the
church of Christ from all stains and blemishes,
we, in our office of vicegerents of God on
earth, do command you to leave off these
your abominable ways, and return as
penitents to the bosom of Holy Mother church,
who is ever ready to receive her wandering
children when, with true repentance, they
turn to her for pardon and mercy.  Bethink
you of your ways, and of your poor wives and
children, confess your grievous sins, perform
the pilgrimages and penances which your
spiritual fathers shall appoint, and then, having
thus shown your sorrow for your past offences,
be received into that church which now
stretches out her arms of mercy toward you."

At the words "wives and children," some
of the poor men's countenances fell, as they
thought of the households which must be left
desolate, and their babes crying for food.  But
at that moment a woman stepped from the
crowd with a little one on her arm, and
advancing toward one of the prisoners, exclaimed:

"Hold, Jacob Simmons! think of naught
but the Lord's honor.  I am strong, and the
children likely, and God will never suffer the
widow and orphan to want.  Be not a
coward; sell not thy soul for temporal comfort.
Art thou a coward? fearest thou to die?
Up! be a man! that this, thy child and my child,
may be proud to call thee father!"

The woman disappeared in the throng the
moment she had uttered the last word, but the
noble appeal had strengthened all their hearts,
and not a head but was held more upright,
and not a soul but responded to the answer of
their spokesman, Beverly.

"My Lords the Bishops and Clergy, in
answer to the charge brought against us we
do not deny, but rather affirm, that after the
manner *ye* call heresy, we worship God.  We
do not regard the images and pictures which
ye place instead of God, nor do we rest our
hopes of salvation on the remains of dead
men, sinners like ourselves, or in journeys to
famous shrines, as though God were nearer
Canterbury and Loretto than London and
Westminster.  As to the church to which
you invite us to return, it is *not* Christ's
church, for it doth not profess his doctrines,
nor follow in his footsteps, and we will have
none of it.  Nay, more, we fear to remain
under its shadow, knowing that it must shortly
fall, warring as it does against the Most High.
And as it is a great anti-Christ, so shall its
fall be great, and it will sink utterly into
perdition.  We do not need to trust in its offers
of pardon, for we know that that Christ whose
we are, and whom we serve, will freely pardon
all our offences through his most precious
blood.  And when with your flames ye shall
have freed our souls from the clogs of this
mortal flesh, He will give unto us crowns of
glory which fade not away.  God, who
knoweth our hearts, knoweth that we lie not."

Arundel's face was white with passion, but
he suppressed his feelings by an effort, and
pronounced their sentence:

"Since ye will not heed the offers of mercy,
listen to the words of judgment.  On the
fourth day from this, at such an hour as shall
be hereafter appointed, ye shall be led from
your prisons to the field of St. Giles, and
there ye shall be hanged alive in chains, being
burned while hanging, and your ashes
scattered to the winds, that the church may be
cleansed from the foul blot of heresy, and the
honor of Christ vindicated from the attacks
of the Devil."

A solemn silence reigned in the assembly
during the enunciation of this terrible doom;
but of all that band upon whom all eyes rested,
not one showed a sign of fear.  After a few
moments, the clear tones of the preacher's
voice rose again, as firm and unwavering as
before, and, raising his right hand, he pointed,
with his extended fore-finger toward his judge.

"Arundel, archbishop of York, I stand
before you this day as a messenger from God.
Thus saith the Lord: In the time when thou
dost not expect me, I will draw near;
suddenly as in the night, I will come unto thee,
and require of thy hand the blood of my elect.
And because thou wilt have no answer for me,
I will cut thee down in a moment, in the
twinkling of an eye.  Men shall seek thee,
and shall not find thee, and in the place where
thou wentest to and fro thou shalt be no more
seen forever.  Shall my elect cry unto me and
not be avenged?  I count the sparrows that
fall, and shall my chosen ones perish and I
not know it? saith the Lord.  Behold I
hasten and tarry not, and the cup of my wrath I
bring with me.  Thou shalt look for help, and
there shall none aid thee; a horrible darkness
shall fall upon thee, and none can deliver out
of my hand!"

The speaker ceased but still he stood, his
mantle gathered closely around him, and his
piercing eyes fixed on the shrinking, cowering
man, at whom the terrible right hand still
pointed.  Arundel's face had turned from its
usual ruddy hue to a deathlike pallor, and he
shook as though smitten with an ague.  At
length a shriek burst from his ashy lips.
"Care you not that he hath bewitched me?
Away with him, take him away, he hath a devil!"

A grim smile passed over the old man's
features, but still he relaxed not his gaze, nor
the out-stretched arm, till, with a cry that rang
in the ears of those who heard it for many
years after, the primate of England rose from
his seat, and flinging away his cloak, lest it
might impede him, fled from the hall.  Then,
after a few moments, the arm was slowly
dropped, and the preacher turning, passed
with his guards down to the door, the crowd
pressing back to give him room.

A few months later, while Arundel was
sitting in the midst of his friends, the hand of
the Lord smote him, and in his speechless
agony he looked from side to side, but there
was none to help.  A moment after, the distorted
features had settled into the icy rigidity
of death.  The Lord *had* come to him,
suddenly, as it were in a moment, and required at
his hand the blood of his saints!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`As the Stars forever and ever`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *As the Stars forever and ever.*

.. vspace:: 2

Calmly and brightly the sun rose on
the morning of the fourth day after the
trial; as calmly and brightly he climbed
toward the zenith, as though he were not to
look down upon one of the most fiendish
deeds that ever disgraced England's soil.  In
the field of St. Giles, in the outskirts of the
city, workmen were busy putting finishing
touches to a strange piece of carpentry.  A
row of holes had been dug at a distance of
about six feet from each other, and in these
were placed stout beams of wood.  Another
row was then put about ten feet from the
first, and the same kind of posts being
inserted, crossbeams were fastened from a spot
of one row to the corresponding one in the
other.  Another construction of the same
kind was placed on one side of the first,
leaving an open space of some twenty feet
in width between.  On each of the
crossbeams were fastened heavy chains, each
terminating in a large iron ring.  Meanwhile
other men had been arriving, bearing fagots
of dry wood, which were arranged in order
under the chains, and then the men all paused
and looked toward the town.

Not long had they to wait.  A procession
soon appeared, headed by a guard of
foot-soldiers, who encircled the rows of gallows,
for such they were, and so made way for the
rest of the train to approach.  Next came
the executioners, some with lighted torches,
others with blacksmith's hammers.  Then
came the thirty-nine prisoners, each
accompanied by a friar of some order, followed by
another guard, and lastly the rabble,
consisting of all the mob of London, clustered as
closely as the troops would permit them.
Some of the Lollards looked pale and
haggard, and their limbs, so long chained in
damp dungeons, seemed hardly capable of
dragging them along.  Each, as he reached
the spot, cast a glance at the instruments of
torture, but none drew back, or shrank from
the fearful sight.  To their illumined vision
those piles of fagots, those bars, those chains,
were but so many Jacob's ladders, gates to
heaven.

Beverly mounted to his place as a newly
anointed king might step for the first time
on his throne.  Turning to his friend he said
in his clear, unfaltering voice: "We have
breakfasted in a world of tribulation, we shall
sup with Christ in the kingdom of glory.  I
am three-score years old, brother, and I thank
God I have lived to see this day!"

But Ashton's heart was heavy; not for
himself, but for the cause, the people, the land
he loved so well.  "I fear me this is a
grievous day for England," was his reply.

"Christ giveth the victory!" said the
preacher, his face lighting up with intense
joy.  The fierce gaze of the executioners
standing around was abashed at the unearthly
beauty of that look.  He had no veil that he
might, like Moses, draw over his beaming
countenance, and "all men, seeing his face as
it had been the face of an angel," marveled.
In so loud a tone as to be heard by every one
of the awe-struck assembly, he continued:

"Fear not for England, brother, the Lord
hath a mission for her, and in his good time
she shall accomplish it.  Antichrist is great,
but his end approacheth; and in this our
pleasant land he shall receive his worst
death-blow.  Fear not, 'commit thy way to the
Lord, and he will bring it to pass.'  And look
you, brethren, the names which our enemies
scorn shall shine in the Lamb's book of life as
the stars forever and ever!"

The executioners had meanwhile fastened
the iron girdles with a few blows of their
hammers, under the arms of each of the prisoners,
and were now applying the torch to each pile
of wood in succession.

Sir Roger Ashton heard them not, saw
them not, knew not that the tiny flames
growing larger each moment, were leaping up
beneath him, and longing for their prey.  It was
still early, and in the east, just sinking behind
the horizon, was the morning star.  He knew
that it was only setting to rise again in
renewed glory, and he kept repeating, his eyes
still entranced as though by a glorious vision:
"As the stars forever.  As the stars forever
and ever!"

Above that pyramid of fire, above that
fierce cloud of smoke that rose as though
seeking to hide from heaven the foul deed
then enacting on earth, were "the chariots of
Israel and the horsemen thereof!"

"As the stars forever and ever;" even so.
Many have shed their blood that England
might add to its domain countries, and provinces,
and islands of the sea, or drive from her
soil the hateful foot of the invader, and their
deeds are justly commemorated in sculptured
marble; but the names of those who broke
the first link in the chain that bound Britain
an abject slave to Rome, stand as far above
the former in their glory as the stars do over
the warriors' graves.  Foremost among those
thousands who have come through great
tribulation and washed their garments in the
blood of the Lamb, stand those glorious
English martyrs, the pioneers of the
Reformation--"As the stars forever and ever!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Quiet Days`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *Quiet Days.*

.. vspace:: 2

On the afternoon succeeding this fearful
tragedy, a venerable old man of more
than three-score years entered the room
where Hubert still lay with a low fever
brought on by exposure and fatigue.  He was
Roger Markham, of Romney in Kent, to
whose care the boys had been consigned.
He had long since been deprived of his curacy,
but, beloved by all his former parishioners
for his saintly life, he had continued to
dwell among them, supported by the labor of
his hands, and ministering to them in secret
that spiritual food which they sought for in
vain from the parish priest.

He gladly accepted his charge, and
declaring that Hubert would be better when
breathing the fresh air, appointed the next
day for them to set out on their journey to his
own home.

Accordingly, the next morning they left the
friendly trader's house, where they had found
so safe an asylum, and proceeding to the
outskirts of the city, met Markham with his old
white pony, on which they mounted Hubert,
and so went slowly on their way.  They
rested at an inn that night, and it was not till
the next afternoon that they approached their
new home.  The setting sun was lighting up
the snowy meadows and the clustered
cottages with their low roofs laden with snow.
At the entrance of the village they were met
by several of the peasants eager to welcome
back their friend; and, seeing that he had
with him two pale stranger lads, they each
contributed from their humble store
refreshment to cheer them after their journey.
They pressed the travellers to enter their
cottages and rest awhile; but the old man
wanted to be back at his own fireside; so,
passing on through the single straggling
street to a house that stood a little apart from
the rest, the last in the row, the pony stopped
of his own accord, and Markham, opening the
latch, which, in those simple times, alone
fastened the door, bade the wearied lads enter,
for this was their home.

It was a low-roofed cottage of only one
room, and furnished with the most perfect
simplicity.  Above, the oaken rafters,
blackened by time and smoke, were plainly to be
seen, and were festooned with strings of dried
vegetables and herbs.  The floor was of
well-trodden clay; and a rough table, a few stools,
a chest, some straw beds, and an oaken
armchair, curiously carved by the old curate
himself, completed the furniture.  A sort of rack,
or shelf, on one side, served as a dresser to
hold the wooden platters and horn drinking-cups;
while on pegs inserted in the wall,
hung a sword, a cross-bow, and various
garden-tools.  The old man seemed to forget his
own fatigue in ministering to the comfort of
his guests.  Geoffrey aided him, by bringing
in fagots, and soon a bountiful repast,
consisting of bacon, cheese, cakes, milk, and eggs,
was ready to satisfy their hunger.

They were soon settled in their new home.
The boys passed their time partly in study,
and partly in aiding the old man to prepare
his little garden for the summer crops.  The
cow, too, needed their care; when the snow
had melted from the meadows, she must be
driven to pasture in the morning, and brought
home in the evening.  This fell to Geoffrey's
share, and gave him two long and pleasant
walks a day, while Hubert attended to the
humble dairy, and felt almost as proud when
he had furnished the larder with a fine cheese
or a trencher of golden butter, as when he had
recited to his master, without failing, his
longest Latin lesson.  The reason why the old
curate accepted no help from without, but
shared the most menial labors with his noble
young pupils, was because in those troublous
times the only chance of safety for the poor
persecuted Lollards was in being as retired
as possible, and especially in keeping their
Bibles, if they possessed them, from the sight
of those who might at some future time betray them.

Their life was quiet, and fully employed, but
not without its pleasures.  Markham was not
only an excellent scholar, but he also loved to
impart his knowledge to others.  The cottage
was not their only study; in the quiet lanes
and sunny meadows, on the sea-shore, and in
the grand old forest, he taught them all that
was then known of botany and natural history.
In the clear, still winter evenings, he called
their attention to the stars overhead, their
names, and positions, and motions, and told
them how the sailor found his way upon the
deep by their assistance.  He showed them
the signs of the Zodiac, among which the sun
and planets pursued their yearly course; he
pointed out to them the "bands of Orion,"
the Pleiades, and "Arcturus with his sons,"
mentioned so beautifully in the book of Job;
also the dog-star, that exerted such a baneful
influence when in the ascendant, and Charles's
Wain, whose two pointers always directed to
that strange polar star, which, of all that
bright company, seemed never to move from
its place.

But one thing he taught them which would
seem very strange to the youngest school-boy
or girl in these present more enlightened
days.  He told them that this earth, being a
flat plain, was the centre of all the universe,
and around it, in their stated time, sun, moon,
and stars revolved.

Nor did he fail to remind them of the Magi,
who, by the leading of a star, found the infant
Christ.

But this peaceful life did not last long.
When the field of the old curate was ready
for the reaping, he died.  Calmly and joyfully,
with a hand clasped by each of the boys, he
passed away from earth; and as they closed
his eyes, his last words still rang in their ears:
"Stand fast for the Lord, my sons, even unto
death!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Hide and Seek in Forest Tower`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *Hide and Seek in Forest Tower.*

.. vspace:: 2

Two months later found them in London,
the guests once more of the Lollard
trader, Philip Naseby.  Before the winter
came they found another home on the Yorkshire
coast.  There dwelt Humphrey Singleton,
a man who had lost friends, fortune, and
home because of his faith.  He had seen his
wife and children turned from their burning
cottage one bitterly cold winter night by the
soldiers of Arundel, and now he was alone in
the world, dwelling in a place, half hut, half
cave, near the summit of the Yorkshire cliffs.

There the boys found him, sitting at the
door of his hermitage in the autumn twilight,
feeding a lamb with grass and leaves.  He
gladly received his guests; and there, in that
lonely place, they hoped to be permitted to
remain till they had finished their studies.
As it had been before, Hubert staid quietly at
home, studying, while Geoffrey oftener
pursued a more active life, gathering sea-birds'
eggs among the cliffs, or catching fish in a
little boat far out in the bay.

One evening there came a messenger to
them.  He bore the Lollard password, and so
was eagerly received.  When he had refreshed
himself, they all gathered around the fire to
hear what news he might bring.  They had
heard already of Arundel's awful end; how,
when he was sitting at a feast with his friends
about him he had been struck by the hand of
death.  Not a moment had been given to his
wretched soul to prepare itself to meet its
Judge.  Not a word had his palsied tongue
been able to utter; only the writhing features
showed his agony.  Now, to their grief, they
learned that his successor, Chichely, was
following in his footsteps.  The search after
heretics was even more rigorous than before.

"Have you heard aught of what has befallen
Forest Tower and its noble Lord?" said
the stranger.

Geoffrey started to his feet.  "Nay, we
have not heard.  Speak out, man, and tell me
of my father."

"Your father is safe, master Geoffrey," said
the man, rising and bowing respectfully to the
boy.  "I knew you not at first.  Sir John is
safe, and in Wales, by the Lord's mercy; but
the archers pressed him sore, and thirsted like
wild beasts for his blood.  Blessed be the
Lord that delivered him from the flame, and
gave him wings to his feet."

"And the Tower?" said Geoffrey, breathlessly.

"There is no such place; they have not
left one stone on another; I saw it myself."

Geoffrey groaned aloud, then, raising himself
to his full height, he lifted his clenched
hand to heaven and cried:

"It is mine!  It is mine!  Mine by the
same right that king Harry holds his throne!
They shall give it back, stone for stone, or
this right hand shall lay them as low as its
ashes are.  I will----"

Here his hand was grasped from behind,
and his master's voice said, half sternly, half
sorrowfully:

"Boy! art thou to fight for an earthly
habitation, or a heavenly?  Hast thou renounced
all these for Jesus' sake, and art so ready to
snatch at them again?"

The boy sank down ashamed of this demonstration
of useless anger, and listened quietly
to the man's story.

We will go back to the time of the boys'
departure from home, and trace the history of
Forest Castle and its proprietor.

When De Forest had seen Cobham safe on
his road to Wales, he had returned to his
home, now so desolate.  Contrary to his
expectations, he had remained unmolested
during the whole succeeding winter and spring;
indeed, he had been so free from interruption,
that Oldcastle had more than once ventured
from his place of concealment to attend meetings
for worship held in the castle or secluded
woods, and to meet such of his friends as
could be allowed to know the secret of his
hiding-place.  Through the summer there
were rumors of danger; the archbishop's
soldiers had come within a few miles of the
place, but, for some reason, had turned back,
and, as the fall advanced, the little signals at
the foot of the oak-tree pronounced all safe.

One chilly November evening, when the
first snow was beginning to fall on the
leaf-strewn forest paths, and bare tree-branches,
Lord Cobham sat in the hall at Forest Tower
talking with its owner.  Since the departure
of the boys, it had been necessary to confide
the secrets of the signals, the various
passwords, and the concealed entrances to some
one, and Sir John had chosen for this important
post a young peasant, Charles Bertrand--he
who was afterward to tell the tale of his
misfortunes to the young master.

This person interrupted the conversation of
the friends by announcing that a king's officer
and a band of men had appeared suddenly at
the gate, and were crossing the draw-bridge.

Whatever might be their errand, Cobham
must not be seen; so he went quickly out by
the opposite door, barely having it closed upon
him by the faithful Bertrand, when the visitors
admitted themselves by the grand entrance.

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   :alt: The Trial.--Page 76.

   The Trial.--Page `76`_.

Sir John rose to greet them with dignified
courtesy.  The soldier did not seem to notice
the greeting, but striding up to the table,
demanded if he were Sir John of the Forest.

"I am," was the reply, given in such a
quiet, fearless tone, that the soldier's rough
manner was somewhat modified.

"Then I arrest you for heresy and treason.
Men, guard the prisoner and bring hither the
guide!"

Some of the men surrounded De Forest,
while others led, or rather dragged in a
peasant, who seemed ready to sink through the
floor with shame and terror.

"Now," said the commander, when he had
advanced to the table, "look up, fellow, and
tell us if this be your master or no."

The man glanced up for a moment, but his
head sank again when he encountered the
piercing glance of his betrayed lord, and he
muttered his answer almost inaudibly: "Yes,
sirs, I know him."

"And where is Cobham, who you say was
sitting here not an hour ago?  Come, the
truth, or--you remember my promise," and
he shook in the man's face a rope, knotted
into a noose.

The wretch threw himself on his knees in
an agony of terror.

"My life!  You said you would spare me
if I brought you hither!"

"Ay, thy life, and a gold angel to boot; but
the truth first--where is the traitor?"

"Truly, my masters, may I never speak
another word if I tell you false.  It is always
so; he has slipped away.  He comes often to
the Tower; but though I have watched the
gates day and night, I have never seen him
enter, or pass out.  May the saints preserve
me, but I believe it is an evil spirit, and not a
man!"

The captain, finding he could gain nothing
more from the fellow, ordered two men to
guard the prisoner, and with the rest of the
band, went to search the house, carrying the
unwilling guide with them.

When they had gone, one of the guard took
up the flagon, and, finding it empty, demanded
with an oath where the heretic kept his wine.
Sir John courteously directed him to the
buttery; but scarcely had the man closed the
door, when the prisoner sprang on his guard,
and with one well-directed blow struck him
senseless.  He then lost no time, but stepping
to the immense open fireplace, touched a
spring at the bottom of the jamb.  A little
door, scarcely a foot wide, opened; he passed
through; it closed upon him, and no one
could have told where the apparently solid
stones were joined.  A moment later the
soldier returned, but only to find the room vacant
except for his groaning comrade.

His first impulse was to recover the stunned
man by dashing the contents of a water-bucket
in his face, and inquire what had become of
the Lollard; but as he could only discover
that his companion imagined himself to have
been assaulted by the Evil Spirit the guide
had spoken of, who had cast a spell upon him,
he turned impatiently to the doors to summon
assistance, but found them fast bolted on the
other side.

"It is all witchcraft, I tell you!" exclaimed
the half-stunned soldier, his teeth chattering
both from fear and from the cold bath he had
received.  "If I had known it was the Devil
the archbishop was chasing, I should have
staid at home.  I saw the fire flash from his
eyes, and by my faith, he smelt of brimstone
or ever I came in the room!"

When the captain of the band returned
from his unsuccessful search for Cobham, and
found that his guards had lost their prisoner
and been locked up themselves, his wrath
knew no bounds.  He ordered the unlucky
soldiers to be chained and guarded, and
threatened them with hanging; and then
proceeded to search the castle anew, stamping
on every stone in the pavement, in hopes
of discovering the spring of the secret doors
with which he had heard the building was
well supplied.  He did indeed find several,
and the infuriated soldiers sprang in with
howls of delight; but it was all in vain; the
cells, cut in the thickness of the wall, seemed
to have no connection with each other, and
were quite empty, except for some owls and
bats, that, aroused from their sleep by the
flash of the torches, hooted, and flapped their
great wings in the men's faces, appearing
very like the evil spirits that the invaders of
their territory half believed they were.

At last wearied with their useless efforts,
they all returned to the hall for a carouse, for
which the well-filled cellars of the knight
supplied abundant provision.  They were all, the
captain as well as his men, not a little
superstitious; and they were only too glad to
drown with wine the feelings of dread and
uneasiness which the strange events of the day
and the gloomy look of the old hall had
occasioned.  It was not long before the strong
drink had done its work, and they had all
sunk down in various attitudes of drunken
slumber.  The captain himself, who had been
sitting in the knight's own chair and drinking
from his silver cup, though rather stronger-headed
than the rest, began to feel drowsy;
and so, having thrown some fresh logs on the
fire, and taken the precaution to draw the
bolts of the doors and drag a heavy settle
across each, he settled himself for a sound nap.

How long he slept he did not know; but
his first sensation on waking was one of
suffocation, and when he tried to raise his hands
to discover the cause, he found they were tied
behind him, and his mouth tightly bound with
a cloth.  He next discovered that he was
stretched full length on one of the oaken
benches and fastened to it, so that the only
movement he could make was to roll a little
on one side.  Wide awake now, he immediately
made use of this one privilege that was
left him, and looked about the room.  His
companions were very much in the same
condition as himself, but evidently perfectly
unconscious of it.  The fire had been newly
built up and was blazing brightly, giving
all the light that was needed, and, sitting in
the arm-chair which he himself had so lately
occupied, warming himself by the fire, sat the
man he had been seeking, Cobham the outlaw,
while Forest was sitting on a stool by his side
watching some wine that was warming in the
silver cup.

The soldier was almost beside himself with
rage and mortification to see the man for
whom, dead or alive, such large rewards were
offered, sitting there as complacently as though
he had not an enemy in the world, while *he*
was unable to stir either hand or foot or to cry
for help.  For some time he lay there thus,
rendered more furious, from time to time, by
the grim smile that played on Sir John's face,
whenever he turned it so as to encounter the
enraged glances of the prisoner.

