The King's Daughters Part 24

"Oh, Alegar o' Thorpe, and them bits o' children o' his, that should be learning their hornbooks i' school sooner than be here, trow."

"You'd best teach 'em, Tom," suggested Mr Simnel with a grim smile.

"Now then, in with you!"

And the prisoners were marched into the Castle dungeon.

In the corner of the dungeon sat John Johnson, his Bible on his knee, and beside him, snuggled close to him, Cissy. Little Will was seated on the floor at his father's feet, playing with some bits of wood. Johnson looked up as his friends entered.

"Why, good friends! Shall I say I am glad or sorry to behold you here?"

"Glad," answered William Mount, firmly, "if so we may glorify G.o.d."

"I'm glad, I know," said Cissy, jumping from the term, and giving a warm hug to Rose. "I thought G.o.d would send somebody. You see, Father was down a bit when we came here this morning, and left everybody behind us; but you've come now, and he'll be ever so pleased. It isn't bad, you know--not bad at all--and then there's Father. But, Rose, what have you done to your hand? It's tied up."

"Hush, dear! Only hurt it a bit, Cissy. Don't speak of it," said Rose in an undertone; "I don't want mother to see it, or she'll trouble about it, maybe. It doesn't hurt much now."

Cissy nodded, with a face which said that she thoroughly entered into Rose's wish for silence.

"Eh dear, dear! that we should have lived to see this day!" cried Margaret Thurston, melting into tears as she sat down in the corner.

"Rose!" said her father suddenly, "thy left hand is bound up. Hast hurt it, maid?"

Rose's eyes, behind her mother's back, said, "Please don't ask me anything about it!" But Alice turned round to look, and she had to own the truth.

"Why, maid! That must have been by the closet where I was hid, and I never heard thee scream," said Margaret.

"Nay, Meg, I screamed not."

"Lack-a-day! how could'st help the same?"

"Didn't it hurt sore, Rose?" asked John Thurston.

"Not nigh so much as you might think," answered Rose, brightly. "At the first it caused me some grief; but truly, the more it burned the less it hurt, till at last it was scarce any hurt at all."

"But thou had'st the pot in thine other hand, maid; wherefore not have hit him a good swing therewith?"

"Truly, Meg, I thank G.o.d that He held mine hand from any such deed.

'The servant of the Lord must not strive.' I should thus have dishonoured my Master."

"Marry, but that may be well enough for angels and such like. _We_ dwell in this nether world."

"Rose hath the right," said William Mount. "We may render unto no man railing for railing. 'If we suffer as Christians, happy are we; for the Spirit of glory and of G.o.d resteth upon us.' Let us not suffer as malefactors."

"You say well, neighbour," added John Thurston. "We be called to the defence of G.o.d's truth, but in no wise to defend ourselves."

"Nay, the Lord is the avenger of all that have none other," said Alice.

"But let me see thine hand, child, maybe I can do thee some ease."

"Under your good leave, Mother, I would rather not unlap it," replied Rose. "Truly, it scarce doth me any hurt now; and I bound it well with a wet rag, that I trow it were better to let it be. It shall do well enough, I cast no doubt."

She did not want her mother to see how terribly it was burned. And in her heart was a further thought which she would not put into words--If they shortly burn my whole body, what need is there to trouble about this little hurt to my hand?

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

SHUTTING THE DOOR.

Once more the days wore on, and no fresh arrests were made; but no help came to the prisoners in the Castle and the Moot Hall, nor to Elizabeth Foulkes in the keeping of Mr Ashby. Two priests had talked to Elizabeth, and the authorities were beginning to change their opinion about her. They had fancied from her quiet, meek appearance, that she would be easily prevailed upon to say what they wanted. Now they found that under that external softness there was a will of iron, and a power of endurance beyond anything they had imagined.

The day of examination for all the prisoners--the last day, when they would be sentenced or acquitted--was appointed to be the 23rd of June.

On the previous day the Commissioners called Elizabeth Foulkes before them. She came, accompanied by Mr Ashby and her uncle; and they asked her only one question.

"Dost thou believe in a Catholic Church of Christ, or no?"

Of course Elizabeth replied "Yes," for the Bible has plenty to say of the Church of Christ, though it never identifies it with the Church of Rome. They asked her no more, for Boswell, the scribe, interposed, and begged that she might be consigned to the keeping of her uncle. The Commissioners a.s.sented, and Holt took her away. It looks very much as if Boswell had wanted her to escape. She was much more carelessly guarded in her uncle's house than in Mr Ashby's, and could have got away easily enough if she had chosen. She was more than once sent to open the front door, whence she might have slipped out after dark with almost a certainty of escape. It was quite dark when she answered the last rap.

"Pray you," asked an old man's voice, "is here a certain young maid, by name Elizabeth Foulkes?"

"I am she, master. What would you with me?"

"A word apart," he answered in a whisper. "Be any ears about that should not be?"

Elizabeth glanced back into the kitchen where her aunt was sewing, and her two cousins gauffering the large ruffs which both men and women then wore.

"None that can harm. Say on, my master."

"Bessy, dost know my voice?"

"I do somewhat, yet I can scarce put a name thereto."

"I am Walter Purcas, of Booking."

"Robin's father! Ay, I know you well now, and I cry you mercy that I did no sooner."

"Come away with me, Bessy!" he said, in a loud whisper. "I have walked all the way from Booking to see if I might save thee, for Robin's sake, for he loves thee as he loveth nought else save me. Mistress Wade shall lend me an horse, and we can be safe ere night be o'er, in the house of a good man that I know in a place unsuspect. O Bessy, my dear la.s.s, save thyself and come with me!"

"Save thyself!" The words had been addressed once before, fifteen hundred years back, to One who did not save Himself, because He came to save the world. Before the eyes of Elizabeth rose two visions--one fair and sweet enough, a vision of safety and comfort, of life and happiness, which might be yet in state for her. But it was blotted out by the other--a vision of three crosses reared on a bare rock, when the One who hung in the midst could have saved Himself at the cost of the glory of the Father and the everlasting bliss of His Church. And from that cross a voice seemed to whisper to her--"If any man serve Me, let him follow Me."

"Verily, I am loth you should have your pain for nought," said she, "but indeed I cannot come with you, though I do thank you with all my heart.

I am set here in ward of mine uncle, and for me to 'scape away would cause penalty to fall on him. I cannot save myself at his cost. And should not the Papists take it to mean that I had not the courage to stand to that which they demanded of me? Nay, Father Purcas, this will I not do, for so should I lose my crown, and dim the glory of my Christ."

"Bessy!" cried her aunt from the kitchen, "do come within and shut the door, maid! Here's the wind a-blowing in till I'm nigh feared o' losing my ears, and all the lace like to go up the chimney, while thou tarriest chatting yonder. What gossip hast thou there? Canst thou not bring her in?"

"Bessy, _come_!" whispered Purcas earnestly.

But Elizabeth shook her head. "The Lord bless you! I dare not." And she shut the door, knowing that by so doing, she virtually shut it upon life and happiness--that is, happiness in this life. Elizabeth went quietly back to the kitchen, and took up an iron. She scarcely knew what she was ironing, nor how she answered her cousin Dorothy's rather sarcastic observations upon the interesting conversation which she seemed to have had. A few minutes later her eldest cousin, a married woman, who lived in a neighbouring street, lifted the latch and came in.

"Good even, Mother!" said she. "Well, Doll, and Jenny! So thou gave in at last, Bess? I'm fain for thee. It's no good fighting against a stone wall."