As the soldier became cooler, however, he
began to wonder how the room had been
entered.  He lay so that he could see all the
doors, still bolted and barricaded as he had
left them; but just as he was looking for
some opening in the wall, or a rope hanging
from one of the windows, there came a partial
solution of the mystery.

The morning light was just beginning to
struggle through the windows when a low
whistle was heard, to which De Forest
instantly replied, and then threw upon the fire
a handful of something which he drew from a
bag at his side.  A dense black smoke arose
in a cloud, obscuring for an instant, the whole
fireplace, and when it cleared away, another
had been added to the group at the fireside.
It was Charles Bertrand, whom the captain
had already noted as in attendance on De Forest.

"Is all ready?" said Sir John to the young man.

The latter looked suspiciously around, and
then, stooping so that he might be heard by
none but his master, he said:

"The horses are not ready, my Lord, and
there is a signal out that the mountain-road is
dangerous.  It will not do to try it before
evening, at any rate."

"There is nothing for it but to crouch in
our holes for another day, then," said the
Lollard cheerfully, and he turned to communicate
the news to Cobham.  They agreed to remain
in their hiding-places till the next midnight;
then Bertrand was to bring the horses to the
entrance of one of the long, concealed
passages leading from the castle to the open
country, and they were all three to make the
best of their way to Wales.

Cautious as they were in general, they
raised their voices a little too much in the
discussion, for although they had gagged their
prisoner's mouth, they had forgotten to stop
his ears, and although he only heard a word
here and there, he had wit enough to put them
together, and make out pretty clearly what
was to be their plan.  Fearing, however, lest
they should kill him if they suspected he had
overheard them, he did not let his feelings of
satisfaction appear in his face.

The three men seemed now about to depart,
and the soldier watched with all his powers of
eyesight to discover, if possible, how they
would leave the hall First, the knight took
down from the wall his suit of mail, and, by
the aid of Bertrand, put it on.  He then
threw over it his mantle which hung on one
of the deer's antlers almost directly over the
captain's head.  He also chose, from several
that were lying about, a good sword, and
handed it to Cobham, who handled it as
though he were well accustomed to its use,
albeit his hand trembled a little from age.
Meanwhile, Bertrand had loaded himself with
a large flagon of wine and a joint of meat.

When everything was ready, Sir John went
round among the sleeping men, and, after
examining them all carefully, chose the one who
seemed likely to sleep the longest, and
unfastened one of his hands.  He then went back
to the fireplace, and they all three stood close
to the hearth.

"Is all ready, my Lord?" said Bertrand,
leaning carelessly against the jamb of the
fireplace.

Sir John replied by drawing a handful from
his pouch and throwing it on the embers which
he had drawn out to the front of the hearth.
The pungent smoke, which immediately arose
in clouds, made the soldier wink his eyes, and
when he could see clearly once more, Cobham
and De Forest were still there, but Bertrand
was gone.  A second time the stifling smoke
arose, and though the captain stretched his
eyeballs almost out of their sockets, he only
knew that Sir John and Cobham had vanished
as unaccountably as their companion.  The
only thing he could do was to await, with all
the patience possible, the time when yonder
drunken log should become animate and
release him from his bondage.

Had the captain's vision been able to
penetrate the smoke, he would have seen that
Bertrand, in leaning against the chimney-piece,
touched a secret spring, which, as soon as the
smoke of the herbs Sir John had thrown on
the fire had obscured the view, opened
noiselessly the narrow door, which was as
noiselessly closed when all had made their exit.
Could his eager gaze have converted those
opaque stones into glass, he would have
discovered the Lollards in a very narrow passage
which wound along some distance, hollowed
out of the solid wall.  More than once they
seemed to have arrived at a spot where their
journey must terminate, but again a secret
spring was touched, the obedient stones rolled
back, and so they passed on till they came to
a little turret-chamber, lighted by slits in the
wall, which were concealed from all eyes
without by the heavy screen of ivy which hung
over them.

Here they paused and threw themselves
down on some heaps of straw, and then, covered
with their cloaks, slept as peacefully as if
they had not a foe in the world.





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.. _`The Birds Flown to the Mountains`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   *The Birds Flown to the Mountains.*

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The sun had risen high before any of the
soldiers awoke, and even then they were
helpless till their still sleeping comrade, who
was to be their deliverer, should be aroused.
This was at last accomplished by one of the
men, who dragged himself along the floor so
as to give him a hearty kick, but it was still
some time before he came sufficiently to
himself to comprehend the situation of affairs and
release both himself and the others.

The first thing that their captain did, after
he had stretched his stiffened limbs, was to
discharge a volley of oaths at them, the
Lollards, and the world generally.  He had
determined not to relate the whole of his
midnight adventure to his men for two reasons:
one was, that he was afraid of rousing their
superstitious fears, and making them insist
upon leaving instantly a place which they
would surely believe to be haunted by
malignant spirits; and the other was, that he was a
little ashamed of being thus caught napping
by his enemies, and did not wish the story to
be told against him to his superior officer.  He
was, however, fully determined to ransack the
castle before the time fixed upon by the
Lollards for their departure, at the same time
guarding all the places of exit.

He met with no better success than the
day before; but soon a bright thought struck
him, and his face glowed with malignant
pleasure.  He ordered his men into the woods to
gather brushwood, and this, together with
some straw and grain, he piled up in the
apartments of the castle and set on fire.
When it was fairly blazing, he mounted his
whole troop, carefully removing all the horses
from the stables, and placed his men in such
positions that they might be able to watch all
the roads, and be ready for instant pursuit
should the Lollards attempt to flee.

He himself sat grimly on his war-horse,
surveying the work of destruction; waiting
till the noble men, smoked like rats from their
holes, should be seized and brought
triumphantly before him.  He already imagined
how he would dispose of the reward when he
presented the three heads to the archbishop.

If this gallant soldier had been able to look
downward a little way through the ground
under his feet, his vision would not have been
quite so rose-colored.  Let us go back to the
three men whom we left sleeping so quietly in
the little turret-chamber.

They were not aroused from their slumber
till the fire had begun to rage, for they were
so embedded in the stone that the heat and
smell took a long time to penetrate to them;
but at last the ivy on the outside caught, and
the flames were roaring "from turret to
foundation stone."  The smoke which then poured
in through the narrow slits aroused Bertrand,
who soon understood the plot.  It was with
great difficulty that he and De Forest could
get Lord Cobham through the narrow passages,
for they were all almost suffocated with
smoke, and the heat in some places was
nearly unbearable.  In more than one spot
the walls had fallen in and choked the way
with rubbish, but fortunately the soldiers
were all outside, guarding the blazing ruins,
so that they could pass easily through some
of the more open rooms, and so into the
vaults.  Here they rested awhile, but not
long, for they feared lest some arch should
give way and cut off their retreat.  They
therefore passed along the subterranean
passage mentioned in the first part of the story,
which opened in the direction of the road
they intended to take.

They were in doubt where they should procure
horses for their journey, but their trusty
friend and servant, Charles Bertrand, had a
plan in his head which he did not at first
communicate to his master; but leaving them
sitting on a block of stone in the passage, he
crept through the little door concealed by
brushwood, and closing it carefully behind
him, stole along the bed of the stream, and
then up the bank on his hands and knees.
All this was done without noise, and he
crouched down in the bushes not ten feet
from the spot where the captain sat on his
horse indulging in his day-dreams.

Presently the soldier dismounted, and began
to examine the animal.  "Not a bad brute!"
was his muttered comment, as he noticed the
fine muscular development of his chest and
the fire of his eye; "not a bad brute, nor an
ugly one, and far too good for an heretic to
ride.  I have not had a better mount for
years; and as for you," he added, bestowing
a kick on his own abandoned charger, which
had been degraded to the office of carrying
some of the plunder from the castle, "you
shall henceforth carry my wife, Ivan, to
market, when she wears the new red cloak
which I shall buy her in London; she is
a good dame, and a handsome one too, and----"

What further plans were in his head for the
benefit of himself and wife can never be
known; for just at that moment there was a
shout in the direction of the burning building,
and he, thinking that the rats had at last been
smoked out of their hiding-places, did not
stop to ride round by the road, but, hooking
the horses' bridles on a branch, he flung
himself down the steep bank in the direction of
the castle, shouting to his men to "save them
alive."

Charles Bertrand chuckled with glee at the
turn things had taken.  It took but a moment
to loosen the beasts, cut the pack from the
one, and lead them both down into the wood.
He then gave a whistle, and in a shorter
time than it takes to relate it, Sir John was
mounted on his own horse, Cobham on the
captain's discarded steed, with Bertrand
behind him, and all were spurring forward
toward the blue mountains, whose snow-capped
peaks invited them to a safe and
happy asylum.

The chances were much against Ivan's ever
riding to market on the old gray war-horse,
decked in the scarlet cloak purchased by the
price of the three Lollard heads!

For a mile or so both horses went at full
speed, Sir John's steed urged on by his
master's voice, and the trooper's abused charger
showing itself not much the worse for wear,
by carrying double almost as fast as the other
bore single weight.  They had need of all
their exertions, for they had not been off more
than fifteen minutes before the whole band
was in pursuit of them.  They gained a little
time, however, by their pursuers taking a
wrong road, and it was not long before the
November twilight closed suddenly upon
them, aiding still more their concealment in
the gloom of the forest.

It was nearly midnight before they
dismounted, and then, though wearied with their
journey, and chilled by the sleet which had
fallen during the last few hours, the place at
which they stopped did not seem at all likely
to afford them any one of the traveller's three
requirements--bed, food and fire.  All seemed
to be well acquainted with the spot.  It was
an old ruin of what had probably been a fine
house in the days of Henry the First, but
which had been destroyed, like many another,
and its owner's name blotted from existence
during the wars of Stephen.  Bertrand
dismounted, and led the horses carefully among
the stones, into what had been the courtyard
of the castle.  There he sheltered them under
some broken arches, while their riders entered
a low room, still left almost entire, but so
situated that a careless person passing by, would
fail to distinguish it from the masses of
rubbish by which it was surrounded.

The air within was damp and chilly; but
De Forest pulled aside a loose stone in the
wall, and from the recess behind it drew out
some fagots of dry wood, a pitcher of common
wine, a loaf of bread, and some hard Welsh
cheese.  A cheerful fire was soon blazing on
the stone floor, after De Forest had hung his
cloak over the opening by which they entered,
for the double purpose of keeping the cold air
from blowing on the backs of those within,
and the firelight from revealing itself to those
who might be without.  Then, after warming
their benumbed limbs, they were quite ready
to do justice to the simple fare.

This ruin was one of the meeting-places of
the Lollards.  Wales being their great asylum,
it was convenient to have some spot a little
beyond the foot of the mountains, where they
might come, and find out whether it was safe
to proceed any farther.  There was always a
small stock of provisions and firewood kept
there, so that in case any preachers were
obliged to spend the night there, they might
not have to endanger themselves or others by
venturing to any of the neighboring cottages.
There was also a set of signals here, conducted
on the same system, and connected with those
at the foot of the oak near Forest Castle, and
Bertrand carefully deciphered them and
arranged them anew.  He learned that the road
was clear as far as the mountains for those
going thither, but that no one from the
mountains had better venture down.  He then
placed such marks as would indicate to those
who should read them the number of the
archbishop's soldiers, the burning of the Tower,
and the escape of De Forest and Cobham.
So perfectly had this system of signals been
arranged, and so well was their secret kept,
that he knew in a few days the news of the
escape of the two reformers would be known
and rejoiced over by all the Lollards for many
miles around, while their enemies would
wonder how the intelligence was spread, and lay
it all to the account of that diabolical
assistance and knowledge of sorcery which they
firmly believed was possessed by these outlaws.

Before they retired to their rest, Cobham
stood up and recited the ninety-first Psalm:
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the
Most High, shall abide under the shadow of
the Almighty."  How true and precious did
these promises appear to those homeless
fugitives!  Each took to his own heart such
passages as seemed most appropriate to his own
particular case; but each found in them the
same great comfort--the blessed fact of God's
guardianship over those he loves, and their
absolute and eternal safety, however earthly
cares may oppress, dangers threaten, or
sorrows impend.  The soldier, Cobham, realized
in the God whom he had learned to worship
untrammeled by priestcraft and juggling tricks,
a shield and buckler far stronger than he had
ever borne in the wars under king Harry.
The gray-haired knight, who had that day
seen the home where his ancestors had lived
and died, the birth-place of himself and his
two sons, the inheritance which he had thought
to leave to a long line of posterity, razed to the
very ground by his enemies, and who now felt
that he had no home in the wide world in
which to shelter his gray hairs, crept up, as it
were, to the promise, "I will say of the Lord,
He is my refuge and my fortress, in him will
I trust," and with child-like faith, taking his
Heavenly Father at his word, cast away his
sorrows and cares.

Bertrand, the peasant, who had abandoned
the old faith and followed his feudal lord into
the new, but who had never imbibed the
spirituality of the reform; who had cast aside the
bondage of Rome, but who had not yet bowed
his head to the yoke of the gentle Jesus; felt
that night as he had never done before, and
his aroused feelings were never quieted until
he came, with no priestly mediator between,
to the feet of his Saviour, and found peace in
believing.

Nor was the impression lessened when Sir
John poured forth a simple, earnest prayer to
their great Protector.  There was no word of
complaint in it, still less of anger toward their
persecutors.  He besought, with earnest
pleadings, that as they were now Sauls in
persecuting, they might become Pauls in defending
the faith.  And when the thought of his ruined
home and desolate possessions came across his
mind, he prayed that those mansions might be
bestowed upon his enemies as well as himself,
which are not made with hands, and whose
treasures no moth nor rust can corrupt, no foe
break through and steal.

Then they laid them down and slept, calmly
and peacefully, for so did they realize God's
presence, that the rough stone walls seemed
to them like the fingers of his almighty hand,
stretched around them to guard them from
their foes.





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.. _`The Lesson of Forgiveness`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


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   *The Lesson of Forgiveness.*

.. vspace:: 2

When Charles Bertrand--for he it was
who was their stranger guest--had
further narrated how, the next day, the two
Lollards had easily passed over the few miles
that lay between their night's resting-place and
Cobham's mountain retreat in that wild
country which gave asylum to outlaws of every
kind, he told them that Sir John still had his
habitation in Wales, but frequently ventured
down into the valleys of his own land,
traversing several counties under various disguises,
to attend and encourage meetings of the
Reformers.  Patiently they were all waiting for
the time when, bursting over the land as the
sunbeams after a thunder-cloud has passed,
Bible truth, liberty, and toleration should make
themselves to be known and acknowledged
by the world.  Patiently and trustingly they
waited, for they had no doubt of the fulfillment
of their Master's promises; but, alas! it
pleased that Master, whose will must be
unquestioned by human intellect, long, very long
to delay the deliverance which was yet surely
to come.  The child that was then at its
mother's breast grew up to boyhood, manhood,
descended to old age, and then returned to
his native dust, long ere that day came which
those fond, simple hearts believed to be even
then at the dawn.  The nation was not yet
sufficiently purged, men's faith not sufficiently
tried; that precious "seed of the church," the
blood of holy martyrs, had not yet finished
dropping into the earth, nor had it yet been
sufficiently watered by widows' and orphans'
tears for the precious harvest to spring up,
which now is yielding to every soul speaking
the English tongue, the priceless boon of
perfect liberty of conscience toward man, and
toward God.

Bertrand was glad to stretch his limbs by
the hut fire after his journey; and after the
simple worship, which always closed the day's
labor of these people, all betook themselves
to rest.

All but one.  Geoffrey could not sleep; so
he arose softly, and, wrapping himself in his
cloak, bounded up the cliffs by a path so
narrow and rocky, and close to the brink of the
precipice, that only so firm and steady a foot
as his own would care to tread it by night.
As he passed out of the shadow of the cottage,
a man lifted up his head from behind some
bushes, and shook himself as though wearied
of a confined posture.  Still, he did not stand
boldly upright, but crouched again, keeping in
the shade, and then throwing a look of
malignant hatred at the little hut and its quiet
sleepers, he muttered an oath of satisfaction,
and crept stealthily upon the boy's track.

Meanwhile, what were the thoughts of the
young Lollard?

Geoffrey and Hubert were both Lollards,
but in a very different spirit.  Geoffrey, the
heir of a noble baronetcy, saw his patrimony
destroyed, his father outlawed and hunted,
himself dependent on the charity of the poor
for a place of shelter, and his very soul went
out in opposition to the oppressors and to
their religion.  In Lollardism he found a
freedom which agreed with his notions of right,
and a purity of morals suited to his taste.
The younger brother embraced the reformed
religion, because he found in the doctrines it
taught, a way of relief for a sinning soul--because
they brought to him, free, and untrammeled
by superstition and the traditions of
men, the Gospel of the Cross, "the sweet
story of old."  Geoffrey was a Lollard,
because with all his strength he hated Rome,
and desired to break its yoke from the necks
of his countrymen; Hubert, because he loved
Jesus, and longed, with all the fervor of his
spirit, to convey the tidings of deliverance
from a far greater power than that wielded in
the Vatican, to the priest-ridden, ignorant
poor of his native land.

It was natural, therefore, that the former
should have many a bitter thought rising in
his mind as he thought of the smouldering
ruins of Forest Tower.  The insult and
wrong which had been heaped upon his noble
race seemed more than he could bear; his
whole soul revolted against the tyranny.

"It is mine!" he cried aloud, as he reached
the top of the cliff, and drew his fine though
boyish figure up to its full height in an
attitude of defiance--"mine by every law.  King
Henry holds his throne by no better right!
I care not how strong they be, they shall give
it back, or may a curse rest on them every
one--may they all, from king Henry down to
his hirelings, be as homeless as I am this
night!  Send down, O God of Justice!--if
there be such a God--fire and sword upon
their houses, as they have brought them on
mine; curses on their meat and drink,
curses----"  He paused, then sank down on the
ground and groaned bitterly.  Had he not
been so enrapt in his fiery thoughts, he might
have noticed a face peering at him with
malignant satisfaction from the shadow of a rock
scarce ten feet from the spot where he stood
in full moonlight, with his clenched right hand
raised toward heaven, calling down vengeance
for his wrongs.  But now, as he sank to the
earth, the figure stooped and became invisible,
for at that instant another footstep was heard
along the path, and a still more boyish form
sprang across the little open space.

"Geoffrey! dear Geoffrey!"

"What are you doing here, Hubert?" cried
the elder lad, springing to his feet, like all
other lads displeased at being found giving
way to his emotions.  "Get you back to the
cottage; this is no place for you, on the
mountain-top at night!"

"Do not be angry, brother!" said the
younger beseechingly.  "I saw you rise and
go out, and I followed, it is so wild and
desolate for you to be here alone, and you so
miserable."

"Miserable!"--the word was spoken in a
contemptuous tone--"that is for a woman to
say.  I am a man now, I must stand up for
my lawful rights; I must pursue to the death
those blood-hounds, those hirelings of the foul
fiend himself, whom may Heaven----"

"Geoffrey!  Geoffrey! stop; do not say
such words.  We may not curse, we must
pray--we must bless!"  And the boy clung
to his brother in passionate entreaty.
Geoffrey flung him off.

"You are a child, Hubert! you do not
understand these things.  Go back to your
bed.  I choose to be alone."  He strode off
to the furthest extremity of the little rocky
platform, close, close to the lurker in the
shadow!  When he had styled his enemies
blood-hounds, he was not far from the truth;
for dearly they loved to track silently their
victim's footsteps, to spring upon him when
he felt most secure.

"Geoffrey," said the little pleading voice,
"it is very cold, I thought you would wrap
me in your cloak."

The hard, stern look passed from the lad's
face at the words; he turned, sat down by his
brother, and clasped him tightly in his arms.
Neither spoke for some time; at last Hubert
broke the silence.

"How beautiful the moonlight is to-night!"

It was indeed a glorious sight.  Sheer
down two hundred feet and more below them
lay the calm, mirror-like sea, reflecting the
moonbeams in a pathway of silver, stretching
far, far into the horizon, till it ended in a
distant speck on the great North Sea.  The
stars were paled by the radiance, but still
stood out gloriously in the clear still
atmosphere, like specks of shining foam dashed
up from the silvery sea below.  No sound
broke the stillness but the low beating of the
surf and the scream of a sea-bird skimming
through the air after its prey.  It seemed
in that lone, desolate spot as if there might be
no other living creature in existence but the
bird flitting across the landscape.  The two
lads nestled under the cloak and--the watcher!

"The moon was at the full, you know, when
He died, Geoffrey, and fell upon his cross and
his tomb.  I wonder if it falls as brightly in
that far-off land as it does here?  Father
Humphrey told me all about it the last time
the moon was full, just before he died.  How
sad, and yet how glad a thing it was for Christ
to die, Geoffrey!  I can hardly tell where the
sadness ends and the gladness begins, they
seem so mingled in it all.  May I talk to you
about it now?"

"Yes, if you are warm," and the arm
was drawn more tightly around the slender
form.

"Oh! yes, I am so comfortable now;" and
then he began, and in sweet, touching
eloquence detailed the well-known story of the
persecuted Nazarene.  He drew the picture
of the lowly manger, of the carpenter's
workshop; he spoke of Him as homeless, hungry,
thirsty, weary, desolate, despised, rejected,
betrayed.  He followed him to the garden, the
judgment-hall, the cross.  He described in
burning words the gibes, the mocks, the
sneers, the insults, the cruelty, the hatred that
followed the meek and gentle Jesus from the
cradle to the grave.

"And He forgave them, Geoffrey," said the
little speaker, as he closed the account, "he
forgave them every one."

"He was a God," said Geoffrey solemnly.

"Yes, but he was a man too, and out of his
man's heart, as well as his God's heart, he
forgave them."

The elder lad's face had softened strangely;
there was a moisture on the lashes which
shaded his downcast eyes.

"He taught us our 'Pater Noster.'  He had
a right to teach us to say: 'Forgive us our
sins as we forgive those who sin against us.'  It
is hard to act it, but then we must, for we
have so many sins to be forgiven--so very,
very many, Geoffrey.  I think it is an awful
prayer to say, though it is so simple and short.
It is like Jesus himself, so perfect, so
heart-searching.  I tremble often; for just think, if
we should have just the least little revenge in
our hearts, we are praying for condemnation."

Lower, lower on his bosom sank the proud
head of the young noble.

"I said it to-night, Hubert."  The words
came in a trembling whisper.

"Then you must *act* it, quickly, quickly,
before God answers it against you."

The boy had roused himself, and in his
eagerness had caught both his brother's hands
in an earnest grasp.  What Geoffrey would
have replied to this appeal cannot be known,
for just at that moment there was a rustling
among the stones, then the rush of a falling
body, accompanied by one of those horrible
screams of mortal agony, which those who
have once heard them can never forget.

Both boys sprang to their feet with a cry of
horror.  Geoffrey's clear, cool head first
comprehended what was the matter.  He ran as
near the border of the precipice, as he dared,
and then, creeping on his hands and knees to
the very edge, looked down.  There, far below
him, but as far above the water, caught in a
scrubby tree that grew out of a cleft in the
rock, lay a dark object, only just discernible
in the moonlight; and again came the cry for
help, but feebler than before.

"It is a man over the cliff!" shouted the
boy.  "Run, Hubert, for Bertrand and a rope;
quick, or it will be too late!  He is hanging
in the elf oak!"

Then, when his brother was gone, he
shouted words of encouragement to the
unfortunate man.  "Hold hard, man! help is
near, and the tree strong, but trust not to the
upper branch, it is a dead one; hold fast but a
little while."

The man was in too great a state of terror
to hear or understand, but kept exclaiming
that he was lost, and vowing candles to every
saint in the calendar, and pilgrimages to a
dozen shrines; but his voice grew fainter and
fainter, and had ceased entirely, before Hubert
returned, accompanied by Humphrey Singleton
and Bertrand.  It took but a moment to
uncoil the rope and fasten one end around a
rock; then Geoffrey hailed the stranger:

"Ho! friend, help has come; courage!
We will send you down a rope; have you
strength to tie it round your body?"

No reply came.  All shouted together, and
then waited breathlessly for an answer, but
none came.

"He is dead, or he has swooned," said the
old master; "may the Lord have mercy on his
soul!  We can do no more."

Meanwhile there had been a tumult of
varied feelings in Geoffrey's mind.  Who can
this stranger be? had been naturally his first
thought when he saw the accident.  There
could be but one answer--it was an enemy;
none other would have been concealed at
such an hour on those lonely cliffs.  One of
Chichely's spies must have been lurking
behind the rocks, and, missing his footing, had
fallen to what must be his certain destruction
if not speedily rescued.  And this was the
man whom certain feelings of humanity in his
heart were calling on him to save at the risk
of his own life--one of the very men, perhaps,
who had aided in making his father a
homeless outlaw; nay more, who had been but a
few moments before thirsting for the blood of
himself and his venerable protector.  Was it
not the dictate of common prudence which
incited him to send a cross-bow bolt after the
wretch, rather than rescue him to go on in the
commission of crime?

But however passionate Geoffrey might be
when roused by a sense of his wrongs, in his
calmer moments he was always ready to be
led by the Bible laws of right and wrong,
which had been taught him from his infancy.
"Thou shalt not do evil that good may come,"
was a precept which had been impressed upon
him by his father's lips more than once, and
now the conversation he had just held with
his brother brought a still more forcible
argument to his mind.  "He died for them even
while they were murdering him."  "Forgive
us our sins as we forgive them who sin against
us."  He was decided: he would, as Hubert
had said, act the prayer, and in a moment--for
it took him far less time to think all this
than it has to relate it--he stepped forward,
and flung his loose cloak out of the way.

"Nay, father, there is yet hope: I will go
down and help him."

"You!" exclaimed the old master and
Bertrand in a breath.  "Boy, you are mad!  It
is almost certain death; and know you not
that this is without doubt a spy, sent to hunt
all of us to the scaffold?"

"He is a fellow-man," replied the boy
undauntedly, "and a sinner too; perchance
his soul may be hanging over the gulf of
perdition, as his body is over yonder ocean.  If
it please God"--here he raised his cap
reverently from his brow, then flung it down on
the ground--"if it please God, I will save
both!"

He then stepped toward Hubert, and bending
low so that he might not be overheard by
the rest, said: "Brother, I am going to act the
prayer; you have saved me from the
vengeance of God!"  There was one tight grasp
of the hand, and then, before they had
sufficiently recovered from their surprise to
prevent him, Geoffrey had seized the rope and
commenced his perilous descent.

.. _`149`:

The next few moments, so full of agonizing
suspense, were spent by Bertrand in pushing
bunches of dried grass under the rope, to
prevent it from cutting against the sharp corners
of the rock, and by the rest in prayer.  The
dangerous descent was not quite unknown to
the young Lollard, as but a week or two
previous he had climbed down to that very tree
to pick up a bird which he shot, and which
had lodged in its branches; hence his
warning to the man to beware of the dead bough.
But then he had had the light and heat of the
sun at noonday; now he must guide himself
over slippery rocks by the uncertain light of
the moon, which, glaring on the patches of
snow, served only to render the shadows
deeper; still the boy, naturally fearless, was
now inspired with a supernatural bravery by
the holy thoughts in his soul.  Every sense
was stretched to its utmost; with firm hands
he grasped the rope, and with unerring feet
sprang from rock to rock with a speed and
sureness of footing which seemed to those
who watched him from above almost miraculous,
till at last he sent up a joyful shout:

"I am safe, and the man is only stunned;
but send us down another rope, and that
speedily, for the tree is loosening."

The rope was not so readily procured; and
for some time the boy had to remain in the
tree called the "elf oak" by the people
around, on account of the strangeness of its
situation, and support the moaning wretch
who lay there, and whom his voice had
recalled a little to life.  He occupied himself by
chafing the man's limbs, and striving to
regulate their weight so as to press as little as
possible on the tree, which, jarred by the fall of
the heavy body upon it, was becoming more
and more loosened from its frail tenure in the
crevice of the rock.

At length the other rope was dropped to
him, and he fastened both round the man, who
seemed incapable, either through terror or
injury, of giving himself much assistance.
Then, supporting himself partly by the rope,
but more by clinging to the jutting points of
rock, with a hand ever ready to steady the
swinging body or turn it aside from a
dangerous angle, he clambered up, and then sank
down on the grass, wounded, dizzy, and
exhausted, but with a strange calmness at his
heart, and a great love burning there toward
all mankind, and an intense feeling of gratitude
toward God for his preservation from a danger
whose full horrors he only now began to
understand; for, just as he was mounting the
last few feet of the ascent, he had heard a
crash behind him--the old oak had torn itself
from the rock, and was being dashed in
fragments by the surf below.





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.. _`Caught and Caged`:

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   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *Caught and Caged.*

.. vspace:: 2

The man whom Geoffrey had saved was
indeed his greatest enemy.  He was no
other than the captain of the troop who had so
lately burned Forest Castle and driven its lord
into exile.  Enraged at losing the reward
which he had considered already his own, and
mortified beyond expression at finding himself
outwitted by the despised Lollards, he had
found the traces of Bertrand like a bloodhound,
and having followed them so far, had
discovered the retreat of the children of his
enemy.

Bertrand recognized him the moment the
blood and dust were wiped from his face, and
nothing but the positive command of his
master's son prevented him from killing him on
the spot.  Still all precautions must be taken
for their safety, and they bound their prisoner
securely, placing him in an out-house near the
hut, while they prepared everything for instant
flight.  Their precious pages of Scripture were
divided among them and concealed in their
garments.  Such of the old man's few effects
as they could not carry with them they buried
or concealed, and partook of a hasty meal.

Their plan was to leave sufficient food and
firewood near their prisoner to last him till he
should recover or his friends come to seek him.
For this purpose Bertrand went to carry him
meat, but returned in a moment with a face
expressive of mingled wonder and alarm.

"He is gone!" he exclaimed.  "Gone, and
we are undone!  Why did I not strike him
down at first?  Fool that I was! why did you
hinder me, master Geoffrey?  We are indeed
lost if he escape, for his band is but a short
league off in the village.  He may have had
time to warn them even now;" and Charles
Bertrand sprang to the door, cross-bow in
hand; but when there, he stopped.  Gleaming
in the gray twilight which was heralding the
morning, he saw the spears of quite a numerous
band of soldiers approaching the hill on
which the hut stood, from three sides, slowly
but surely compassing their prey.

"It is too late," he added more calmly; and
in a whisper to Geoffrey, who had followed
him, "*We* might by a rare chance break
through--but not *those*;" and he pointed with
the butt of his weapon to the old man,
exhausted with the labors and excitement of the
night, and Hubert, pale and unused to hardship.

"Go you, trusty Charles," said the boy,
grasping the rough hand of the man-at-arms
in both his; "I knew not that I had periled
their life and yours as well as mine own; go
you alone by the rocky path: it lies still in
shadow, and they will not see it I stay to die
with them."

"Hold, young master," said the man, affecting
a rough manner to conceal his emotion;
"you do not know Charles Bertrand if you
think he will basely flee and leave the old
man and the child to perish alone, not counting
the heir of his lord's house.  Nay, I will
stay and bring down more than one of the
wretches ere they cross the threshold."

"Not so, friend," said the young Lollard.
"You have not my permission; for my father's
sake, you must escape to tell him of our fate,
and beside, you being free, may do somewhat
for our liberty in planning some way of escape,
while you can do us no good by shooting
down one or two of yonder troop.  I command
you to follow yonder path to the first
turning, then to the right, till you see a rock
like a horse's head, then ten paces to the left,
is a bush growing close to the cliff.  Pull it
away, and there is a hole large enough for one
to lie concealed.  Go, Bertrand; there is not
a moment to lose, do not say a word."

The man looked still reluctant; but there
was such an air of decision in the flashing eye
of the young man that he could not disobey,
but bounding up the hillside, disappeared as
Geoffrey turned to the hut.

"Up, father!" he said in a firm voice,
lending his arm to the old man, at the same time
motioning Hubert to his side.  "Father! you
have taught us how to live as Lollards and
Christians; now teach us to die like them, for
the time is come!" and he led them out to
the rocky platform in front of the door.

Scarcely had he ended when a dozen men
leapt up to the top of the hill, and as many
hands were laid on their unresisting victims,
while the morning air was filled with their
shouts of delight at their cowardly victory.
Some tied them securely, some went to search
for the missing soldier, while others threw
firebrands about the hut and set it on fire.

Then, driving the boys before them, but
disregarding old Humphrey Singleton as a
piece of worthless booty, they descended the
hill toward the village, where they had left
their horses.  There each of the boys was
fastened to a horse behind a soldier, and by
the time the sun had risen they were on their
way toward York.

The captain, while looking with the utmost
care to the safety of his prisoners, kept as far
as possible from the boy whose kindness he
was so shamefully repaying.  Though his
heart was pretty well steeled by many years
of rough service as a soldier of fortune, and he
was deeply impressed with the hatred of the
Reformers which pervaded all classes, yet he
had a little conscience left, and it pricked him
sharply when he looked on the sea, and
thought that but for that lad's strong arm and
courageous heart he would there be dashing
about, a lifeless, mangled mass.  His better
angel whispered to him that he might still
partially retrieve his error by using his
influence with his band to let them escape; but
then rose the thought of the disgrace which
the escape of Sir John and Lord Cobham had
thrown upon him, which could only be atoned
for by the capture of these "whelps of
rebellion," as the archbishop styled them.  Besides,
his greedy palm itched for the golden angels
which he already saw poured out to him by
the delighted ecclesiastic.

So at last he determined to divide matters
with his troublesome conscience.  He would
not take them to York, where they would
certainly be killed, but would leave them at a
convent near by, where they might not be kept
very safely, and thus escape, without the
odium resting on him, or the loss of his
reward.  He therefore ordered his troop to turn
into a side-road, and galloping on before,
led them to a gloomy, fortified building,
surrounded by thick woods, and known to all as
the convent of "Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows."

The porteress looked surprised and a little
doubtful at the sight of such a band of armed
men; but the archbishop's livery, worn by
some of his retainers, and the assurance of
the captain that he came on holy business,
procured them an audience with the head of
the establishment.

Mother Beatrice, the prioress, was a tall,
dark, hard-featured woman, who, being an
importation from Spain, had brought with her
all the austerities to which she had been
accustomed from her childhood, and meted them
out with unsparing hand to the nuns, novices,
and pupils over whom she exercised her sway,
and soon made the convent as famous for the
rigor of its discipline, as she herself was for
sanctity and devotion to the Church.

It seemed as though there was scarcely an
hour in the twenty-four in which the clanging
of the bell did not arouse the luckless inmates
to repair to the chapel for prayers, and woe to
any one who were so unfortunate as to break
any one of the strict rules of the house, for
the slightest punishment of the abbess was a
thing to be dreaded.  Perhaps it was to lie
for hours stretched in the form of a cross on
the cold pavement of the cell or chapel; to
stand in a painful posture before some shrine,
till the offender fainted from weariness; to go
day after day with the least possible quantity
of the coarsest food that could keep soul and
body together; or perhaps, in extreme cases,
the holy lady would herself apply the scourge
to the naked back of the criminal, accompanying
each blow by a pious exhortation, or a passage
in the life of a saint, until both voice and
hand were too wearied to perform their part
any longer.

"And now daughter," she would say, as her
victim was led away, "go in peace; may this
slight correction save thee from the pains of
hell!  Go in peace, and forget not in thy
prayers to thank Our Lady and the saints
that thou hast been placed here, where thy
soul is so well cared for!"

It was quite doubtful whether the offender
ever experienced the gratitude which was
expected of her for the benefits received at the
reverend Lady's hand, but it was thought that
Mother Beatrice quite enjoyed these little
opportunities for doing good, and either found,
or made them, as often as possible.

It was after one of these occasions, when
she was resting from the benevolent fatigue
she had just undergone, that the porteress
came bustling in, with an unusual air of
excitement, to inform her of the arrival of the
captain and his men.

The abbess received the soldier with the
cold dignity befitting her situation; but as
soon as she had heard the story, her heart
palpitated with joy and triumph, in a manner
quite unusual to one covered with the serge
robe of her order.  Her ruling passion was for
governing, and forcing those around her to an
absolute subjection to her will; and she had
lately begun to weary of the contracted scope
given to her powers in this quiet convent.
The sins which she was called upon to punish
were, after all, mere peccadilloes, and her
subjects were so subdued by severity that there
was no hope of a serious enough rebellion
among them to excite her faculties in putting
it down; but here were intrusted to her two
heretics, made all the more interesting by
being of the opposite sex, and yet not old
enough to bring a scandal upon the convent
if it received them within its walls.  She
promised the captain to do all she could to draw
from them the secret of their father's
hiding-place and that of Lord Cobham, and to keep
them safely till the archbishop, who was then
in London, should return, and decide what
was to be done with them.

When the captain and his troop had departed,
she ordered her prisoners to be brought
into her presence.  The boys had at first been
rather rejoiced at the thought of being placed
under female care, but one look at their stern
jailer was sufficient to alarm them.  Hubert
shrank to his brother's side, but Geoffrey drew
himself up proudly, and returned her scrutiny
by an unabashed and not very polite stare.

The wily prioress noticed this, and determined
that they were very different characters,
and as such must be differently treated.
"Come hither, my pretty boy," she said,
throwing as much tenderness as possible into
her voice; and, drawing him gently toward
her, she questioned him concerning his
journey and his fatigue in such a way that his
answers, at first confined to monosyllables,
became more full, and he was soon talking
with her quite freely, unheeding the signs by
which Geoffrey, who was standing moodily by
the door, tried to check him.  At that
moment the convent-bell pealed out its summons,
and the abbess, arising, said, "Come, my little
page, we will go to hear some of that music
you were just telling me you loved so dearly;"
and before the elder lad had time to put in a
word, the superior and her charge had left the
room.  As the door closed behind her,
another opened, and the porteress, entering,
bade him follow her.  He obeyed, though
secretly determined not to be led to chapel, as
he conceived Hubert must have been.  His
fears were groundless, as he soon discovered;
it was not the abbess's plan to try him that
way.  He followed his guide through several
passages and courts to a low damp-looking
cell, and when Sister Ursula had shown him
the pitcher of water and piece of bread for his
refreshment, that were placed in a niche
serving for a table, she withdrew, and bolting the
door, left him to his own reflections.

His first impulse was to examine his prison.
The only light admitted was from a small
window, or rather slit in the wall, which was well
barred; and it was not till his eyes became
somewhat accustomed to the dim light, that
he found he was in a good-sized room, some
twenty feet square, and built entirely of stone.
It had evidently been originally intended for a
cellar; but that it had sometime been used
as a prison was also evident, as there was a
chain fastened to the wall, and the door was
strong, and well provided with bolts and bars.
On a shelf covered with cloth, at the side,
stood a crucifix, and behind it hung a rude
sketch of the Virgin, with the legend, "Ora
pro nobis, peccavi!" in black letter.  The boy
gave a scornful glance at this, and then threw
himself down on the heap of straw in the
corner intended for his bed.

At first he buried his face in his hands in
anxious thought, but soon started up, and
began a careful examination of the walls and
floor of his prison.  His object was this.  In
the arrangements for flight at the hut on the
cliff the preceding night, it will be remembered
that the sheets of parchment containing
parts of the Bible had been divided among
the people.  Geoffrey's share he carried in a
bag under the cloth jerkin that he wore, and
he was afraid lest the prioress should
undertake to search him, and so discover those
precious pages, which he would then not only
lose forever, but which would prove witnesses
sufficient to send him, without further
question, to the stake.  He therefore wished to
find some place where he might secrete them,
if a search seemed probable.

In the darkest corner of the room, partly
concealed by a recess, he found a door, which
had evidently, by the cobwebs gathered thickly
over it, not been opened for a long time.
Induced by the decayed appearance of the wood,
he applied his shoulder to it, and one forcible
push sent it bursting in, and nearly choked
him with dust.  At first his heart beat
high, for he thought he had found a way of
escape; but he was soon disappointed.  It
only opened into what seemed to have been
an entrance or vestibule to the old cellar, for
there were marks where some steps had been
fastened into the wall; and a doorway,
half-way up the side, had been built up with a
different kind of stone.  The walls were,
however, much thinner, and the window larger.
After making himself sure that there was no
way to it except through the outer cell, he
placed his parchments in a crevice under the
window and returned to the other room,
replacing the door so as to make all look as
much as possible as it did before.

He had now time to consider his situation,
which was by no means a promising one.  He
had noticed the deep ditch and massive wall
which surrounded the building as he approached
it, and the character of the place was better
known to him than the prioress had supposed.
He knew there were other ways of ridding
the kingdom of heretics beside the open trial
and public execution.  He also knew that he
and his brother would be especial objects of
interest to the ecclesiastical authority, as it
might be supposed that they could be induced
to reveal the place of their father's retreat, or
even draw him from his concealment, if he
heard that his children were held as hostages
for his appearance.  He saw that great
exertions would be made for their conversion, and
he was very angry with Hubert for being so
easily entrapped and led away, and he imagined
him subjected to all kinds of questioning
before he had opportunity to warn him how to
answer so as to conceal most perfectly their
secrets.  He had worked himself into such a
passion with the child for his "singing folly,"
as he termed it, that when the bolts were
suddenly drawn back, the door opened, and his
brother ran and threw himself sobbing into
his arms, he repulsed him rudely and
contemptuously, and began walking up and down
the room, too angry to speak.

"Geoffrey!  Geoffrey!" began the child in
a trembling voice, springing up from the straw
where the elder's rough push had sent him,
but not daring to approach the irritated lad,
"Geoffrey!  I did not kneel, I did not kiss the
image, though they told me they would let us
go in the garden if I would, and the porteress
says they will kill us soon.  O brother! don't
send me away; we always said we would die
together!"

"They may kill me, but not you, Hubert,"
replied Geoffrey with a sneer.  "They will
rather keep you for one of their singing-birds;
after that you may be a fat monk, and, who
knows? his Lordship of Canterbury one of
these days, and light up the land with Lollard
bonfires perhaps; but"--he stopped suddenly
and sprang to his brother's side, changing his
tone from harshness and sarcasm to tenderness
and anxiety--"but they have done you
hurt; they have wounded you, the hounds!
Why did you not tell me?  You are bleeding fast!"

The blood was indeed trickling down the
child's pale face and mingling with his tears,
while he was vainly endeavoring to stanch it
with his hands.

"It is not much," he sobbed; "she struck
me with her keys because I called out to such
a pretty young lady who passed us as we
came out of chapel.  I am sure we saw her in
London at the preaching in the brickyard.
She was walking with the nuns, and looked
very much surprised to see me; but they
hurried her away, and then the porteress
struck me."

"There," said Geoffrey, whose rage against
his brother had quite disappeared now that he
had so much better an object to vent his
spleen upon, "the old hag has not done you
as much damage as she meant to, I think; it
is but a little cut, and will scarcely leave a
scar.  Sit down here, and let me cover you
with my cloak, and we will eat the supper our
good jaileresses have provided; we have had
nothing since daybreak."  They were both
exhausted with the fatigues and excitement of
the last twenty-four hours, and their prison-fare
was not much coarser than that to which
they had been accustomed; so they ate it
thankfully, and then lay down to rest in each
other's arms.

Much more tranquil was their rest than that
of their betrayer, who, tossing on his pillow in
his inn at York, was suffering from remorse in
a manner different from any former experience.
The conversation he had overheard on the
cliff; the fright of the fall; the brave face that
had looked into his with compassion as he lay
in the tree; that same undaunted young figure
standing at the hut door as his captors
surrounded him; the patient, reproachful face
which he could not help continually turning to
meet during the long morning ride--all these
rose up before him one after another, and not
even the thought of his bag of gold pieces was
able to restore the soldier's natural recklessness.





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.. _`Kate the Quick-witted`:

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   CHAPTER XIII.


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   *Kate the Quick-witted.*

.. vspace:: 2

When Geoffrey awoke the next morning,
it was to find a single, long beam
of sunlight streaming down into his prison, by
which he knew it must be already late.  Both
boys felt refreshed, and more prepared for the
unknown trials of the day.  The younger
having climbed on the shoulders of the elder,
peeped out of their high window, and
described the prospect to his brother.

"Only a little, square, stone court, Geoffrey,
with some steps, four of them leading up to a
door in the house and another door opposite,
in a low wall.  The wall seems to join the
tower close here by the window.  I guess it
must be a garden on the other side; I see
some branches hanging over the wall.  The
window is not more than two feet above the
ground, but it is too narrow for me to get my
head through, even if it were not for the iron
bars."

"Come down, now," said Geoffrey, "I cannot
hold you any longer, and besides I want
to show and tell you something."

From the position of the little room which
Geoffrey had discovered the preceding day, he
concluded that its window must open on the
space beyond the wall; and after explaining
to his brother the hiding-place of the
parchments, and charging him to watch the outer
door and alarm him if he heard footsteps
approaching, he went to see what prospect of
escape that opening afforded.

Hubert's conjecture proved right.  The
wall bounded the convent-garden, which was
laid out in the stiff fashion of the time--long
winding walks, bordered with box, beds of
various kinds of herbs, an oval grass-plat with a
sun-dial in the centre, some fruit-trees and
flowering shrubs scattered about, peach-trees
fastened to the sunny side of the wall, and a
bower.

All this was sufficiently new and pretty to
have interested Geoffrey; but he scarcely
noticed it now, for his attention was immediately
attracted by a figure approaching down a long
wall that ended directly in front of the
window.  It was that of a young girl apparently
near his own age, neither very tall nor
remarkably graceful in her movements; but there
was nothing plebeian in the delicate hand and
foot, or in the carriage of the small,
well-shaped head.  She was well-dressed,
according to the fashion of the time, in fine dark
green cloth, with a cloak of brown camlet, and
hood of the same; but the latter was now
thrown back, exposing a goodly quantity of
chestnut-brown hair, partly escaping from the
crimson snood which confined it; for the
same sharp wind which had given her cheeks
their glowing color, had been mischief-making
with her morning toilet.  There was good-natured
firmness in the lines about her mouth,
and mirth mingled with thoughtfulness in her
large blue eyes.  Her voice, as she tried to
coax a little robin to approach her, had that
musical sweetness which is so very attractive,
to some even more fascinating than decided
personal beauty.

"Come hither, little frightened thing," she
said, as the bird, alarmed at her advance,
hopped behind a bush, and seemed about to
take flight for a still safer place of refuge.
"Dost thou think *I* would make thee a prisoner,
pretty creature, I who know so well what
it is to pant and sigh for liberty--I, who would
give all I possess to be able to fly over these
high walls as thou canst, and be away to dear
old Estly Court?  I would but touch thee,
and smooth that soft breast of thine; nay, do
not go away, even if I may not come closer,
for I must talk to thee awhile.  Oh! but this
is such a dreary place; and, birdie, thou art
the only living thing that I can talk to as I
please: and talk I must, for I am wearied to
death with this stillness.  Nearer now, a little
nearer, and here is some of my breakfast for
thee; I venture to say thou wilt find but
scanty fare here even for thy small appetite."  The
bird hopped closer to her as she scattered
the crumbs of bread, growing bolder at every
mouthful, and its benefactress continued:

"O birdie!  I wonder if that Father above,
who, they say, sees even a sparrow that falls,
has forgotten the lonely prisoner in Our
Lady's Convent, and never means to take her
back to home and Guy, and mamma; and I
wonder if He is ever coming to set all of us
free through all dear England again?"

"The Lord tarrieth, but He is surely
coming," said Geoffrey from his window.

The girl started with a half-suppressed
scream, and frightened her little companion so
that he made use of his graceful wings to
mount into a pear-tree at some distance.  She
looked above, and behind her, and on every
side for the source of the voice; and it was
some time before she spied the opening so
near her feet.

"Do not be afraid, lady," said the boy,
when she at last caught his eye; "I am only
a poor prisoner like yourself, and cannot harm
you."

The girl blushed a little, and tried by a
quick motion of her hands to smooth back her
hair and replace her hood.  By this time,
Geoffrey had had time to realize that he had
spoken to a stranger, and that stranger a
pretty young lady, so that when she stooped
down and peeped in at him, his cheeks were
crimson, and his eyes cast down, so that it
was now her turn to re-assure him.

"Nay, now, this is a right pleasant meeting,
since we are fellow-prisoners, and it were a pity
we should frighten one another.  We must
be friends, for all others here are our enemies.
It is not often that a lady stoops to a
gentleman, but even that is better than breaking
one's back by leaning over; so I will sit me
down here where we can talk, hoping that you
will one day be as much above me on your
horse as you are now beneath me in dungeon-walls."  So
saying, she seated herself as close
as possible to the opening, and continued with
the utmost frankness:

"But who are you, and how came you
hither, and are you brother to the young lad I
passed yesterday on my way from chapel?  Is
he much hurt?  I saw sister Ursula strike
him, and she hath a heavy hand."

Her simplicity had made the boy quite
forget his bashfulness, so he replied: "Nay,
lady; except you bestow on me an extra
tongue, how can I answer so many questions?"

"Oh! one at a time, one at a time!" replied
the girl laughing.  "We shall have at
least half an hour to tell each other our
histories, for the nuns have gone to breakfast, and
we will not be disturbed till the bell rings; so
pray you begin your tale, sir captive knight."

"No captive knight am I, only plain Geoffrey,
son of Sir John De Forest, an outlaw for
conscience' sake, and it was my brother
Hubert whom you met.  We were brought here
yesterday by Chichely's men, having been
seized in our retreat on the coast.  My father's
castle is in ruins, and he himself hunted like
an evil beast upon the mountains.  But I
think I saw you at London last summer,
when there was preaching in the brickyard."

"You did; I was there with my mother.
My tale is not so very unlike your own.  I am
Lady Katharine Hyde.  My father was Lord
Hyde, of Estly Court; but he has been dead
a year, and my uncle, the earl of Harcourt,
has taken me away from my mother and little
brother Guy, and brought me here to try and
cure me of the heresy my mother taught me.
I have heard that his orders were to use
pleasant means at first for my conversion; but if
at the end of six months I still prove obstinate,
I am to be given up entirely to her tender
mercies.  So they allow me now to walk for a
while every day in the garden; but I don't
suppose that favor will be granted long, and
then I shall be completely caged, unless I do
like my friend, the robin--when I am
frightened, fly over the wall."

"That were a feat I should hardly imagine
your ladyship performing," replied Geoffrey,
glancing up at the massive stone-work, and
then at the lady's not very sylph-like form.

"Ah!" said Katharine, shaking her head,
"there are other ways of flying beside going
over yon mountain of stone.  I have many
plans working in my brain, and what have I
else to do in this weary cage, but think how I
may best break the bars?  They called me
Kate the Quick-Witted at home, and it will be
hard but that I shall deserve the name here also."

"God give you good success," sighed the
young Lollard; "but when you shall be free,
I pray you sometimes to give a thought to the
two forest boys shut up in a gloomy dungeon,
or perhaps lying in a bloody grave."

"Hush, hush! master Geoffrey," said Lady
Katharine, dashing away a tear from her bright
eyes, and then relapsing into her merry mood.
"Lollards are hard to catch, and harder to
keep, and I promise you I will not go forth
alone.  Since they have made us companions
in captivity, we will see if we cannot be the
same in freedom.  And now I mind me of it,
my mother told me a long tale about our being
of some kin in a mingled sort of way, but I,
giddy girl, paid little heed.  So we are in some
sort cousins, Geoffrey, and now that I have set
you the good example, see that you call me
Katharine, or better still, Kate, on peril of my
displeasure.  But how came you here in this
old cell?  I did not think that Mother Beatrice
would put a companion for me in any place
having communication with this garden, her
own private one."

The boy began to tell her about the old
door he had broken down, and about the
parchments; but just then the convent-bell
clanged, Lady Katharine sprang to her feet,
and saying hurriedly that the abbess would
be there in a moment, went off down the
walk, while Geoffrey as instantly retreated to
his own cell.  He found Hubert very anxious
to know what was the matter, for he had
heard the voices, but, faithful to his trust, he
had remained watching the door, as his brother
commanded.  He was of course very much
interested in the history of their fellow-prisoner,
and delighted to hear that they had at
least one friend, however helpless, in their
prison.





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.. _`Remorse and its Effects`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


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   *Remorse and its Effects.*

.. vspace:: 2

Mother Superior of Our Lady's
Convent did not think it best to press an
examination on her prisoners, or attempt any
active measures for their conversion, until
their hot heads had had time to cool in the
damps of their dungeon, and their obstinacy
had been overcome by hunger and solitude.
She then hoped to find them quite willing to
obtain their liberty by recantation, and to
purchase her favor by the betrayal of their
secrets; but she little knew the characters with
which she had to deal.

Boys who are thrown wholly on their own
resources, and forced to act for themselves, in
stirring and dangerous times, soon grow up
to manhood in mind, if not in body.  Geoffrey
had been bred up in habits of self-denial, and
inured to every kind of hardship, and was
besides possessed of a disposition of that
unyielding nature which, when guided by reason and
exerted in a right direction, we call firmness,
but when uncontrolled and directed to merely
trifling things, we denominate obstinacy.  His
was a spirit which is as much strengthened by
persecution as fire by oil; it only roused him
to a fiercer action.  He could meet defiance
by defiance, and taunt with taunt; and
Lollardism having been once assumed, there was
little danger that it would be ever thrown
aside, unless it might be weakened by a long
course of prosperity.

Hubert was equally invincible, but his
armor was of a different kind.  He had
neither the power of body or mind which his
brother possessed, but in his very weakness
lay his greater strength.  His delicate health
had caused him from his earliest childhood to
receive many indulgences which his brother
had been taught to scorn, and he had early
learned to prefer the chimney-corner and the
crabbed letters of an old manuscript, to the
pleasures of the chase.  Had no new principle
been awakened within him, he would, most
probably, have become effeminate; but it was
not so.  The doctrines which he had learned
from Lollard preaching, and the fragments he
possessed of the Bible, had become a part of
his very being, and endued his tender spirit
with that supernatural courage which is far
more difficult to conquer than mere physical
bravery.  His mind was so thoroughly
imbued with holy thoughts and heavenly
aspirations, that earth could offer him few
temptations, while heaven seemed to him so near and
real, that dangers were but lightly regarded.

Notwithstanding all this, their prison-life
began to tell upon them both.  They had
been so long accustomed to out-door life and
abundant exercise, that the damp and confined
air of their dungeon soon banished the color
from their cheeks, and made them almost
loathe their coarse fare.  Then Kate's quick
wit showed itself to some purpose.

"It is a foul shame," she said, during one of
their conversations at the window, as she
noticed Hubert pressing his face to the bars
as though struggling to get as near as
possible to the fresh morning air; "it is a foul
shame to keep two such young eaglets chained
to a rock.  This window is not so small; if it
were not for the bars, we might pass through,
and you might exercise in the garden at night.
Let us see: I venture these irons are none of
the strongest; see how the rust has eaten them."

This thought inspired them with renewed
vigor, and they began to test each bar by a
vigorous blow.  One yielded almost instantly,
and another, after a few efforts; but the rest
were still immovable, in spite of the pushes
and pulls from Kate and Geoffrey, one working
on each side.  At last the latter bethought
him of the bolts on the broken door.  He
soon wrenched them from the decayed wood,
and brought them to the window.  One they
used as a lever, and another, which was a
pointed bit of metal, Hubert sharpened, by
rubbing on the stones, to pick out the mortar.
This furnished occupation and amusement for
all three for many days, for there were only
certain hours when they could work without
fear of interruption, and many and merry
were the conversations that took place.  The
boys described to their young companion
Forest Tower and their retreat on the cliffs, and
she in her turn told them stories of her home
at Estly Court, near London, of her little
brother Guy, and her sweet, loving mother.
She told how delighted lady Eleanor would be
to welcome them, and how tenderly she would
nurse Hubert when his head ached so badly.
In the account of Charles Bertrand, she
appeared very much interested.

"If he is only safe, and knew what had
become of you," she observed, "he might work
outside, while we arranged matters within.  It
would do us small good if we were this
moment in yonder forest, if we had no one to
help us on our journey.  That was what I
could not think how to manage; there was
never a garrison yet that had not one traitor
at least in its midst, if one only knows rightly
how to influence him; and I think I know
of one or two in this convent whom Mother
Beatrice has not yet turned into stone and
built up into the walls."

But meanwhile, what had become of the
faithful Bertrand?

Remembering well his young master's
orders, as soon as the soldiers had retired, he
came out of his hiding place, and, having done
what he could for poor old Humphrey Singleton,
he set about sending information of the
boys' capture to their father.  He, however,
found that the Lollard communications had
been much interrupted lately, and that it
would be necessary for him to go himself and
carry the message.

He and De Forest, with other refugees,
consulted together concerning the best means
of escape.  Sir John determined to forsake
his unhappy country, and dwell, for a time at
least, in Denmark or Germany.  He decided
that in the early spring he would go to London,
in hopes that his sons might meet him there,
and then all flee together.  Bertrand was to try
and find out where the children had been
carried, to wander round in disguise, and, if
possible, open communication with them.  All the
details were left to his own inventive powers.

He therefore returned to York, entering it
one snowy winter's evening, footsore and
weary, and not a little despondent.  His
disguise was that of a minstrel, as best calculated
to give him admittance into various places
where he might chance to hear somewhat of
the objects of his search.  He was a tolerable
performer on the crwth, or Welsh violin, an
accomplishment he had picked up in the
course of his wanderings, and he was glad to
be able to turn it to such good account.

So far he had been entirely unsuccessful,
and cold, wet, and hungry, his chief desire
was to find some inn or hostelry where he
might obtain refreshment.  He turned into
one of the humblest, as befitting his station,
and approached the fire, where a dozen
rough-looking men were drinking beer and cracking
low jokes with each other, accompanying each
with a round oath and a burst of laughter.  It
seemed that most of their witticisms were
directed toward one of their number, who either
could not or would not reply, but sat in
moody silence, with his back partly turned to
the company, drinking an immense quantity
of beer, perhaps with the hope of getting
himself into a better humor.

"Now, by our Lady," said one, "I tell you
Dick has cracked his pate."

"By the mass," said another, "he acts just
like my dog that ran mad, last year; he refuses
his victuals, can't stay still a minute, and
snaps at the hand of his best friends."

"And he won't fight," said one long-legged
fellow who sat cleaning his sword and patting
it affectionately; "he, who used to go into a
quarrel as a child goes to a show, with a hop,
skip, and jump.  Hola!  Sir Minstrel, sing us
a song of the wars of king Harry, to put a
little spirit into yon lazy dog, who has grown
afraid of his own cross-bow."

"By your leave, my merry masters," said
Bertrand, "I will first put a little spirit into
myself; I am as wet as though I had swam
across the German ocean."  So saying, he
drew a stool up to the cheerful blaze, and
raised an immense leathern flagon to his lips.

At the sound of his voice, the persecuted
individual in the corner turned around
suddenly; but the stranger's face was buried in
his drinking-cup, and he soon relapsed into
his former state.

"So, so, friend, feed first, and sing afterward;
take a good pull at the liquor, and then
sing us a song of Dick Redwood, the coward
who trembles at his own footsteps."

Dick here turned round somewhat fiercely,
and muttered: "I can fight, ye know that well
enough, ye fools; there's not an arm here or
in Yorkshire that can swing a battle-axe like
mine.  Would'st thou see if it is any weaker
than it was when it tossed Gaspard, the
Frenchman, over the wall, like a ball out of a
culverin?  Look!" and the man bared the
muscular limb, and thrust it under his
companion's nose.

"Ay, ay, he can fight; see that?" said
one of the men, with a shout of mocking
laughter.

"True, with a cat," said the tormentor
coolly, laying down the sword and taking up a
corselet, which he proceeded to rub with the
most perfect indifference to the gathering
rage of his victim, who at length burst out,
his voice trembling with rage:

"Knave, thou liest! down on thy knees,
or I will shake every bone from thy carrion
body!  Down, like a dog, as thou art!"

The man shook the other's grasp from his
collar, and, stepping back a pace or two, cried:
"I recant!  I recant!  Hear all!  I take back
what I said touching the most worshipful
master Dick Redwood, having therein uttered a
foul lie, and do positively affirm that he cannot
fight with a cat, except the poor animal be
somewhat weak in the legs."

Amid the roar of merriment which followed
this sally, the infuriated man seized a huge
cleaver, and swinging it round his head as
though it were a feather, soon cleared a circle
around him, and was about to spring on his
tormentor, who was somewhat alarmed at the
spirit his taunts had at last aroused, and all
dreaded a combat with a man whose personal
prowess had been undisputed before this
unnatural sullen fit had come over him.

There was a death-like pause; then
suddenly the eye of the soldier fell on the
minstrel.  The change that one look caused in
him was marvellous.  The color fled from his
inflamed face, his eyes stared wildly, his limbs
seemed scarcely able to sustain him, and the
arm wielding the weapon dropped nerveless
at his side.  He put his hands to his brow,
and muttered something of fiends pursuing
him, and blood on his head, and then with
one bound he cleared the circle, and dashed
out of the door into the darkness.

"I told you he was mad, Tom Jennet.
Why did you hunt him so?  He is crazed no
doubt, by a fall he had over the cliffs some
weeks ago, and has been strange ever since.
Come, Sir Minstrel, now for your song, to
drive this crack-brained fellow from our
thoughts."

But when they turned to look for the
minstrel, he was gone.  He had slipped out
unperceived, and was making his way as rapidly
as possible through the muddy streets, only
intent on putting as great a distance as
possible between him and the madman, whom he
had instantly known as the great enemy of his
master's house, and who, he found,
remembered him.

He had gone, however, but a few rods
when he was stopped by a heavy hand laid on
his shoulder; it was the Captain's voice that
sounded in his ear.

"Hold!  I am a friend; be silent and follow
me.  God and our Lady know I mean you no
harm, but may tell you that which will be to
your advantage."

Bertrand was very much surprised; but
resolving to see the adventure to an end,
followed his strange conductor in perfect silence
through many narrow and crooked streets, to
another hostelry, meaner than the one they
had just left.  The room was quite deserted,
but the soldier drew him into the darkest
corner and called for liquor.  For some
moments he did not speak, and Bertrand's
curiosity had been raised to its highest pitch
before it was satisfied.

"It is all along of my wife Joan," began the
Captain at last, with the air of a man forced
by some dreaded power to do something
much against his will.  "You know who I
am--everybody knows me, I think, and calls me
coward.  He saved me, and I sold them, and
the demons are on my track.  My wife Joan
says it is all the wind; but can I not hear? am
I not all ears for their horrible mockings?
One of them will creep around my bed at
night when all is still, and come up close to
me, and then shriek, 'Judas! we have found
our Judas again!' and then shake great bags
of gold before me, and laugh so devilishly.
'Ay, Dick,' they say, 'thou art one of us
now; thou makest a famous Judas!  He sold
the One who died for him, for only thirty
pieces, but thou hast an hundred.'  Then
they yell, and dance, and shout again and
again: 'Hail, Judas!  King of the Ingrates!'"

The soldier paused to wipe his damp brow,
then continued, his voice lower and hoarser
than before:

"Yestermorn I was wandering by the shore--the
demons make me wander far and wide;
as I was thinking, I picked up something at
my feet--*it was an oak branch*!  I tossed it
into the sea, for it burnt my hand.  But, look
you, comrade! the waves mocked me, and
threw it back at my feet, and then they
laughed and shrieked: 'We know thee,
Judas!'  Even as I went back, I met two
innocent-faced boys, but they kept the other side
of the way, and methinks they shouted
'Judas!' also, but I ran on.

"So then I told Joan, for I could no longer
contain, and she bade me seek you out, and
without delay try to free the lads, and then,
mayhap, the fiends will leave me."

"In truth, man, I marvel not at the demons,"
said Bertrand; "but now, if thou really
wishest to undo thy devil's work, we are well
met.  I am fully purposed to bring my master's
sons out of their dungeon, or be put in
one myself."

"Come on then, for the love of heaven,"
said Dick, rising, and pulling his companion
by the mantle.  "Come on to my wife Joan;
she is as quick with her mind as with her
body; she will tell us what to do, and we will
cheat the devils yet."

They passed out of the city gates into the
open country beyond, the soldier striding along
at a pace which would have been too much
for his already wearied companion, had not
the renewed hope, and prospect of assistance
where he had least expected it, excited him,
so as to make him almost forget his fatigue.
They discussed the whole situation of affairs
as they went along, and Dick at first seemed
much relieved, but presently his voice sank to
the old hoarse whisper.

"What if it is *too late*!  TOO LATE!  Judas
repented, Judas went and flung the pieces
down, and tried to save Him, but the blood
was on his head and on his children's!  You
see I know it all; the old man read it out of a
book that night I was watching, and then the
little one told the whole story upon the cliff.
The blood is on my head, I tell you, and if I
cannot save them, I shall do as Judas did.  I
will!  I must!"

Bertrand strove to calm the agitated man
by preaching to him some of the Lollard
doctrines, but found his memory much at fault,
and he longed for either his young or his old
master to pour the balm of consolation into
the heart of this their former enemy, whom he
had begun to pity sincerely.  But this talk
served to beguile the time, till they arrived at
a lonely cottage in the forest.  A light
twinkled in the window to welcome them, and both
were glad to enter the cheerful-looking room,
and warm themselves at the bright fire.

Joan had a warm supper ready for her
husband, though it was quite late, and she was
glad to divide it with the man whom she
thought most able to help her husband in his
distress.  She was what might be called a
picture of comfort, for the middling class of
those times.

She was dressed in petticoat of dark blue
cloth, surmounted by a waist or bodice of
crimson, that showed in full perfection her
well-rounded form.  Above this again was a
snowy kerchief and cap, so jauntily arranged
as to display to the best advantage the clean
white skin of her throat and neck, and the
brilliant bloom of her round fat cheeks.  A
pair of bright black eyes looked out over a
rather short nose, somewhat on the retroussé
order, unless when she happened to laugh,
when the visual orbs disappeared, and you
became rather interested in her well-set
teeth, which she took care should every one
appear.

On a solid oaken table, which she drew as
close as possible to the fire, she spread a
steaming supper, talking all the while, as she
moved from the board to the fire, sometimes
to her husband, sometimes to his guest, and
sometimes to the cooking utensils, the fire,
or the meat.

"There!" as she set down one smoking
dish before Bertrand's hungry gaze; "there's
not such another pair of hares in the county.
Lie still on your backs, ye fools; lie still, I
say, like Christians!  Little Dick caught
them himself, with his new net, in the
forest."

At the sound of his name, up popped a
little black head, from a bed on the floor in
the farthest corner.

"Ay, father, that net is a brave one; I will
have two pair the morn!"

"Down with your head, ye saucy brat!"
said his mother, making a pretense of
throwing at his head the gridiron she had just
taken from the fire.  "Whist! ye little fool!
would'st have Moll and Meg awake, and clamoring
for supper?  Be still, and there'll be a
bone for you the morn."

The child's head disappeared, and she
continued apologetically, "The naughty lad said
he would not sleep till he saw his dad, the
brats are so fond of their father; but I did not
think the little fool would keep his word;"
and the good dame put her hands on her hips,
the gridiron still in one hand, and a long
wooden spoon in the other, and laughed at her
son's disobedience, before she could go on
dishing out the meal.

She then turned to the dogs, who were
lying under the table.  "Out, ye brutes! away,
ye hounds! ye had no share in catching
the game, and ye shall have none of the
meat."  But even as she spoke, she belied
her words, by throwing them some very
liberal bones.

"A truce to your tongue, woman," said her
husband at last; "the meat is good, but the
sauce tasteless; we have other business on
hand to-night!"

"And ye'll have no business done except I
help you," she replied, not in the least cast
down by the rebuff.  "There was never a
matter yet, but it was made or marred by a
woman.  If ye will not go my way, I will have
naught to do with it.  Eat your fill, and sleep
your fill, then in the morn ye shall talk your
fill, for then your heads are clearest.  Ye may
well trust to me, for from me ye get your
victuals, and, as the proverb says: 'Always keep
friends with the larder.'  Yon lazy loon has
not brought me enough meat to feed the cat
these many days, with all his dreams and
vagaries; but he had better bestir himself at
daybreak, if ye want a breakfast, for it is hard
getting a meal out of an empty cupboard, not
to mention that I would not give it to you
if I could, seeing ye will not work."

All this was said in as harsh a tone as the
good dame could possibly force herself to use;
for though she tried to make it appear that
she was cross and stingy, she was the most
liberal provider, as she was the most
absolutely good-natured little woman in all the
big county of York.





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.. _`Plots and Counterplots`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


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   *Plots and Counterplots.*

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Christmas had come and gone without
bringing any change to the prisoners,
except that they saw less and less of Lady
Katharine, whom the abbess, using as an
excuse the severity of the weather, confined
more and more to the house.  But all this
served only to excite the quick-witted Kate to
renewed exertion, and day and night she
planned and schemed how she might best
free herself and friends.  Her bright face and
lively manners, as well as the genuine
sympathy and kindness she showed to those
around her, had endeared her to all with
whom she came in contact--all except the
head of the house.

Mother Beatrice decidedly disliked and
perhaps feared her.  She felt that the girl read
her character, mocked her pretensions, and
was ever on the watch to thwart her plans.
She was in her way decidedly, in more senses
than one.  She had long hoped, by the
influence of Lord Hardwick, either to increase the
splendor and power of her present convent, or
to be removed to a less secluded one near
London; and as she knew him to be very
fond of his niece, however anxious he might
be for her conversion, she did not dare to use
harsh measures toward the willful girl, who
was setting a dreadful example to the simple
nuns, and did not seem inclined to abandon a
single one of her heretical notions.  Such a
grand conquest, too, as it would be if she
could only subdue her!  She was very
matter-of-fact, and not much given to indulge in
day-dreams; nevertheless she had caught
herself more than once imagining the time when
the noble Lady Katharine Hyde should bow
her proud head to receive at her hands the
black veil of the order, while Earl Hardwick
was in the little parlor signing the deeds of
conveyance of the whole estate to the
Convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows.

But Mother Beatrice would have felt even
less secure had she known what was going on
in her own proper domain.  She had not
dared to seclude the young girl from all
society, but she did not know how well
acquainted she had become with all the sisters,
and how she was using them for her own
purposes.  The little plotter was trying, as she
had told Geoffrey, to find the weak spot in
the citadel, and she believed she had at
length discovered it.

If the one who guards the gate can be won
over to the side of the enemy, there is little
hope for the garrison, however strong; and
though Lady Katharine could make no
impression on deaf old Ursula, who wielded her
symbols of office with as much authority as
the mother superior herself, yet in the person
of the assistant who had been granted her on
account of her infirmity, she found an
excellent point of attack.

The convent porteress was not a nun, for it
was her business to attend to all the out-door
affairs, and thus keep up that connection
between the recluses and the world they had
abandoned which was necessary and convenient.
It was her duty to purchase stores of
provisions and clothing, to attend to the poor
who came regularly to the door to receive
their dole of charity, and to see that the
tenantry of the convent lands paid their dues.

The young girl who assisted her in these
often arduous tasks, and who hoped some time
to take her place when sister Ursula had
exchanged her seat in the entrance-gate for a
more quiet resting-place in the crypt of the
convent church, was the eldest daughter of
dame Joan Redwood, a buxom lass of twenty
summers, who had inherited much of her
mother's good nature, but very little of her
good sense.  She was not a little superstitious,
and very vain.  Although the dress she
wore was not entirely conventual, it gave no
opportunity for displaying trinkets or bright
colors; yet she loved nothing better than to
gather a little store of bright kerchiefs and
ribbons, in which she arrayed herself when
quite alone, and marched up and down her
little cell with the greatest complacency,
though she never dared carry it any farther.

This had not escaped Kate's quick eyes,
and she laid her plot accordingly.  She
surprised her one day when making her finest
toilet, and having first frightened her with the
idea that she would immediately report it to
the abbess, she soothed her by the gift of a
necklace of red beads, and made her her
devoted follower from that moment.

The next day being a market day, the first
face that presented itself at the wicket of the
convent-gate was dame Redwood herself.  She
was standing beside a sturdy little pony, half
hidden by two enormous panniers.

Her daughter's face was covered with
blushes, caused partly by pleasure, and partly
by the fear of a certain good-natured sort of
scolding, which the dame thought it her duty
to bestow whenever she had not seen any of
her children for a time.  She therefore put on
her most demure look, and smoothed every
fold in her apron before she descended from
her post of observation to open the gate.

"A laggard as usual!" said the dame,
shaking the snow from her wooden shoes, and
running her quick little eyes all over her
daughter's person to find the next best point
of attack; and before they had gone far they
encountered Lady Katharine's present, which
the vain girl had put on under her kerchief,
but had not sufficiently concealed.  She
pounced upon it, greatly to poor Phoebe's
confusion.

"Ye idle spendthrift!" she said, "ye have
been spending the half-noble your father gave
ye for your new kirtle on these follies, have
ye?  Then ye shall go barebacked for all he
shall ever give ye again!"

"Nay, mother, do not be angry; the half-noble
is safe in the green purse.  These are a
gift from a noble lady, oh! so beautiful! and
she is shut up here because she is a heretic.
I don't know what that is, but she seems to
me as good as the mother herself."

Now, mistress Redwood's errand to the
convent, though ostensibly to sell her eggs,
cheese, and milk to the cook, was really to
find out what was going on in the house
where the prisoners were confined, how they
were treated, and, if possible, to open
communication with them; thus fulfilling her
contract with her husband and Bertrand, who
having eaten and slept, had concluded, very
wisely, to leave the first steps of the
undertaking entirely to her.  She did not wish to
question her daughter directly, for fear of
being overheard, or her remarks repeated;
but she knew Phoebe very well, and was well
aware that but little pressing was necessary
to make her tell all she knew on the subject.
She was a little surprised to hear that there
was another Lollard prisoner there, and
wished to find out something more about her;
so she tossed up her head with an air of
incredulity.

"A pretty young lady, indeed!  That is a
story for old folks, not me.  And where
should a pretty young lady in Our Lady's
convent get red bead necklaces to throw
around to whoever will pick them up?  Tell
me where you got it, Phoebe, and I'll not be
hard on you."

"I said but the truth, mother--I did,
indeed," said poor Phoebe, only bent on proving
her innocence, and, forgetting a strict rule
which forbade what was seen or heard
indoors being repeated without, she told her
mother--for the latter still appeared
incredulous--all she knew of Lady Katharine Hyde.
She also told her, in the hope of distracting
attention from the subject in hand, about the
arrival of the two heretic boys who were said
to have done very wicked things, and were
shut up safely in the dungeon under the east
tower.

The dame was getting the very information
she most wanted, so she demanded, forgetting
her caution: "And have ye seen the lads?
And is one pale and sickly, with light hair?"

"Nay, mother, I cannot tell: Sister Ursula
never sends me with their food.  I only saw
them the day father brought them here, and
then there were so many in the court-yard,
and such a trampling of horses, and I had to
bring so many tankards of beer for the
soldiers, that I minded naught beside."

At this moment there was another
summons at the gate, and when Phoebe had
opened it a poor woman entered, bearing in
her arms a sick baby, and leading by the hand
a miserable-looking child just able to walk.
They had come for medical assistance from
the nuns, who were famous as leeches in
those days.  A few moments after one of
the nuns appeared with Lady Katharine,
who was herself well skilled in the art for
one of her age, as it was then every lady's
duty to be able to order, as well as prepare,
the simple medicines then in use, for her
family and peasantry; and this was a part
of the education which a convent was
expected to bestow on those brought up within
its walls.

While the two were standing behind the
grated window where they received all such
applications, Lady Katharine's eyes were
wandering round the busy scene in the court-yard,
whose occupants had been increased by the
arrival of other peasants--some beggars, more
sick.  This little glimpse of the world was a
rare favor for her, and a great treat, so she
resolved to make the most of it.  Sister Agnes
was deaf herself, and was talking to a deaf old
woman, so she felt wonderfully at liberty.  She
noticed dame Redwood, and with her natural
quick perception of character determined that
she was a person she could trust.  In a
moment she had devised a plan of operations.
She called to her a little child who was
standing near.

"Dost thou see yonder stout woman, little
one, standing by the gray pony?"

"Ay, lady," said the child; "she is talking
to my mother."

"Then run and tell her I have somewhat
for the pain in her back."

When her astonished patient came at the
summons, she drew her to the farthest corner
of the window.

"Good woman, are you a mother?"

The woman looked down at the bright face,
now pale with excitement, which was lifted up
so beseechingly to her, and a tear glistened in
her black eyes, for she easily recognized her
from her daughter's story.

"Ay, lady, that am I.  Two knaves and
two lassies at home, beside a well-grown wench
that serves here under Sister Ursula."

"Are you Phoebe's mother?  Oh! then think
how you would long to see her or the others,
if they were shut up in a dreary castle far
away from you and all that love them!  Would
not your heart be very sad for them, and would
not you pray to God that some one in that
distant place might be kind to them, help
them in their troubles, and nurse them when
they were sick?"

"That would I, indeed!" said the dame,
her motherly heart quite overflowing at this
appeal; "and none the less gladly would I
help them, lady," she continued, lowering her
voice, "if they are of the new faith, for by
our Lady, I think not so much of the old as
I did a few weeks ago."

"Say you so?" said the young girl joyfully.
"Then I have found the very friend I want;
but it is not so much for myself that I need
your aid as for two poor lads who are shut
up here.  One is sick, and cannot eat the
food they give them, though even that is
little enough, and I fear he will die here all
alone.  He has no mother, but only a father,
who knows not what has become of his children."

"Can you see them and talk with them, lady?"

"Not so often as I used; they watch me
more closely.  It is through great danger
that, when I walk in the garden, I can speak
to them at a window."  She went on to tell
her in as few words as possible, how they had
become acquainted, for she feared interruption,
and she received in reply the welcome
news that Bertrand was actually at her
cottage plotting their release.

"I will bring the best I have for the poor
child to-morrow," said the dame; "but how
shall I get leave to see you, lady, when I
come?"

"Might not the pain in your back be rather
worse to-morrow morn?" replied Lady
Katharine mischievously, "and who but Kate Hyde
can fit a plaster for it?  See also that you
bring a bottle for the medicine."

"Hear her now!" laughed the merry dame,
delighted at this little bit of diplomacy.
"Thou'lt never die for want of wit to know
the way to live.  The saints preserve me, but
the pain shall be bad enough, and the bottle
big enough, and the holy Mother Beatrice
none the wiser for the business.  And be sure,
pretty lady, that naught would cure a pain in
my back, if I had one in earnest, so soon as
carrying you on it out of this dismal place."

The plotters were now obliged to separate,
but each retired well pleased with her interview.

As for Lady Katharine, she could hardly
conceal her triumph as she took her tapestry
frame and sat down as demurely as possible at
the Mother Superior's side in the convent
parlor.  "There!" she said to herself as she
stitched away diligently at the eyes of a
St. George whom she was trying to make look
fiercely at a flaming dragon which lay, as yet,
only in outline, at his feet.  "There now!  I
have found out not only a weak point in the
garrison, but a standpoint beyond; and what
with friends within and friends without, and a
messenger to go between the two, out upon
you for a silly thing, Kate Hyde, if with all
this you cannot balk Mother Beatrice in all
her well-laid plans!"





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.. _`The Convent Ghost`:

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   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *The Convent Ghost.*

.. vspace:: 2

Dame Redwood hastened home with
light panniers and a lighter heart; and
so eager was she to tell her tale, that she
made poor pony trot at a rate to which his old
legs were quite unaccustomed.  When she
entered the cottage door and presented
herself to her husband and his guest, her cheeks
were several shades rosier than usual with
exercise and excitement.  Nevertheless, she
would not vouchsafe them a word till she had
scolded the children all round, brushed up the
hearth, and put the dinner on the fire; after
which she began, but would always stop at the
most interesting points in her story to stir the
porridge, or drive the dogs from the door.
The little woman felt her importance, and was
determined to make the most of it.

"Was ever man so plagued by woman!"
was poor Dick's exclamation when she went
off to get some water just as she had begun to
tell how the boys had broken through the old
door in their dungeon.

"Now there is an ungrateful man!" said
the dame on her return.  "Better say, never
was man better served by woman.  What
would ye have done, I'd like to know, if it had
been left in your hands?  Ye would have
blurted it out at the gate, and had the whole
convent at your heels.  I warrant ye would
never have come home with whole bones, let
alone the knowledge ye were seeking."

"A truce to your tongue, woman," said her
husband impatiently.  "Where did you say
was the door the lad broke through?"

When she had told him he sat for a
moment in deep thought, then brought his great
fist down on the table with a blow which
made every platter on the shelves rattle.

"How now, man!" said his wife with a
start.  "Wouldst thou bring the house down
around our ears?"

"I mind not of the house now," he replied
eagerly; "but this I know--if they are in
the dungeon under the east tower, and have
opened the door into the old cellarer's vault,
by our Lady, there is not ten feet of solid
earth betwixt us and them, as sure as I am
Dick Redwood!"

Both of his auditors were much surprised
at this sudden declaration, and the dame even
forgot her stew-pans in her curiosity.

"Twenty-five years ago," continued the
soldier, turning to his guest, "before ever I
knew Joan Gilfoy yonder, I was ever ready
for a light job that was well paid for, and
knew how to hold my tongue about it when it
was done.  Often one would come to me and
say: 'Dick, here is a bit of work and a noble
for thee, and if thou forgettest all about it, at
the end of the year thou shalt have another.'  So
I know many a thing about this country
that few, if any, others do; but never did
anything come to hand so well as this."

"How is it?  Tell us now, for mercy's
sake," said Bertrand as the soldier paused.

"Why, you see," replied the Captain, "in
the old time, before Mother Beatrice's day,
they led a different life at the convent from
what they do now.  But though the prioress
was easy herself, she was not enough so for
some of the sisters.  They wanted to come
out sometimes and take a walk in the woods
by moonlight; so they got me and two
others--dead and gone long ago in the French
wars,--to mine a way for them, opening by one
end into the entrance to the cellarer's vault,
under the east tower, and by the other under
the bank at the spring, where the convent
wall runs along the edge of the precipice.  It
is many years now since they made the
beer-vault on the other side for fear of the damp,
and when the new prioress came, all the nuns'
fine walks were stopped; so I warrant you
there is not one in the convent now who
knows aught of it.  If the way be not too
much stopped up with rubbish, I could walk,
in half an hour, from here straight into the
lads' prison--that is, if they know how to
open the door, for the spring is on the other
side."

"We will see to that matter at once," cried
Bertrand, rising and snatching his cap; and
in a few moments they were striding along, as
if on a race, down one of the forest paths.
They went on for some time till they came
almost directly under the grim-looking convent
walls rising from the top of a steep bank.
They could see plainly the spot where the
entrance had been, but to their great chagrin,
found it was impossible to try whether it were
still there, for the drifting snow had been piled
up in the little dell in such huge drifts that
they had to abandon all hope of removing them.

This was a great disappointment, but they
both knew that the only thing to do was to
wait for a thaw, and meanwhile Bertrand
determined to send word to Sir John of the
state of affairs, and make what preparations
he could for conveying them to London as
soon as they could escape.

The next morning, there was an unwonted
confusion in the ordinarily quiet convent of
Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows.  In spite of
all the strictness of Mother Beatrice's rule,
there was an audible hum of voices in the
refectory, and a look, half of terror, half of
delight, on every face.  For what earthly power
could keep still the tongues of fifty women,
when such an excellent subject for gossip had
arisen in their very midst?  Some told the
story one way, and some another, but one
thing was plain--a ghost had appeared to
several of the inmates of the convent the
preceding night.  Sister Hilda, who had fallen
behind-hand with some aves and paters which
had been given her by way of penance, had
been in the chapel on her knees before the
figure of the Virgin at midnight, and she
declared that just as the last stroke of the bell
died away, she lifted her head, and saw a very
tall, white figure pass through the choir, and
out at the door behind the altar.  Sister Ann
had been passing down the corridor leading to
the infirmary, as it was her duty to watch Sister
Agnes, who was ill, when the apparition had
brushed by her and passed up the tower stairway.

Poor Phoebe was the most frightened of all,
though she did not dare to relate the horrible
encounter *she* had had with the spectre, for
reasons which will shortly appear.  It was her
duty to hand the great bunch of keys to the
abbess every night, and on the preceding
evening when she got into bed, she suddenly
remembered that she had left the key of the
garden-door hanging in its lock.  In great
terror lest her forgetfulness should draw upon
her some severe punishment, she had stolen
softly down-stairs to recover it before it should
be found in the morning; but just as she came
to the door and had taken the key out, a tall
white figure approached, and laid a deathly
cold hand on hers.  She had shrieked with
fright, dropped the key, and run as if for her
life; and now the key could not be found
anywhere.  The prioress had not yet missed
it--that was the only comfort; the weather was
not pleasant enough to make the garden an
agreeable resort, and it might be some days
before she was disgraced, but it must come at
last; so she did not care to give her
experiences with the ghost.

When dame Redwood appeared at the grate
to ask for the plaster Lady Katharine had been
so kind as to promise her, she noticed her
daughter's pale face, but was too much
occupied with her particular business to ask her
many questions.  It seemed so long to her
before the lady came that she feared lest
something should have happened to prevent their
meeting altogether; but at last she appeared,
walking as demurely as Mother Beatrice
herself.  As soon as she was sure of being free
from observation, however, she raised her
hood and showed to the dame a face so
expressive of hardly repressed fun, that the
good woman could not help catching the infection.

"Ah! my poor afflicted sister!" said Kate,
imitating the nuns' tone, "how is that
emaciated back of thine to-day?"

Fortunately the dame never laughed very
loud; she only screwed up her round face and
shook her fat sides for a minute or two, and
as soon as she had indulged in this irresistible
fit of merriment, she answered:

"Ah! lady, it is not so much about me as
about the bottle you'll be asking, and here it
is, and a little meat in this package, if you
can hide so much."

"That can I," replied Kate, opening her
cloak and showing some ingeniously arranged
pockets.  "A nun's garb is good for hiding, if
for naught else.  But here is another matter:
do you think your good man could make
another key like that?  Phoebe told me he
had replaced one once that had been lost, but
that he needed a copy."  Here she produced,
with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, the
identical key which had caused the poor
under-porteress such trouble and fright.  "It
is the key of the garden-gate, and it is very
necessary for my comfort that Mother Beatrice
and I should each have a means of entrance
there."

"The saints preserve me, lady! but how
got you hold of a key that not even my Phoebe
herself would dare use without Sister Ursula's
permission?  She has told me as much herself."

"Ah!  I have a way," said Kate, her mouth
twitching with fun; "and as to daring, I dare
anything--for those I love," she added to
herself; but the very thought sent a flush of
color to her cheek, and moisture to her eye.

"As to the key," said the dame, turning it
over and over in her hands, "it is as like as a
twin to the one that opens the big oak chest
at home.  I know it well, for I have handled
it now nigh upon forty years."

"That is good news," replied the young
schemer.  "I am to go into the garden
to-day, but with Mother Beatrice.  When she
turns her back I think I can throw a string
with a stone at the end over the east side,
close by the tower turret.  Could not Bertrand
fasten the key to it then, so that I could
draw it up at the next turn?  They would not
notice such a little thing from the windows."

This led to a full account of the hidden
entrance, and when they parted, it was with the
agreement that a note should be thrown over
the wall by a string in case of any emergency,
and, until Bertrand and Dick could clear out
the passage, the prisoners should remain
quiet, and be, above all, particular to excite
no suspicion.

Mother Beatrice being now pretty well
assured that her prisoners were subdued by
hunger and long confinement, thought it high
time to begin the work of their conversion,
and on this very day she had sent Father
Paul, one of the confessors of the convent, to
have a conversation with them.

When he entered the room it was afternoon,
and some sunbeams which had lost their way
among these grim walls and towers, shot
through the grated window and rested on the
face of a pale, thin boy, who was reclining on
the straw in the corner, partly supported by
the wall, while with his long, thin fingers he
was braiding some straw into fancy shapes.
Beside him knelt his brother, trying to pin
around him a tattered cloak in such a way as
to keep off the cold air from the window.  He
sprang to his feet as the door opened, and
placed himself as if for a shield in front of
the sick child.

"Do not be afraid, my sons," said the monk,
softening his tones involuntarily at the sight
of such suffering.  He drew a wooden stool
to the side of the bed, and laid his hand on
the boy's high forehead with such a tender
touch that Geoffrey's fears were for the
moment disarmed.

"Thou art very ill, my son.  Wouldst thou
not like to leave this sad place and go out
into the bright world?  It is almost spring
now--the flowers will soon be out in the woods."

The boy did not answer for a moment; he
only gave a long, deep sigh, but it was such a
longing and yet patient sigh, that Geoffrey's
brow waxed dark with indignation, and he
walked away toward the window to conceal
his feelings.

"Ah!  Father, if you had been a prisoner all
these weary months, you would not ask that
question."

"Then, my son, all thou hast to do is to
kneel down here at my knee and confess thy
sins, and then thou shalt go free out into the
sunshine; for I think thou hast borne
penance enough for all the wrong thou canst
have committed, poor child!"

Geoffrey turned with an angry answer on
his lips, but Hubert's quiet voice was already
replying:

"I shrive me to God morning and evening,
and Christ hath long since borne my penance.
He only stands betwixt my God and me."

"How!" said Father Paul, amazed at finding
such opposition at the very outset.  "So
young, and a heretic already!  Dost thou set
thyself against the holy mother church and
all her teachings?"

"By all the saints ye worship, sir priest!"
Geoffrey burst out, no longer able to restrain
himself, "your holy mother church hath
showed herself but a sorry jade of a
step-mother to us.  What obedience do we owe to
one who has robbed us of our home and our
friends, and who thirsts for our blood?  You
had better choose another place to preach the
papistrie in than this foul dungeon!"

"Boy!" said the monk sternly, "I came to
bring you a message of peace, but you will
make me turn it to one of wrath and justice.
If you are old enough thus to brave authority,
you are old enough for the rack to force from
you more seemly speech."

Geoffrey was cooler now, but none the less
determined.  He stood before his visitor with
such resolution in his hollow eyes, and stern
contempt in the rigid lines about his mouth,
that the monk involuntarily stepped back a
space.  He spoke in a low, deep tone:

"Look you, sir priest, ye and your fellows
have razed to the ground the home of my
ancestors; ye have made my father a penniless
exile; ye have slain with fire and sword our
dearest friends; ye seized us when we were
living quietly and peaceably, not even seeking
to teach to others these doctrines which you
call heresy; ye have shut us up here in this
noisome place, having done no wrong, and
having never even had a trial; ye have taken
away from us the light and air of heaven, and
I wot well ye think never to let us forth again.
So be it.  Hunger and thirst and weariness
will soon open for us gates which ye cannot
shut, and give to us a home which ye can
neither destroy nor ever inhabit."

The boy's highly-wrought feelings had
proved too much for his feeble frame, for
though his voice rang clear and high to the
end, he sank down the moment he had finished
and burst into a violent fit of sobbing.
Hubert, excited by the interview, had become
flushed with fever, and he seemed to have
partly lost consciousness of the subject of
discourse; but, catching the last words, he
began in a weak and wandering way to talk:

"Home?  Oh! yes, I think it is time we
went home, Geoffrey; they want us home,
and it is warm and bright and beautiful
there.  Take hold of my hand, brother, and
let us go home together!"

The monk turned again to the bedside, and
drawing from under his robe an illuminated
missal, held up before the child's face one of
the pictures.

"My son, seest thou this Agnus Dei, the
Lamb of God?"

"God's lamb?" said the child dreamily.
"I know he is the Good Shepherd; but tell
me, doesn't a shepherd sometimes forget one
poor little lamb, and leave it out on the
mountains alone, with the wind roaring, and
the snow falling, to die?"

The monk only shook his head, and turned
to a picture of the crucifixion.

"I know!  I know!" cried Hubert, roused
almost to eagerness.  "He died for you and
me, for us all, and so we are safe; his
precious blood is on me, and all my sins are
forgiven; nothing else is wanted.  I am his
little lamb, as he is the Lamb of God; and
he cannot forget one for whom he suffered so
much.  He will soon turn back on his way
and take me up in his bosom, and I shall be
so warm while he is carrying me home!  But
the rocks are so cold and hard!  Do you
think he will soon remember me, and come?"

Father Paul's stern features were working
with emotion; perhaps it was to hide this
that he bent lower down over the child and
felt again his forehead and hands.

"Are you a minister?" said Hubert, suddenly
looking up into his face.  "I wish you
would tell me some of Jesus' words, you know
so much better than I do.  Tell me about
the Bridegroom coming in the night, and
being all ready."

Poor Father Paul!  In all his long life--for
the hair left by the tonsure was already
beginning to turn gray--he had never heard
those sweet, solemn words in his mother
tongue, and so hastily and carelessly had he
repeated them in Latin when the service
required it, that he could not recollect them
now.  Instead, he commenced a prayer in
Latin but Hubert interrupted him:

"Not now, please; my head is so bad I
cannot say my Latin task now.  Geoffrey,
just say one verse before I go to sleep."

Geoffrey rose in an instant, and pushing
the monk away, knelt at his brother's side
and repeated the whole passage.

"Ready, ready," murmured the boy; "yes,
I think I am ready.  I wish he would come
to-night.  I know it is only to trust in Jesus,
and I think I do that.  I am very glad, for
that brings peace now, when everything else
is so full of pain and weariness.  Are *you*
ready too?"  He lifted his large, earnest eyes
full in the face of the ecclesiastic.

Father Paul turned abruptly and left the
room.  He drew each bolt and bar with
energy as he fastened the door behind him, as
though by closing that oaken portal he could
shut out certain new and very painful thoughts
which had arisen in his mind; but it had no
such effect; and thinking perhaps that a little
fresh air might blow away such dungeon
damps, he procured the key which Phoebe had
just found suspended in its usual place, and
with his cowl drawn over his face paced for
some time the little garden.

The truth was, that a mighty problem had
come up before his mind, and would allow him
no rest till he had solved it.  If that Master
should come, whose advent might even then
be nigh at hand--if he, as Judge, were
suddenly to appear, was he ready for his coming?
Paul Hyde had not entered the church
merely as a matter of taste, as did many of
his companions, but as the only means of
escaping the consequences of a wild and wicked
youth.  He was the brother of Lady Eleanor;
but so completely had he withdrawn himself
from his family, especially after rumors of his
sister's Lollardism began to float about, that
though he knew somewhat of their
movements, he was to them as one dead, and
Mother Beatrice was entirely unaware that
her favorite confessor was also the uncle of
her troublesome charge.

He was a man of rather a contemplative
than active disposition, and not so inclined to
cruelty as many of his brethren.  He had
studied thoroughly the business he had
undertaken.  His prayers were numerous, his
penances and mortifications incessant, his fasts
frequent and severe, and all this discipline he
had been taught, and learned to believe, had
atoned for all the evil of his former life, and
made him not only pure, but worthy in the
sight of God.  But, strange to say, a few
words from the lips of a sick child had shown
him, as by a lightning-flash, that all this sin
had only been covered, not driven out--concealed,
but never canceled, and that all the
sins of his youth were ready to spring up and
confront him--ay, and confound him in the
great day of account.

In vain he considered, again and again, his
austere and holy life; he could not see that
one sin had been lessened in its enormity by it
all.  Father Paul had a clear, vigorous mind;
it had been slumbering for many years under
the influence of the sleeping-draught which
Popery always administers so skillfully to its
victims; but now that it was aroused, it
grasped, systematically, the arguments, and
rapidly drew its conclusions.  Sin and its
punishment, man's utter depravity and God's
just wrath, were painted in glowing colors
before his eyes.  His natural sense of justice
told him that we only perform our duty in
living the holiest of lives, for we cannot be more
perfect than his laws.  How then can we lay
up any righteousness in one part of our lives,
to balance the wickedness of another portion?

Lower and lower sank the monk's head on
his bosom, wilder and fiercer rushed through
his mind thoughts of remorse, horror, and
despair.  He gave one glance toward Heaven
for aid, but the thick leaden clouds seemed
placed there for a sign that Heaven was
barred against his prayers, and the words of
supplication to which he was accustomed,
seemed as though they would pass from the
lips of a wretch so utterly, so hopelessly vile!

Just at that moment the convent bell tolled,
but he had to pass his hand several times
across his brow before he could remember
that he must perform vespers in the chapel.
He turned his steps toward the vestry door;
there was no escape for him from that duty,
though the thought seemed pressing him
down to the earth that he, with such a fearful
weight of unforgiven sin hanging over him,
was to kneel at God's holy altar, and lead the
devotions of yonder band of simple, dependent
women.  All noticed his haggard look
and abstracted air, and the weak, almost
tottering step with which he mounted the
chancel steps; but it was Easter Eve--doubtless
the holy Father had sunk under the austerities
he had been inflicting on himself during the
Lent just passing away, and they gazed on
him almost with awe, as a being elevated
above the world by his voluntary sufferings--so
little do we know each other in this world!

Easter Eve! a day full of deep and holy
thoughts for thinking minds.  Sad, as it
brings over our minds the shadow of the
garden tomb; joyful, as it points to the glories
of the coming morrow.

Father Paul never thought of seeking his
couch that night.  Back and forth he strode
the length of his cell; rest seemed banished
from him forever.  Again and again he passed
each argument in review--those which
justified God grew more and more powerful; those
which justified himself broke one by one like
a flaxen band in the flame.  More than once
he flung himself at full length on the stone
floor, and groaned aloud in his anguish.

At length, almost unconsciously, he took
up his missal which lay on the table beside
him, and opened it.  The faint gray streaks
of the coming daylight revealed to him the
very picture he had been showing the sick
boy, and with the sight came back the child's
words:

"He died for you and me, and so we are
safe.  His precious blood is on my head, and
all my sins are forgiven; nothing else is
wanted."

He laid the book down softly, then seated
himself and buried his face in his hands.
That one thought, like the command of
Christ, had driven out the demons who were
tormenting and mocking his soul.  Like
Christian, he had come to the foot of the
cross, and his burden had fallen into the open
sepulchre.  Self-righteousness he saw must
be exchanged for Christ's righteousness, and,
as in a vision, he beheld the Lamb of God
submitting to the punishment due to his sins,
and saw how beneath the cross God's justice
might clasp hands with his mercy, how God
might be justified, and yet the sinner be
pardoned.  The morning had dawned, the Easter
sun was lifting itself from the horizon, and
climbing by golden ropes toward the zenith;
but far more gloriously was the risen Sun of
Righteousness shining in the long benighted
heart of the Benedictine monk!

Again the convent bell sounded, but this
time he joyfully obeyed its summons.  If all
had wondered at the priest's appearance the
preceding evening, they wondered still more
at his conduct in the morning.  As he passed
up the choir, through the crowd of country
folk who had gathered to keep the holy day,
his "Benedicite" had a depth and fervor of
tone in it which none had ever heard before
from the stern, cold man.  His very face was
changed.  It was very, very pale, with deep
lines and furrows around the compressed
mouth, and eyes sunken deep in their
sockets; but the expression of joy, peace, and
thanksgiving that rested upon it was
unmistakable.  When the service was over, he
mounted the pulpit and began his sermon.

Never had such a discourse been delivered
within the time-worn walls of Our Lady's
church.  He took no text--his theme was
the story of the cross.  Never had it seemed
so wonderful, so simple, and yet so majestic
before.  He drew such a picture of divine
love and compassion, the slain Lamb washing
away sin with his own blood, God smiling
at the sinner over Calvary, that there was
scarcely a head in the whole assembly that
was not bowed down to hide the falling tears.
Then he bade them notice the snow which,
under the bright beams of a returning sun,
was melting away to be replaced by flowers
and fruits, and he compared it to their dead
faith and affections which Christ's resurrection
should rouse to life and activity.

Lower sank his voice, more solemn, more
thrilling grew his tone as he spoke to them
of the second coming of that Lord and
Master who had risen from his tomb more than
fourteen hundred years before, and he seemed
so to realize in his own mind the fact that
at any moment, even that very day, the
angel's trumpet might call priest and people
to the judgment, that his eloquence fell with
irresistible force on even his most careless
or ignorant hearers; and when at last he
descended the pulpit-steps, his last words
were ringing like a death-knell in many a
trembling heart, for they were spoken for
the first time in their own tongue:

"Be ye also ready, for in such an hour
as ye think not the Son of Man cometh.
What I say unto you, I say unto all, *Watch!*"

Mother Beatrice met her confessor in the
convent parlor soon after the sermon.  She
stood more in awe of him than of any one
else with whom she came in contact.  Perhaps
it was because she could not understand
him: we are generally afraid of characters
whose depths we cannot fathom, unless we
are exceedingly ignorant or conceited--then
we despise them.  But however this was,
she feared and reverenced him, and these
feelings were not likely to be lessened by the
new expression of his countenance.

"Well, Father, how have you found our
prisoners?  I have strong hopes for the younger;
he is but a child, and not yet hardened in
iniquity, perhaps.  Think you he is yet
convinced of his folly?  I heard such tales of
Lollard wiles and witchcraft, that it behooved
me to put them in safe keeping."

Only yesterday had Father Paul talked with
those children.  Could it be possible that
between one sunset and the succeeding one, so
fearful a conflict could have been fought, so
glorious a victory won?

"Daughter," he replied, as soon as he could
arrange his thoughts, "no bolts or bars can
keep that younger child with us.  There is a
Deliverer approaching before whom we must
all bow."

"How, Father?" said the startled lady;
"who is it will take them from my guardianship?
Has the archbishop sent----"

"Nay, daughter," said the priest solemnly;
"the deliverer I spoke of is greater than he,
and will pass through yonder dungeon walls
without asking our favor.  The lad is dying."

"Dying!"  Mother Beatrice appeared really
shocked.  "I meant not that; I may have
kept them over strictly; they are but children."

It may have been the kindly influences of
Eastertide, it may have been the result of
thoughts stirred up by the sermon she had
just heard--whatever it was, the abbess was
strangely softened.  Father Paul saw this,
and took advantage of it.

"What shall I do, Father?  They are
heretics--enemies of our holy church."

"Then, daughter," replied the monk very
gravely, "think how Christ forgave his torturers,
and let this be your Easter sacrifice, far
more acceptable in his sight than the rushes
with which you have strewn the chapel in
memory of his resurrection.  Let us forgive
as we have been forgiven."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A Midnight Supper`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *A Midnight Supper.*

.. vspace:: 2

At midnight on the preceding night,
when the convent was still, and even
the inmates of the dungeon under the east
tower were sleeping, Geoffrey was aroused by
a tap at the door which led into the inner cell.
He did not seem at all surprised, but arose
and opened it.  As he expected, Kate stood
on the other side, a white sheet thrown
around her, and a lamp in one hand.  The
brilliancy of the light seemed to dazzle him
for a moment, but perhaps it was Kate's own
bright face, looking in so suddenly on his
loneliness.

"I come, you see, as I promised," she said,
passing him into the room, and setting down
her lamp on the shelf occupied by the crucifix,
which she pushed aside without scruple to
make room.  Then, with nimble fingers, she
pinned a dark cloth over the window, lest the
light shining without should betray them, and
continued, as she unburdened herself of
several packages:

"I have not been a very bad purveyor, I
think.  This bottle of wine our good friend
dame Redwood brought, and the chicken, too;
but see here, now, this is what I call fair spoil.
This piece of venison is cut from the haunch
prepared for the abbess' own dinner to-morrow,
and this pastry was meant as a tid-bit for
Sister Ursula's breakfast, to reward her for the
privations of Lent."

Even Geoffrey, who did not smile often
now, was moved to laughter at this history of
their feast, and Hubert tried to raise himself
at the mention of such luxuries.  They had
no plates; but she, like a dainty housewife as
she was, contrived to set it out quite tastily on
the floor beside the bed, using the sheet for a
table cloth.  The pastry and the venison she
put one at each end, the bottle of wine in the
middle, the chicken and bread and cheese by
way of side-dishes.

"We might as well do it in style," she said,
laughing.  "I am Lady Katharine Hyde of
Estly Court, and you are the heir of Forest
Tower."

But her gayety was mostly put on to hide
the tears which would come welling up in her
eyes, as she saw the famished looks with
which the two boys regarded the provision.

"Let us say grace first," said Hubert.
And slowly, and reverently, the sick child
thanked God for his great benefits to such
unworthy children, and prayed that if it were
his will, they might soon all go home.  This
over, they began their meal, and it was
touching to mark how Geoffrey pressed each bit
upon his brother, unwilling to taste any
himself till he had seen him satisfied, and how
Hubert watched each dish lest he should
receive more than his share.  It was but little,
after all, that the younger could eat; the wine
seemed most refreshing, and brought a little
color to his cheeks; but to Geoffrey the food
was life itself.  He went on eating and eating,
hardly looking up at Katharine till he was
quite satisfied, while she watched him with
smiles playing about her lips, but tears
glistening in her eyes.  At last the boy stopped,
actually unable to eat another mouthful.

"There, now, you have left a little, after all.
I began to think that the very cloth would
not be left to take me back in safety.  Now,
do you not want to know how your supper
got here?"

"That would I, indeed," replied Geoffrey
with some compunction in his tone.  "Forgive
me; I think I have forgotten what
courtly manners I ever had since I came here,
and I was so hungry.  But how could you
enter the garden at this time, and how could
you get at the abbess' own larder?"

"Ah!" said Lady Kate, roguishly, "you may
thank the convent ghost for that, or, as it will
be called by future generations of nuns, the
walking lady of the convent."

"What do you mean--a ghost?" said both
boys, surprised.

"That is just it: a ghost, but with a
substantial body attached.  But I must begin at
the beginning," and she settled herself
comfortably, ready to begin her tale, for dearly
Lady Katharine loved to talk, and she seldom
had a chance in the convent.

"You see, it just came into my wise head,
that though it would never do for *me* to walk
about the house and pry into things a little,
there was no law against a *ghost* doing it; so
I wrapped myself up in this cloth.  It was so
funny to see Sister Hilda's look when I passed
her in the chapel!  I guess she forgot after
that how many aves and paters she had
to say.  But I did not think of meeting any
one there.  I went in to practise gliding on
the pavement, and she frightened me almost
as much as I did her.  But Phoebe was the
best of all.  I was in the garden refreshing
myself, when she came stealing along, ready
to jump at her own shadow.  I meant to try
to speak with you after I had secured the
key; but when she screamed, I was afraid it
might arouse the house, and hasted back to
my room.  The next night I had to try it
again, in order to put back the key.  That
silly Phoebe thinks it must be one of the
saints, to whom she prayed so earnestly, who
brought it back and hung it on its own nail,
and who kept Mother Beatrice from wanting
to go in the garden that whole day.  Now, I
do it for the fun of the thing, and, as you see,
I have made famous pockets in my robe, and
go foraging, as the soldiers say, for truly I
think we are in an enemy's country, and if
they won't give us enough to eat, and won't
let us go where we might have it gladly, I
think we have a right to take it wherever we
can find it.  But now that I have brought
you a supper, will you help me in a bit of
work?"

"Ay, that I will gladly," replied Geoffrey,
with a look of admiring wonder.  "Kate, I
always thought it was a man's place to
provide for the ladies, but you are taking care
of us."

"Never mind that," replied the girl, blushing
partly from confusion and a feeling as if
she might have been too bold, and partly from
pleasure.  "The time will soon come, I hope,
when you and I can take our proper places,
and then I will be more ladylike and useless,
and then"--she hesitated, then finished her
sentence with a laugh--"then you may take
care of me if you wish.  But come, I think
I can show you somewhat in your lodging
that you never knew before."

.. figure:: images/img-262.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: Leaving the Convent.--Page 277.

   Leaving the Convent.--Page `277`_.

With lamp in hand she led the way to the
inner room, and began examining carefully
the stones in the wall under where the steps
had formerly led down from the closed
doorway.  Geoffrey meanwhile, his curiosity
roused to its greatest height, watched her
every movement.  At last she found a little
stone let into the wall, and slightly marked
with a triangle at one corner.  On this
corner she pressed with all her strength, at first
unsuccessfully, but at last it rolled back, and
with it a part of the wall, disclosing a narrow
doorway leading to some steps; beyond, all
was darkness.

In her delight she would have entered at
once, but Geoffrey drew her back.  He was
far better acquainted with such places than
she was, and conjectured that since it had
evidently been closed so long, the steps might
be in too dilapidated a condition to bear her
weight.  He therefore insisted on trying them
by blows with a stick, and on being the first
to descend; but, except for the dust, and a
confined smell, they appeared as if they might
have been in daily use.  Down some twenty
feet they descended, Geoffrey leading, and
carrying the lamp, Kate breathless with
excitement, yet talking as fast as possible,
explaining the secret entrance and its former
object.  Soon they found themselves stopped;
the passage was filled with rubbish; from
this part they must depend on their friends
outside.  And hark! even now they could
distinguish a dull, thumping noise.  Dick
was at his work in the midnight; at every
blow deliverance was coming nearer.

According to Kate's direction, he measured
with some cord the distance from the
foot of the steps to the obstruction, in order
that Dick, who knew exactly the length of
the passage when it was first made, might
be able to judge whether it were possible to
remove the rocks and earth.  They then
returned to tell the news to Hubert.

He was suffering from great oppression and
exhaustion, so that he did not appear either as
surprised or as delighted as they supposed he
would.  His breath came in hard, short gasps,
and Kate seated herself so that his head could
rest on her shoulder, while Geoffrey bathed
his face and moistened his parched lips.

"Sing to me, Kate--the song you sang
the other night about Jesus."

"I will," she replied.  And her voice, though
at first trembling and husky with emotion,
soon rose, as she became roused with her
theme, to that clear, calm tone which is so
soothing to the sick.  She sang a Latin hymn,
written by a monk in a far southern land, but
sounding none the less sweet to those three
Lollard children in their cold and gloomy
dungeon.

   |  "Jesu dulcis memoria
   |  Dans vera cordi gaudia;
   |  Sed super mel et omnia
   |  Ejus dulcis præsentia.

   |  "Nil cantitur suavius,
   |  Nil auditur jocundius,
   |  Nil cogitatur dulcius,
   |  Quam Jesus, Dei Filius.

   |  "Jesus, spes poenitentibus,
   |  Quam pius es petentibus,
   |  Quam bonus te quærentibus,
   |  Sed quis invenientibus!

   |  "Nec lingua videt dicere,
   |  Nec littera exprimere;
   |  Expertus potest credere
   |  Quid sit Jesum diligere!"

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "Sweet memories of thee impart
   |  True joy, dear Jesus, to my heart;
   |  But far beyond all sweets will be
   |  Thy holy presence, Lord, to me.

   |  "No sweeter song can chanted be,
   |  More joyful news be brought to me,
   |  Or sweeter thoughts to think upon
   |  Than Jesus Christ, God's only Son.

   |  "Thou hope of every contrite heart,
   |  Since them so very glorious art,
   |  To those who SEEK so good, so kind,
   |  What must thou be to those who FIND?

   |  "No language can the story hold,
   |  No words the mystery unfold;
   |  Experience alone can prove
   |  How good it is our Christ to love."

.. vspace:: 2

There was silence for several minutes after
the hymn was finished, then the sick boy
seemed quite revived.

"Thank you; how good that is!  I feel
stronger now, and I would like to talk with
you both.  Sit close to me, Geoffrey, and
wrap my cloak around you; you are shivering."

Geoffrey *was* shivering, but not with bodily
cold--it was that chill that creeps over us
when Death suddenly appears, and dropping
all disguise, shows us his stern features.  He
had long felt that this great sorrow was
approaching, but since he had had so strong a
hope of restoration to liberty, he had
imagined the fresh air and bright sunshine
bringing back a healthy glow to those pale cheeks
and vigor to that wasted frame.  But now he
saw, all at once, his mistake.  Death would
not thus be robbed of its victim.  The bolts
and bars through which he was to break were
such as no man could fasten; the sunshine in
which he was to bask would be the light of
his much-loved Saviour's face.

"Do you remember, Geoffrey, that day
before we left dear old Forest Tower, how
Lord Cobham told me I might have to die for
the truth's sake?  I am very glad to go.  I
did not think it would be so easy; but I
would have liked to be able to preach Christ
before I went.  I am sorry to leave you,
brother, but perhaps when I am gone they
will take pity on you, and let you go.  When
you are free, you will go away together, you
and Kate--I have prayed God for that.  And
when you are happy together, you will think
often, won't you, of the days we have passed
together in our prison?  See, I have made
these for you; they are not much, but it is all
I could do, and father will like to see them,
and you will tell him about to-night, and how
I loved you both."  He drew out from under
the straw two little bags, or flat cases, made
of plaited straw, and placed them in Kate's
and Geoffrey's hands.

"There are some texts written on
parchment in each; I wrote them last summer
because they are so beautiful.  I wanted to
tell you more, but I am very sleepy now.
Good night!"

The low, faint voice had grown fainter
from exhaustion, and he sank down in a deep
sleep on Kate's shoulder as he finished.  She
laid him carefully down, for the convent-bell
was warning her that it was time to go.
Wrapped in her sheet again, she passed, with
Geoffrey's aid, through the narrow window,
and as he stood and watched her by the white
gleam of her drapery among the leafless
trees, it seemed as though all the light that
was left for him in this world had departed
with the bright words and kindly smile of
Lady Katharine Hyde.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Free Again`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII.


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   *Free Again.*

.. vspace:: 2

Very much surprised was dame Redwood
when, the week after Easter, she
received a message that the abbess of the
convent of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows
wished to see her on particular business,
that very morning.

"I have been at no tricks, mother," said
poor frightened Phoebe, who was the
messenger, "unless it might be about the key,
but that has been hanging on its nail ever
since.  Do you think she means about me,
mother?"

"And why should she not be meaning
you, you heedless thing?" replied her mother,
though in her inmost heart she believed it
*was* for her own tricks she was to be called
before that high dignitary, and foresaw
nothing but the loss of her farm, if not
something worse.  But she would not let her
daughter see this; so she went on scolding
her with all the breath she could spare while
running round to get ready for her departure.

It was a pair of very frightened women
who presented themselves to Mother Beatrice
as she sat erect and stately in the convent
parlor.  The good dame, however, was thinking
less of her own safety than how she could
manage to keep from criminating Lady
Katharine in case her part of the plot had been
discovered.

"You may go to your work, girl," said the
abbess in an unusually gracious manner,
when they had made their courtesies to her.
"Dame Redwood, your daughter will make
a good porteress if she is as prompt in her
duty as you are."

This took a load off both their hearts, and
the dame could listen quietly to the long
speech which the Mother Superior addressed
to her as soon as Phoebe had closed the door.
She told her how she had there with her for
safe keeping, and, if possible, for restoring to
the church, two young heretics, committed to
her care by his grace Chichely, archbishop of
Canterbury.  She told how the younger was
ill, and that she was about to show the
extreme clemency of the church toward its
wayward, by letting them go free on condition
that they should leave the country, and never
set foot on English soil again.  Moreover, as
the one was ill, and the other not strong, it
might be necessary for them to rest and
recover before their departure, for which she
would allow them the space of one week, which
time she wished them to pass under the roof
of so faithful a tenant of the convent as dame
Joan Redwood.  Furthermore, she would hold
her and her husband responsible if, during
that time, they held communication with any
other Lollards, and if at the end of that period
they were allowed any further shelter.

The dame had great difficulty in concealing
her delight at this turn of affairs; but she
managed to account for her smiles and
agitation on the ground of the unexpected favor
just bestowed.

"And now, think you," continued Mother
Beatrice, "your good husband could bring
some one with him and come this evening
while we are at chapel?  Phoebe shall have
them ready to go."

In her delight, happy Joan managed to get
down on her knees and kiss the hem of the
abbess' robe, which gratified her, and made
her so condescending that it was with
difficulty they could conclude their respective
blessings and courtesies, and have the door
fairly shut between them.

Never had the road appeared so long
between the convent and her home, though the
good woman trudged along it almost on a run.
When she imparted the news to her husband,
his delight almost exceeded hers, for the
demon of remorse had been tormenting him
again since he had heard of Hubert's sufferings.
Now, however, it seemed as if his sin
had been expiated, and he was to be certified
of this by having the boys placed in his hands
to minister to their wants, and serve them in
every possible way.

It seemed also a most favorable coincidence
that Bertrand had just arrived that morning,
having appointed that the boys should meet
their father, if it were possible for them to
escape, at the house of Philip Naseby the
trader, which had been their asylum soon after
they left home.  Bertrand and Redwood
employed themselves in making a rude litter of
boughs, cushioned with all the dame's skill,
and furnished with many a soft wrap to shield
the sick boy from contact with the cold air.

They had hardly finished their preparations
before the hour designated by the abbess;
but as the bells were tolling for vespers they
stood in the convent court-yard eagerly
waiting for their expected guests.  Bertrand and
Dick waited without, while the dame and her
daughter went with Sister Ursula to bring
them out; but when they at last appeared,
the men could hardly recognize in the gaunt,
haggard-looking boy who came feebly along,
with a bewildered look in the hollow eyes
which he was trying to shield from the light
with his hand, the young master whom they
had seen so fresh, and ruddy, and vigorous
six months before.

.. _`277`:

But the thoughts of all were concentrated
on the little form borne, as though lifeless, in
dame Redwood's arms.  He had fainted from
sudden exposure to the air; but the good
woman had been so horror-struck at the scene
of misery which met her eyes when Sister
Ursula opened the dungeon-door, that she
would not now suffer them to wait to restore
him, but for once speechless with indignation,
hurried the whole party out of the gates.  It
was not until she had heard them clash
behind her, and saw the grim old towers
disappearing behind the hill, that she felt at all
secure, but kept all the while looking back, as
if in fear of pursuit.

The little figure in the litter lay so still that
more than once Bertrand bent down to catch
the sound of the faint breathing which alone
gave token of life.  Geoffrey, mounted on the
pony, was so bewildered that he could neither
ask questions nor answer them.  He seemed
troubled if the narrowness of the way caused
the dame to lead the horse either in front of
or behind the litter; the only sign he gave of
being conscious of his change of position
being a dread of being separated from his
brother.  All felt relieved when they reached
the cottage.  Not that the bearers were
weary; that little emaciated form would
scarcely have been felt in Bertrand's strong
arms; but his heart was bearing a load of
grief such as it had never borne before.
Until then, hope had buoyed him up, and
supported him through all the toil and danger
which he had undergone for his master and
his sons: even hope seemed dead now.

But it was worse still with poor Dick.  The
demons of remorse which he hoped had been
driven out forever returned with renewed
power.  "We have thee again, Judas!" they
seemed to say to the wretched man.  "Didst
thou think to escape us, poor fool?  *He* too
threw down the money, and tried to save, but
it was *too late*, TOO LATE!  The blood was on
his head, and on yours too.  Come, why not
do as that famous namesake of thine did?
His work and thine can never be undone,
and there is no repentance or forgiveness
for either!"

It was only because he held one end of the
litter that he did not obey his tormentors'
suggestions, and more than once he looked
shudderingly, but almost wistfully, as they
passed some gloomy-looking dells, where the
newly-loosened brooks were rushing like
mountain torrents or lying in deep, dark pools
under the shadow of the oaks.

Poor man!  He sadly needed a comforter
then, some one to tell him that now was the
time to prove his belief in the creed that had
been nominally his from childhood, to show
him that the words, "I believe in the forgiveness
of sins," were just as necessary to believe
as the preceding, "I believe in God the
Father."  But, alas! for poor Dick.  His creed
was locked up, as well as his Bible, in an
unknown tongue, and the God whom he had
been taught to worship was one to be feared
and dreaded, not reverenced and loved; a
God whose vengeance must be turned aside
by costly offerings and pilgrimages, whose
highest favor could only be obtained by
renouncing all pleasures and enduring all pains.
"Cursed is every one that keepeth not all the
words of the law to do them," taught the
purest of the priesthood; they never
declared: "God is merciful and just to forgive
us our sins and to cleanse us from all
unrighteousness."

They could indeed gloss over the foulest
crimes, and calling vices by the names of
virtues, think they had changed their nature;
but when an awakened spirit was aroused to a
sense of its lost condition, and cried to the
successors of the apostles for help, they could
give the agonized soul no aid, no comfort,
no hope.  If penance and mortification and
priestly absolution failed to satisfy the guilty
spirit, it must perish, for Christ's atonement
was utterly rejected.





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.. _`From Darkness to Light`:

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   CHAPTER XIX.


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   *From Darkness to Light.*

.. vspace:: 2

When Geoffrey was roused from the
bewilderment caused by this sudden
change in his fortunes, his first thought was
for Lady Katharine Hyde, who, when she
visited them in her ghostly attire that night as
she had promised, would wonder what had
become of them.  Bertrand reassured him,
however, by telling him that Dick had almost
completed the work of digging out the old
underground passage to the convent vaults,
and that by an hour's work that night he
could enter their late prison, meet Kate, and
bring her forth to freedom.  Even had the
abbess not been so unexpectedly merciful
their captivity need not have lasted over that
night.

"God has been very good to us, Bertrand,"
said the young Lollard, his pale cheek
flushing with emotion, and his eyes by the light
of the blazing fire showing full of tears; "for
if we had come out that way, we should have
had to escape immediately; but now we have
a whole week for Hubert----"  He stopped;
he had meant to say, "for Hubert to get
strong in;" but even his love could not thus
deceive itself.  His lips would not utter the
words, but they both finished it for
themselves: "That Hubert may die in peace."

For the end was evidently approaching.
Cold, and damp, and hunger had done their
work as effectually on the Lollard heretic as
if the archbishop had immediately sentenced
him to the stake.  The warmth, and food,
and motherly care which had been longed
for during those weary months were bestowed
in abundance now: but it was too late; all
dame Redwood's tender nursing could not
keep alive the glimmering spark which was
all that persecution and tyranny had left of
the flame of that young life.  He still lay in
the same dull stupor which had been on him
when he left his dungeon.  He had only
replied to their caresses and services by a few
wandering words about the shepherd coming
back for his sheep in the mountains, and
being warm at home.

Poor Dick had stood the whole evening,
never moving his eyes from his young guests,
but, in his misery, so unconscious of what was
going on around him, that he was in every
one's way, and of no use at all.  It was therefore
no small relief to himself, as well as the
others, when Bertrand bade him shoulder his
tools and go off to his work.  For a while the
two men marched along in silence, till they
came to one of the deep, dark pools into which
the soldier had looked so wistfully that
afternoon.  Here he stopped, flung down his
burden, and turned toward his companion with
the reckless look of a wild beast brought to
bay on the brink of a precipice, preferring to
leap from the dizzy height to certain destruction
rather than fall into the hands of its
enemies.  Bertrand was startled at the change
in the man's face.

"I tell you, 'tis of no use; they are after
me again, and there is no driving them off,
He saved me, and I have killed them both.
There is no changing it--the devils may as
well have me first as last.  The other Judas
hanged himself, but I think it was because
there was no pool near.  Ha! how they would
dance around me if I were dangling to yon
branch!  No; this is better.  Fare thee well,
comrade!"

He turned, and was pushing aside the
branches to take the fatal leap, when he felt
himself seized from behind in a powerful grasp.

"Hold, Dick Redwood!  What meanest
thou, man?  Art thou mad?"

"Let me alone!" said the soldier, struggling
with his captor.  "It is the only place
for peace; I shall be one of them there, and
there they cannot torment so.  Take off thy
hand, man, or it will be the worse for thee!"

"Not so fast," replied Bertrand coolly.
"Dost think I will see murder committed
before my eyes--ay, and the worst of murder,
the murder of a soul?  We will try a bout for
that first, my man."

Then began a fierce struggle, in which the
soldier's strength and military knowledge
were well matched by the supple limbs and
clear, cool eye of the forester.  It was truly a
conflict for life or death on which the calm
moonbeams looked down that lovely spring
night.  Hither and thither went the combatants
over the fallen trees and stones, and
through the brushwood, the object of
Bertrand being to get as far as possible from the
brink of the fatal precipice.  Sometimes one
party gained a slight advantage, sometimes
the other; but both were evidently
becoming exhausted.  It seemed an even chance
whether the Lollard would succeed in his
benevolent object of saving his comrade's life
from his own violent hands, or would be
obliged to yield, in order to preserve his own.
The struggle was carried on, however, in the
utmost silence, neither caring to waste
strength in outcries, so that the only sounds
to be heard during the combat were the
crackling of the branches, the trampling of
feet, and the panting breath of the wrestlers.

Just at the moment when Bertrand had the
other in a position to give him a heavy fling
on the grass, his foot slipped, and they rolled
together to the ground; the forester's head
struck heavily, and he lay for a moment
stunned.

In that moment the soldier disengaged himself
from Bertrand's relaxed grasp, and, with
a yell of triumph, sprang toward the pool.  A
few strides, and he was at the brink, parting
the bushes with a trembling hand.

The moon cast a shimmer of light on some
inky-black water--a rush of a heavy body,
a shriek, a plunge--and the smooth surface,
broken into a thousand points of light, was
settling itself once more into tranquillity.

Just then there appeared another figure
on the scene: a man was flinging himself
from point to point down the steep descent
Bertrand, who arrived at the spot only to find
himself too late, watched him; but his head
was so confused by his fall, that he could not
have told whether it took hours or minutes
for this unexpected actor in the scene to
throw off his outer garment, plunge in the
pool, and drag the drowning man to land.
By that time he became roused enough to go
to his aid, and the two bore the soldier up the
bank, and seated him with his back against
the trunk of a tree, the water dripping from
his garments, and the scared, bewildered
expression changing to the old look of dogged,
sullen defiance, as his senses returned.

When the forester found that the soldier
was not injured by his cold bath, he turned
to look at the man who had stepped in so
opportunely to the rescue, and the sight did
not at all delight him, for the tonsured head,
the cowl, and the knotted-rope girdle all
proclaimed him an individual whom a Lollard
disliked especially to meet, namely, a
Benedictine monk.

Dick recognized him further, and springing
up, flung himself at the stranger's feet, his
teeth chattering with cold and terror as he
tried to speak.

"Father Paul!  Father Paul! drive them
out, drive them away, for heaven's sake, for
the blessed saints' sake drive them away!
You are holy, and they will fear you.  Bring
the book and candle, and say a prayer!
Oh! they dragged me down"--and the man
shuddered through all his frame--"they clutched
me so under the water!  Good Father! holy
Father! save me from the devils!"

"My son," replied the monk kindly, "I
wish to help thee in thy distress, but I am
neither holy nor good--only a weak sinner
like thyself.  If thou hast committed sin,
there is One that can pardon and absolve.
What is it that lies so heavy on thy conscience?"

"Absolve a *Judas*!" shrieked the wretched
man.  "Ay, Father, I will tell you all, that
you may know what a devil you have saved
to curse the world."

He began and told the whole story, still
crouching down at the Benedictine's feet,
while Bertrand gave all up for lost, for he
could not stop him, and could only look for
one result from the disclosure of the tale to
one whom he had every reason to suppose
their deadliest foe.  But, to his utter
astonishment, when the confession was finished and
he expected to hear the monk comfort his
penitent by pronouncing the deed to be
commendable rather than sinful, he began in a
way directly opposite to the teachings of the
order to which he seemed to belong.

"My son, thou hast indeed greatly sinned;
but since thou hast so well remembered the
story of the betrayer, hast thou pondered as
well on the history of the Betrayed?  Hast
thou heard of him who forgave his murderers
even while they were nailing him on his
cross?  I make no doubt but that he had a
pardon ready even for Judas, had he asked it.
Remember this, my son, the betrayal was not
the crime which destroyed Judas utterly, but
his despair of Christ's mercy.  He was never
forgiven, because he never asked for
forgiveness.  When that blessed Saviour said,
'Whoso cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,'
he did not add, 'except Dick Redwood.'  When
the apostle says, 'The blood of Jesus
Christ cleanseth from all sin,' he did not
finish, 'except the sin of ingratitude.'  Dick,
there *is* pardon there--free, full, absolute
pardon for thee and for me; all that is required
is that we ask for it, that we believe in it, that
we trust in nothing else, and that we have a
steadfast purpose to live hereafter a better
and holier life.  Art thou willing so to do?
Is it thy purpose henceforth to give up thy
wicked desires and do that heavenly Master's
will, loving thy brother man and forgiving
him, even as he hath loved and forgiven thee?"

The penitent was sobbing like a child as he
crouched at the monk's feet and clung to his
robe.  "O Father! if I could but show you!
I would do any penance."

"There is none required," said Father Paul,
"none at all.  Christ hath borne our penance
in his sufferings on the tree; nothing that we
can do would be of any avail; it is free grace
that saves, remember that--never, never
forget it; that is the good tidings, the glorious
Easter gospel!"

The monk paused, as if overcome by emotion;
then laying his hand on the head of the
kneeling man, he added very solemnly:

"Not as though *I* had any power, not in
my own name, but in the name of the Lord
Jesus Christ, whose servant I am, I pronounce
that thou, being penitent, art released from
thy sins and made a partaker of his
kingdom.  Go in peace, and sin no more."

Dick sprang to his feet when the gentle
touch was removed.  The dull, sullen look had
vanished from his face, the frightened, staring
eyes were calm; but his voice, when he tried
to speak, was husky and choked, and he turned
aside a moment into the bushes.  They had no
need to follow him now, for with his tormentors
had departed all thoughts of self-murder.

The Benedictine advanced toward Bertrand
and held out his hand.

"I think I can recognize you from our
friend's story," he said kindly; "but do not be
afraid; it is not often, I know, that a garb
like mine covers a heart friendly to your
faith; but I too have a story to tell."

He then explained in a few words to the
still astounded Bertrand the marvelous effect
of the few words uttered by Hubert.

"Thus you see," he concluded, "that where
I expected to teach, I was taught; and where
I went to convert, I was myself converted.
But what are you doing here at this hour
with these tools?"

Bertrand's fear was quite gone by this time,
and he related how nearly they had liberated
the captives, and were now on their way to
meet the remaining one, and bring her also away.

But Father Paul strongly urged upon them
the danger of withdrawing Lady Katharine
from the convent until they had made
preparations for her escape from the neighborhood,
as a search would be made for her as soon as
she was missed which would endanger the
safety of all parties; but he said there might
be no danger in her coming by night to visit
the dying boy, and offered himself to assist in
arranging a plan for her removal to her home.
This he could the more easily do, as it was
not yet known that he had changed his faith.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`One more Lamb safe in the Fold`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *One more Lamb safe in the Fold.*

.. vspace:: 2

The sun had risen and set again upon
the cottage in the wood and its quiet
household.  It had been a lovely spring day,
such a day as makes the violets and anemones
lift their graceful heads in many a sunny spot
in the forest; but the evening had closed in
much colder.  Heavy clouds were gliding
across the moon, throwing weird shadows
upon sea and land, and the wind was rising
almost to a tempest.

Within, the scene was different.  The fire
in the great chimney was blazing merrily, for
Moll and Meg seemed to think it was their
duty to keep it as large as though it were
Christmas-time; and little Dick was continually
running in with his apron full of dried
sticks and leaves to add to the flame.

Hubert lay on an oaken settle, which the
dame had converted into a bed, and drawn up
close to the hearth.  There had been a change
that day, that mysterious, indescribable change
which all know so well, but which no one can
define--the shadow of the dark mountains
falling on the pilgrim's face as he enters the
valley of death.  Not a painful change.  The
lines of suffering were passing away, the dark
blue eyes were beaming with a holy light, the
high white forehead looked more like chiseled
marble, and about the lips was playing a smile,
not gay or mirthful, but full of contentment
and peace.  The stupor had passed away, and
his mind seemed perfectly clear.  He
recognized those about him, and was very grateful
for every little service rendered him; but he
spoke little, and seemed worried by any noise
or bustle in the room.  Perhaps it was
because he had been so long accustomed to the
stillness of his prison; it may have been that
sounds were breaking on his ear with which
earth's noises formed jarring discord.

Geoffrey never left him, but sat on a little
bench, handing him anything he wanted, and
holding the little thin hand tight in his grasp.
Another who rarely took his eyes from the
dying boy was the soldier.  He had received
from them both freely the pardon which was
alone needed to make his heart lighter,
notwithstanding the present grief, than it had
ever been before in his life.  An atmosphere
of love filled the little dwelling; pardon and
peace enlightening each heart, as the glowing
coals on the hearth lightened the rough walls
of the cottage.

There was a little stir at the door--a
whispered question and answer; then
Geoffrey bent his face to his brother's:

"Hubert, Kate is come, and Father Paul!"

He raised himself a little, and as Kate
approached, put both his arms around her
neck and drew her down close to him.

"I am so glad you have come," he said;
"now Geoffrey will not be alone.  You will
never leave each other any more, will you?
You will take her to father, and tell him I
loved you both so much!  You will all have
happy days together in some far-off land, and
then when you are so happy, you will
sometimes think and talk about to-night."

Here the elder boy's stout heart broke
down.  To look forward to a future which
was not to be shared by Hubert, his second
self--the only one with whom he had taken
sweet counsel through all his childhood--dearer
still for the sufferings they had borne
side by side!

"O Hubert! you will not be there!"

"I would rather not be, I am so tired, so
very, very weary; I am not strong to battle
for the truth, as you are, Geoffrey.  It is so
nice to lie here and think that all the work
and toil is over, and I am only waiting for
him to come.  He is coming fast now; when
it is quiet, I can hear his footsteps and his
voice.  He will take me right up in his arms,
and I will put my head on his breast while
he is carrying me home.  Isn't he come yet?
Don't you hear him calling?  Don't you see
him coming?  He is very, very near now."

They *did* perceive his coming; they saw
his approaches in the fast glazing eye, in the
death-damp on the forehead; they heard him
in the gasping breath.

Father Paul stepped forward and bent over him.

"Yes, my child, he *is* coming; he is almost
here.  Hast thou no fear?"

A look of surprise passed over the child's face.

"Why, it is Jesus!  I cannot fear Jesus!
I love him so, and I have waited for him so
long!  I am so glad that you love him too!
Now we will all meet in the Beautiful Land--kind
Dick and all, all, every one!"  And his
eye glanced at each in turn, resting lovingly,
but searchingly, on every face, as if he would
read there the secret of the heart, and know
if that soul were at peace with its Maker.

Coming, coming, faster and faster, nearer
and nearer, the footsteps were at the door;
they had entered; the unbidden guest was in
their midst.  He would not depart alone.
All felt his presence, and there was silence,
only broken by the gasping breath, each
moment growing shorter.  The very wind
had lulled, and listened with them.

Then they came--those last words which
echo so long in desolate hearts, which we
remember so much longer than any other
utterances of our beloved.  Low, but clear and
distinct, they sounded in the stillness.  There
was awe, joy, and great wonder in the tone:

"*Hush! hark! see!*"

They were hushed; no sound was heard,
save the gentle crackle and hiss of the logs
on the hearth; they saw--the little white
form lying on its pillows, with the red
firelight beaming on opened, sightless eyes,
parted breathless lips.

*He* hearkened, and heard 'the angels' song
of welcome--*he* looked, and beheld the face
of his Saviour!





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.. _`Father Paul`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *Father Paul.*

.. vspace:: 2

There was no noisy grief, no boisterous
lamentation when, one lovely spring
morning, the small funeral-train left the
soldier's cottage, and passed through the
forest-paths toward the last resting-place of the little
Lollard martyr.  Dick and Bertrand had dug
the grave in just such a spot as a child might
choose to rest in after a long day of happiness--a
glade with a southern slope, purpled with
violets, and enlivened by a little brook, which
leaped out of a thicket of wild roses, and, after
dancing awhile in the sunshine, and hugging
the worn rocks as though it loved them,
plunged again into obscurity, under the arms
of a great overspreading willow, and went
dancing on to the sea.

There were no chanting monks with flaming
tapers, but the returning sun spoke to
them of nature--awake again after its long
sleep--and of little brown seeds, hidden away
in the ground all winter, now bursting forth
into beauty and fragrance, every seed having
its own body.  "I am the resurrection and
the life"--how glorious those words sounded
as echoed by a thousand voices in that grand
cathedral of God's own handiwork!  Every
budding branch, every flower, every tiny blade
of grass the mourners crushed beneath their
feet was to them a witness of that fact.

We, who have all our lives been used to the
consolation which the pure gospel gives to all
thoughts connected with death, can hardly
imagine what were the Benedictine's feelings
when he stood by that little grave, and read
that glorious funeral anthem, the fifteenth
chapter of Corinthians, for the first time in
his mother tongue.  It was all new and
striking to him.  He had now no need to let his
mind dwell on a fearful purgatory, from which
the departed soul could only be released by
the prayers and penances of living friends.
He now knew that all connection had ceased
between the disembodied spirit and those it
had left behind.  In due time they might go
to it, but it was at that very moment safe in
its Saviour's bosom, whence none could pluck
it away.

The soothing effect of the scene and the
simple service was felt in every heart; and
when at last they saw Bertrand arrange the
last sod that covered the dear one from their
eyes, there were no outbursts of grief; for
the peace which is not of this world, and
therefore over which the prince of this world
has no power, was upon them, and rested in
each soul.

No tombstone marked the spot; they did
not even dare to raise a mound, lest the
precious remains should be desecrated; but each,
as he passed by, laid on it a handful of the
sweet spring flowers.  Those who loved him
knew where he lay, and God would guard the
ashes of his saint.

Their preparations must now be made
speedily, for only two days remained of the
time granted them by the abbess.  While
they were looking for a fishing-boat, the
master of which might be induced, by the
promise of a large reward, to convey them
to London, they were also busy contriving
how they might best take Lady Katharine
Hyde without endangering the safety of any
who had aided them in their flight.
Fortunately, the abbess had never seen her young
charge hold any communication with her
other prisoners; she was also entirely
unaware that the young lady possessed means
of access to the garden, and indeed to the
outer world, whenever she was pleased to
avail herself of them.  The ghost also had
never been laid, but remained as great a
mystery as ghosts generally do.  All this
greatly favored their plans.  It was at last
arranged that she should come down to the
garden at as early an hour as possible in the
evening, locking the door behind her; that she
should then enter the little room under the
tower, where Bertrand would meet her with her
disguise, which was to be that of a monk of
Father Paul's order.  They were then to fasten
up the entrance to the secret passage, and meet
the others at the designated spot on the coast.
The others were to pretend to start at sunset,
that afterward, when Lady Katharine should
be missed, the abbess would not imagine that
she had joined them.  It would be very easy
for them, when it was dark, to turn back and
take up the rest of their load.

Geoffrey had been gaining strength rapidly
the last few days, and his spirits rose also.
Not that Hubert was forgotten: there was
not a moment in which he did not miss that
dear brother, rendered doubly dear by the
trials they had undergone together for their
mutual faith, and who had been for so long
the object of his care; but though he was not
gay, he could not be sad.  Hope was awake
again, and that calm, peaceful death-scene
had left no bitterness behind.  The little
grave in the forest glade, with the golden
light flickering through the elm-branches on
its violets and snow-drops, was not brighter
than the sunny memories the child had left
behind him.  Life was not so very precious
a thing to a Lollard in that age of oppression
and tyranny, that he should grieve deeply
over one who had laid aside its burden, and
received the reward.  During the weary hours
of his imprisonment, Geoffrey had learned
many a lesson of unselfishness and self-sacrifice,
and besides, heaven had grown nearer
and more real to him--more real in fact, than
the world from which he had been so long
separated.  From his tomb in the convent-dungeon
he had arisen to a new spiritual life,
he who had entered his prison a haughty,
passionate boy, fired, it is true, by many
noble impulses, but with an untamed spirit
and unsanctified will, came forth a calm,
collected young man, disciplined in soul and
mind, older by many years than he had been
six months before.  He had learned to read
in a different way the history of his past
life, as well as that which opened before
him day by day.  He had also learned in
his loneliness to comprehend and to trust
more fully that pure gospel truth which
he had until then received more as a
political than a religious creed, as intended
to lead to freedom from worldly tyranny,
rather than from the dominion of sin and
death.

He held several conversations with Father
Paul about his future plans.  The ecclesiastic
had the best means of judging concerning the
spiritual state of the kingdom, and its
readiness for the reception of the reformed
doctrines, and he pronounced the movement
premature.  The people were not, as a general
thing, ready for any change in religion.
Papistry had too firm a hold on the lives and
property of every class to be dislodged, except
by a combined movement of the masses, and
that could not be hoped for until the
superstition and bigotry which now enshrouded
the whole land had been driven away by the
diffusion of education and a pure gospel.  But
how could the gospel be diffused when not
one in a hundred could read or write their
mother tongue?  And how could education
be brought to bear on the common people
when it would cost the laborer all he received
for months of toil to purchase a single book?

"I tell you," said the priest emphatically,
"that as long as the Bible is locked up from
men, and men are shut out from the Bible,
we can have no general reformation in the
church.  When the Word of God shall be so
multiplied that every man may have it if he
will, and every man's mind is so enlightened
that he may read it if he will, then let Rome
tremble, for her power over the nations will
be gone."

"Has all this blood been expended, then,
in vain?" asked Geoffrey.

"No," replied the monk; "that cannot be.
God in his providence wastes nothing;
certainly not human suffering.  Those who shall
live after us in future ages, and look back on
the history of these times, will understand
how God is working with this land and its
inhabitants; we cannot; we can only trust.
A thousand years are but a day in his sight,
and one day as a thousand years.  We must
only labor on, seeking to lead, here and there
a soul out of darkness into light.  Do you
know that I intend to be your fellow-traveller
to-morrow?"

"No," said Geoffrey, joyfully; "but whither
and for how long?"

"I cannot answer the last question," replied
Father Paul, "and the first only in part.  I
am now, like yourself, an exile, for my life will
not be worth an hour's purchase when the
archbishop hears of my heresy.  My plan is
first to go with you to London, see my
sister, Lady Katharine's mother, and convey
her and her children to a place of safety;
then to join Lord Cobham in Wales, and
there, under him and other godly men, learn
more of these glorious truths, for I am but a
child in the true knowledge, and have much to
unlearn, as well as to learn.  After that, if
God will grant to me, so unworthy, the
privilege of preaching his good tidings, I will go
about the country and seek to lead home
some of his lost sheep by telling them how I
was restored."

"That was Hubert's great desire," said
Geoffrey rather sadly; "but God thought
otherwise."

"Nay, there you mistake," replied the
Father with emotion.  "I have stood in many
pulpits and pronounced many discourses, for
men say I have the gift of an eloquent
tongue; but as I look back on them all, I
cannot remember that one has been the
means of saving a single soul.  I have bidden
men subdue the flesh by penance--never the
spirit by penitence; I have taught sinners to
seek a release from the consequences of their
crimes in the cloister, in pilgrimages, in costly
offerings, but I have never directed them to
the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of
the world.  I have taught my people to fear
the wrath of the church, but never warned
them to prepare for the judgment of God.
Oh! my burden is heavy, heavy!  Be thankful,
my son, that you are spared from knowing
that thousands have gone down to the grave
depending on your false teaching.  A blind
leader of the blind I had been for nearly half
a century, until a few words from the lips of a
child taught me myself.  What I now am,
whatever hereafter God will permit me to do
for my fellow-sinners, will all be owing to
your brother.

"And not to me alone has he unfolded the
truth as it is in Jesus.  His holy life and
death have left lessons behind whose effects
only God can know.  Even Mother Beatrice
seems softened, and I have left with her a few
simple truths and searching questions which
may, through God's blessing, work to her
eternal profit.  And poor Dick, how changed
he seems!  How wonderful is this doctrine
of Christ's righteousness atoning for sin
without any effort on our part but that of
accepting it!  That is the only thing which can
heal the festering, cankering wounds of
remorse.  How glorious is the liberty
wherewith Christ has made us free!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Meeting and Parting`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *Meeting and Parting.*

.. vspace:: 2

The sun was shining brightly on the
garden of a pretty Gothic mansion near
the Thames, one glorious spring morning,
about a week after the Lollard exiles had
sailed from the Yorkshire coast.  The house
seemed to have fallen somewhat out of repair,
and the garden looked as if a dozen gardeners
might find employment in putting it in order
for the summer.  But still, nothing had an
untidy aspect; there was rather a bright look
about it, as if it were trying to put the very
best face possible on the matter, and conceal
the ravages of time by a veil of ivy and spring
flowers.

In one of the grassy paths, just where it
divided to embrace a fallen sun-dial, stood a
group matching well with the surrounding
scene.  The venerableness of the old mansion,
the nobleness of the clinging ivy, and the
bright freshness of the flowers had each its
counterpart in the animate objects.  The
most prominent figure, perhaps, was that of an
old white war-horse in faded trappings, but still
retaining a trace of his former glories in the
way he arched his neck and lifted his stiffened
limbs.  Leading him by the bridle was a
fine-looking, weather-beaten old man, with
somewhat of the old war-horse's disposition, if one
might judge from the piercing eyes which
looked out from under shaggy gray brows,
and the grim though kindly smile lighting up
a face that would have been handsome if it
had not been for the deep scar of a sword-cut
which disfigured his brow and cheek.  His
smile was occasioned by the merry sallies of
a little child of some four or five summers
who was mounted on the horse's back, but
giving little heed to the management of his
steed, and rather intent on ornamenting him
with the flowers with which his lap was
filled.  He had thrown down his plumed cap
on the grass, that he might have more space
to bestow his treasures, and the sunbeams
and the violets nestled together in the golden
curls which the wind was sweeping back from
his broad white brow, and rolling in shaded
masses on his crimson velvet-dress.  Two
laughing blue eyes followed the motions of a
pair of fat baby hands, as they tried to twine
some primroses in the old charger's stiff
mane, where they were determined not to
stay, but kept dropping out as fast as he
put them in, strewing the ground beneath them.

Sometimes, when he found a prettier one
than usual, he would hold it out to a tall,
noble-looking lady who walked at his side.
"For you, mamma!" he would say, and the
lady would receive the child's gifts in her
hand, but would not suffer him to put them
in her hair.  Her dress was that of a widow;
and her pale, sad face and abstracted look, as
if she were dwelling on a dreary past rather
than a cheerful present, told that her grief
was still fresh in her mind.  All the little
one's merry shouts and loving speeches could
only draw from her a faint, sad smile, that
vanished again almost as soon as it appeared.

"Dress old Rollo's head with flowers if you
will, little Guy, but not mine; they would
only wither there."

"Well, then, mamma," said the little one,
"Rollo has enough; see how he shakes them
out of his ears!  I will now make a wreath
for sister Kate to wear when she comes home.
Has she gone to find papa, and will she bring
him back with her?  How long will it be
before we are together and happy again?  Tell
me mamma."

The tears rose in the lady's eyes; she
threw one arm around her child, and drawing
him toward her, pressed kisses fast and thick
on lip and cheek and brow.

"Papa cannot come again, my child; he
has gone to another world, and would not
wish to come back to one so full of care and
trouble; and sister Kate is far away;
perhaps she has gone to papa, and some day
we will go to meet them, but they cannot
come to us again.  You and I must love each
other dearly now, Guy, for I have no one left
but you."

"Dear mamma, don't cry," said the boy
stoutly, though his own lip was curling as he
spoke, and dropping all his treasures, he flung
both arms around her neck.

The old servant, as though he wished the
privacy of the mother and child to be
undisturbed, had gone forward a few paces; but
now he returned with a face expressive of
both surprise and anxiety; and interrupted them:

"My lady, the boat!  It has stopped at the
water-gate, and several persons are landing
from it."

"What boat?" said the lady hurriedly,
grasping her child tighter as she spoke, and
leading the horse forward in the direction
indicated.

"The one we noticed awhile ago from the
hill coming up from London.  Shall I go
forward and ask their errand?"

"Yes, Thomas, go quickly, but be calm,
and do not irritate them; we will follow.
There is no need of escaping if they are
friends," she added to herself when the old
servant was gone, "and if they are foes, there
is no time."

Her look grew even more alarmed when
she turned a corner and came in full sight of
the advancing party, for her eyes fell first on
the dress of a monk whose features were only
too well known to her.  But she had hardly
time to consider what the danger was, before
a figure detached itself from the group and
came bounding toward her.  "Mamma and
Guy!" shouted a glad girlish voice, and in
another moment the pale lady's arms were
loosened from her son to clasp them around
her daughter, and draw her tightly to her
breast.  Neither spoke for a moment--their
joy and thankfulness were too great for
words.  Kate first broke the silence:

"O mamma! is it all true?" she cried,
half laughing, half sobbing.  "Am I really
at home again?  Oh!  I am so glad! so glad!
I thought the time would never come.  And
little Guy--what a big boy he has grown!
And Rollo, and Thomas!  O mamma!  I do
believe I am at home!"

"Sister Kate! sister Kate!" shouted the
child, whose blue eyes had been opened wide
with wonder at the scene, and who now just
began to understand what was going on.
"You *have* come back, though mamma said
you would not; and there is papa, too!"

The lady started; after this wonderful
meeting it seemed as though even the dead
might return.

"O mamma! it is our kinsman, Sir John
De Forest, and Geoffrey, and Father Paul.  I
should have told you at first, but I am so
happy I forgot."  And away bounded the
happy girl to meet the others now close to
them in the path.

Lady Eleanor greeted Sir John with affection
and respect, for his wife had been her
distant cousin and very dear friend, and she
had, besides, met him in Lollard assemblies
several times.  But the sight of her brother
both perplexed and troubled her.  What had
*he* to do at such a meeting?  A proscribed
Lollard and a Benedictine monk walking
peaceably side by side was a sight as strange
as would be a wolf asleep in a sheep-fold.

Father Paul's fine features were working
with emotion as he took both his sister's
hands in his, and looked down into her face.

"Peace be unto your house, Eleanor, and
to all that are within it.  I come not to break
your peace, but rather to add to it.  God has
taught me many things since you and I
parted.  One is, that it is not serving him
to leave the station in life in which he himself
has placed us, or to break the ties of family
affection, which every law of his only binds
more firmly.  I come to you no proud,
self-righteous, persecuting Benedictine, but a
sinner saved and cleansed by the blood of Jesus
Christ.  Your God is my God, your people
are my people from henceforth.  Are you
still afraid to receive me into your home?"

Lady Eleanor was almost overwhelmed by
her happiness, and could only murmur:

"God answers prayer, O Paul!  Why is
my faith so weak?  He has bestowed all that
I ever wished; my cup is full of joy!"

Geoffrey had lingered behind, under
pretense of helping Bertrand to fasten the boat
and attend to their luggage, but in reality
because he was feeling a little sad and lonely.
We all know how, when one with whom we
have been holding constant companionship,
who has been all in all to us, and to whom we
have seemed to be very important, is suddenly
surrounded by other near and dear friends
who are entire strangers to us, what a
desolate feeling comes over us as we feel that we
are no more necessary to their happiness.
We immediately imagine ourselves forgotten
because, having been so long prominent, we
are now thrown into the background.  This
is all very selfish, no doubt, but it is human
nature.  Geoffrey was feeling more desolate,
perhaps, than he had felt since his entrance
into the convent-dungeon, when he was
aroused by Kate's merry laugh.

"Come, come, sir captive knight, you are
demeaning your noble birth by doing
servants' work.  My mother is just asking which
is Bertrand, and which is master Geoffrey.
And here is little Guy, who wants to see who
it was that sister Kate used to go and see
wrapped up like a ghost, and who at last
brought her home to him and mamma.
There now, Guy, make your reverence, like
a nice little page as you are, to this famous
hero; and I shouldn't wonder if he could
tell you better stories than even old Thomas."

Geoffrey was by this time heartily ashamed
of his foolish fancies, and stooping down, he
lifted the child in his arms to hide his confusion.

"Geoffrey," said Kate, her voice suddenly
changing from its light, bantering tone, "one
reason why I noticed Hubert that day in the
convent-chapel was because he made me think
of little Guy--he had just such a brow, and
eyes, and hair.  Oh! if he were only here to
be happy with us at home!"

"He is even happier than we," said Geoffrey,
touched by her thoughtfulness for him.
"He, too, has met his long-lost mother, and
he only is really at home; we are still wanderers."

"Yes, I know it," she replied, sighing.  "I
think I can imagine better what heaven must
be than I could before this morning.  Just
such happy meetings as this, but with no
drawbacks.  See how bright mamma looks,
leaning on Father Paul's arm!  She is talking
very earnestly to Sir John, and they are
pointing to us.  Come, you must make haste
if you do not want all your story told for you."

How swiftly flew the hours at Estly Court
that long, bright spring day!  There were so
many questions to be asked, so many stories
to tell, so many plans to discuss, that it was a
wonder they had any powers of speech left for
future conversations.  Kate kept close at her
mother's side, and Lady Eleanor could not
help following with her eyes every motion of
that long lost, strangely found brother.  Sir
John had much to hear from his son of his
other child's life and death; and even old
Thomas and Bertrand, seated at a respectful
distance, but still not too far away to hear
every word of the conversation and join in it
occasionally, were discussing the adventures
of their superiors with affectionate interest.
Little Guy kept running from one to the
other, now resting his curly head against
Geoffrey's shoulder--for they had taken a
great fancy to each other--and now climbing
into Kate's lap, that he might hear better the
marvellous adventures of the convent-ghost,
and how the two prisoners frightened each
other at their first interview.

This whole day was devoted to recalling
the past; but on the next, when they had
rested and were refreshed, they settled
themselves resolutely to think of the future.
There was one thing certain--Estly Court
was no safe residence for any of them.  As
soon as Lady Katharine's flight was discovered,
the abbess would conjecture where she
would be most likely to take refuge, and send
Lord Harcourt to take her away.  Fortunately
Lady Eleanor possessed a small estate
in Wales, which would afford her a livelihood,
and, under her brother's care, she determined
to set off for it immediately with her children.

Sir John, with his son and Bertrand, saw
nothing better for them than to go to
Germany, and take honorable service under some
of the petty princes, who were always at war
with each other; for, from the confiscation of
their property, there was nothing left to them
in England.

As the first day had been given up to
rejoicing, and the second to planning, so the
third saw their departure, for there was no
saying but that at any moment their enemies
might discover their retreat.  Their parting
was very sorrowful, for in those troublous
times there seemed little hope that they
would ever meet again on earth.  How
precious, then, to them was their faith that
sooner or later, come grief, come joy, they
would all meet in a place that has never and
will never witness a parting, though it has
been the scene of more blessed reunions
than we can conceive.

.. vspace:: 2

Geoffrey and Kate were walking together by
the river-side on the last evening.  Neither
spoke for a long time--they only gazed at
the dark water flowing so rapidly toward the
sea, and thought how soon it would separate
them for years, perhaps forever.  Kate broke
the silence:

"I wonder if we will ever see each other
again, Geoffrey."

For some moments her companion did not
answer; then he said in a low voice, very
earnestly:

"Kate, do you remember the night when
Hubert gave us these?" and he drew from
his bosom the little bag of plaited straw
which those dear fingers had made in the
lonely prison.

Her only answer was to draw out hers, and
lay it beside his on his open palm.

Geoffrey continued:

"You remember what he said then, and
afterward when he was dying, and what I
promised.  If God spares me a few years
longer, I will come back, and ask you to help
me do what he wished so much.  I am a boy
yet in years, I know, but I am a man in many
things, and in token that you will think of
me sometimes, shall we exchange gifts, dear
Kate?  Then, when that day comes, I will
ask mine back again."

Her only answer was to take up Geoffrey's
bag and put it where her own had been: then
Geoffrey did the same with hers, and both
were content.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Waiting for the Dawn`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *Waiting for the Dawn.*

.. vspace:: 2

Twenty years have passed since a boy
and girl walked sadly side by side on
the banks of the Thames one sweet spring
evening.  It is autumn now, and the slanting
rays of a setting sun are gilding the vine-clad
hills of the Rhine.  The castles which in
these days delight the traveller by their
picturesque ruins, were, at the time of which
we are speaking, in their glory, and frowned
down on the peaceful water from many a lofty
summit.

The peasants are gathering in the vintage,
and yonder, slowly climbing the hill toward a
great building, whose turrets, catching the
latest beams, seem burnished with gold, is a
heavy cart laden with the rich purple clusters,
and surrounded by a group of women and
children, who are urging on the patient oxen
with shouts and songs.

This has been a wonderfully abundant
year.  The great granaries of the owner of
the valley are bursting with corn, and the
vines are bending with their luscious load.
Nor is there one who does not rejoice in their
master's prosperity; for far and near, high
and low, all love and honor the baron of
Arnstein--Geoffrey the Good.

It is true that some say he is only an
adventurer, who had landed a penniless exile
on their shores, and who owed all his present
fortune to his sword and his sovereign's favor;
but none dare say that his wealth and power
have not been fairly and nobly won, and
generously and justly used.  He had not gone
far in the path of military glory and ambition;
but soon quitting the court and the field, he
he had settled down on his estate, and
contented himself with governing his people,
and attending to their welfare.

The vintage-cart has mounted higher and
higher, and now it has turned into a court,
and is depositing its load.  Farther on, in an
inner court, where a porch opens into the
great castle-hall, stands the lord and master;
and the peasants pay him their respects with
many an awkward but sincere reverence.

He is a fine, hale, sunburnt man.  A few
silver hairs are to be seen in his dark curls
and heavy beard; but his martial air and
stalwart form proclaim him in the prime of life.
He is leaning with one shoulder against the
doorway, and the other arm is thrown round a
rosy little lady, very matronly in her cap and
plaited kerchief, but showing, in her twinkling
eyes and dimpled mouth, much of the roguish
spirit which characterized the Lady
Katharine Hyde of yore.  She looks rather too stout
and portly to flit about by night as a convent
ghost; but it will be very wonderful if that
small image of her, now engaged in teasing
an old wolf-hound, should arrive at the age
of discretion without some mischievous adventure.

A little farther on, in an arm-chair, so
placed that the sunbeams light up his bent
figure, and glisten in his snow-white hair,
making it seem like a halo of glory about his
head, sits a very old man.  He is tracing with
his stick letters in the sand; while a boy,
some six or seven years old, is pronouncing
their names, giving a scream of joy every
time he finds, by the old man's smile, that he
is right.

"Hubert," says his father's cheerful voice,
"Father Paul will let you leave your lesson
now.  Run and meet uncle Guy; he is
coming up the hill."

Away runs the boy right joyously, his
sister not so far behind; and when they return,
little Eleanor is seated on a tall horse, in front
of a young man in student's dress, and
Hubert is leading the horse by the bridle.

Young Guy had joined his brother and
sister after his mother's death, and was now
making rapid progress toward distinction in
a German college.  His frank manners and
bright, merry face make him a welcome
everywhere, and the children receive him
with joyful shouts.

"My new pony is to come home to-morrow,
uncle Guy!" says little Eleanor, jumping up
and down with glee, for he has dismounted
himself and her, and is greeting her parents.
"Gerhard is to train him for me, and I mean
to call him Rollo, after the horse you were
riding when papa and mamma came out of
prison."

"Uncle Guy!" says Hubert, in a lower but
no less eager tone, his face crimsoned with
delight, "Father Paul says I know all my
letters now, and to-morrow I am to begin in
Papa's big book!"

"I am glad to hear that, my boy," Sir Guy
says kindly; "we will have you at
Wittemberg soon, I think.  But now I want a
moment with Father Paul.  White Star is not
very tired, and if you can get Bertrand or
Gerhard to hold you on, you might ride him
round the outer court."

Away go the happy children, and Sir Guy
turns to the old monk, now chaplain of the
castle--for after the death of his sister, and
the cruel murder of his friend, Lord Cobham,
he had joined the exiles in Germany.

"Is there any news, my son?" says the
good old man.

"Not much, father, save that there is some
stir about this new invention which some
men say comes straight from the Devil, while
others are equally certain that it has
descended from heaven."

"Ah! you mean the wonderful art of printing,"
said Father Paul; "both parties have
somewhat of truth in their assertions.  Old
men can see deeper into the depths of the
future than young men; and those who, like
me, are drawing very near the golden gates,
are permitted to see, though but dimly, far
down the slope of time into days that are to
come; and I see, in this way of multiplying
books, a great curse and a great blessing for
the world.  Have you seen any of the work?"

"That have I, Father--several works; and
I have brought you here one sheet, that you
may see it for yourself."

The old man takes the sheet with trembling
hands; it is the first chapter of Matthew's gospel.

"One of the men from whom I purchased
this is very sanguine; he thinks that when
they have all their *metal* type, they may be
able to print a Bible in a day.  Surely that
would be a wondrous thing!"

"A wondrous thing, and a glorious thing!"
said Father Paul, rising to his feet, and
steadying himself with his staff, while his eye
brightened, and his whole face beamed with
what seemed almost the spirit of inspiration.
"Now, Lord, lettest thou thy servant
depart in peace, for the day of the Reformation
is breaking!  The day promised so long is
coming, O Lord!  I have waited for thy
salvation!  The chains which have kept thy
precious Word from the people are breaking,
one by one.  In the Lord's good time will he
accomplish it.  Glorious is the perfect liberty
of the sons of God--the liberty wherewith
Christ hath made us free, and which he is
about to proclaim to the whole world!  When
each peasant can have his Bible in his hand,
then shall arise men mighty to preach it.
Then shall Rome tremble on her seven hills,
and the song of the redeemed captives go up
to the Lord from all the ends of the earth!

"Lord, how long?  Lord, how long?
Hasten the day, for thine elect's sake.  O
Lord Jesus! come quickly!"

The old man sank back again on his seat,
the tears dropping slowly on his white beard,
his head bowed on the hands which rested on
the top of his staff.

Geoffrey and his wife have drawn near, and
heard the old man's last words.

"Forgive me, my children," he says at last.
"From the top of this Pisgah I see a glorious
land.  There are visions opening to my mind
such as words cannot paint.  Let me be a
little while in silence."

They are all still.  Higher and higher up
the mountains are creeping the evening shadows;
already there are twinkling lights in the
cottages below.  Far in the distant west the
purple and golden glories are melting, shade
by shade into the intense azure of the zenith.
In the east, almost touching yonder blue hill,
is the evening star.  The last sunbeam is
linking the earth and sky, and over that
golden bridge is passing a ransomed soul.

"Father Paul," says Geoffrey, "the twilight
is gathering fast; will you not come within?"

There is no twilight for him, for he is
looking into the face of his God!

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   ATTRACTIVE GIFT BOOKS.


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   UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

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SCAMP AND I. A Story of City Byways . . . By L. T. MEADE.
FRIENDS OR FOES. A Story for Boys and Girls . . . E. EVERETT-GREEN.
JONAS HAGGERLEY. The Story of £100 Reward . . . J. JACKSON WRAY.
THE LOST JEWEL. A Tale . . . A. L. O. E.
OUR CAPTAIN; or, The Heroes of Barton School . . . M. L. RIDLEY.
MISTRESS MARGERY. A Tale of the Lollards . . E. S. HOLT.
THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE. A Tale . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
CABIN AND CASTLE; or, Barney's Story . . . E. A. BLAND.
I WILL. A True Story for Boys . . . ARTHUR HALL.
IDA'S SECRET; or, The Towers of Ickledale . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
WATER GIPSIES; Adventures of Tagrag and Bobtail . . . L. T. MEADE.
CRIPPLE JESS; The Hop-picker's Daughter . . . L. MARSTON.
THE GABLED FARM; Young Workers for the King . . . CATHARINE SHAW.
LOVE'S LABOUR; or, The Caged Linnet . . . M. LEATHES.
THE THREE CHUMS. A School Story . . . M. L. RIDLEY.
TRUE TO THE END. The Story of a Sister's Love . . . DR. EDERSHEIM.
FLOSS SILVERTHORN; The Little Handmaid . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
WORTH THE WINNING; or, Rewarded at Last . . . EMMA HORNIBROOK.
A FORGOTTEN HERO; or, Not for Him . . . EMILY S. HOLT.
MARCELLA OF ROME; A Tale of the Early Church . . . F. EASTWOOD.
IN THE DESERT. A Tale of the Huguenots . . . D. ALCOCK.
NOBODY'S LAD. A Story of the Big City . . . LESLIE KEITH.
MADGE HARDWICKE; or, Mists of the Valley . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
OUR SOLDIER HERO. The Story of my Brothers . . . M. L. RIDLEY.
COUSIN DORA; or, Serving the King . . . EMILY BRODIE.
BRAVE GEORDIE. The Story of an English Boy. . . G. STEBBING.
MARJORY AND MURIEL; or, Two London Homes . . . E. EVERETT-GREEN.
LIFE IN A NUTSHELL. A Story . . . AGNES GIBBERNE.
GIPSY MIKE; or, Firm as a Rock . . . ANON.
DAVID'S LITTLE LAD. A Story of a Noble Deed . . . L. T. MEADE.
SILVERDALE RECTORY; or, The Golden Links . . . G. STEBBING.
ALICK'S HERO; or, The Two Friends . . . CATHARINE SHAW.
LONELY JACK, and His Friends at Sunnyside . . . EMILY BRODIE.
WILL FOSTER OF THE FERRY. A Story . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
SENT TO COVENTRY; or, The Boys of Highbeech . . . M. L. RIDLEY.
FROGGY'S LITTLE BROTHER. A Story . . . BRENDA.
TWICE RESCUED. The Story of Tino . . . N. CORNWALL.
IN THE SUNLIGHT. A Year of my Life's Story . . . CATHARINE SHAW.
OLD CHICKWEED; or, The Story told . . . E. A. BLAND.
THROUGH THE STORM; or, The Lord's Prisoners . . . EMILY S. HOLT.
THE OLD HOUSE IN THE CITY . . . AGNES GIBERNE.
KING'S SCHOLARS; or, Faithful unto Death . . . M. L. RIDLEY.
JEAN LINDSAY, The Vicar's Daughter . . . EMILY BRODIE.
SEEKETH NOT HER OWN. An Old Time Story . . . M. L. SITWELL.
MOTHER MEG. The Story of Dickie's Attic . . . CATHARINE SHAW.
GEOFFREY THE LOLLARD . . . F. EASTWOOD.
NELLIE ARUNDEL. A Tale of Home Life . . . CATHARINE SHAW.
WALTER ALISON: His Friends and Foes . . . M. L. RIDLEY.

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LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER Row, E. C.

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No. 854

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