The King's Daughters Part 35

"If you please, Wastborowe. You've no writ to keep me, have you?"

"Haven't--worse luck! Only wish I had. I'll set a match to the lot of you with as much pleasure as I'd drink a pot of ale. It'll never be good world till we're rid of heretics!"

"There'll be Satan left then, methinks, and maybe a few rogues and murderers to boot."

"Never a one as bad as you Lutherans and Gospellers! Get you in.

You'll have to wait my time to come out."

"Very well," said Mr Ewring quietly, and went in.

He found Agnes Bongeor seated in a corner of the window recess, with her Bible on her knee; but it was closed, and she looked very miserable.

"Well, my sister, and how is it with you?"

"As 'tis like to be, Master Ewring, with her whom the Lord hath cast forth, and reckons unworthy to do Him a service."

"Did he so reckon Abraham, then, at the time of the offering up of Isaac? Isaac was not sacrificed: he was turned back from the same. Yet what saith the Lord unto him? 'Because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thou shalt be blessed, because thou hast obeyed My voice.' See you, his good will thereto is reckoned as though he had done the thing. 'The Lord looketh on the heart.' Doubt thou not, my good sister, but firmly believe, that to thee also faith is counted for righteousness, and the will pa.s.seth for the deed, with Him who saith that 'if thou be Christ's then art thou Abraham's seed.'"

"That's comforting, in truth," said poor Agnes. "But, Master Ewring, think you there is any hope that I may yet be allowed to witness for my Lord before men in very deed? To have come so near, and be thrust back!

Is there no hope?"

Agnes Bongeor was not the only one of the sufferers in this persecution who actually coveted and longed for martyrdom. If the imperial crown of all the world had been laid at their feet, they would have reckoned it beneath contempt in comparison with that crown of life promised to such as are faithful unto death. Not faithful _till_ death, but _unto_ it.

"I know not what the Lord holds in reserve for thee, my sister. I only know that whatsoever it be, it is that whereby thou mayest best glorify Him. Is that not enough? If more glory should come to Him by thy dying in this dungeon after fifty years' imprisonment, than by thy burning, which wouldst thou choose? Speak truly."

Agnes dropped her face upon her hands for a moment.

"You have the right, Master Ewring," said she, when she looked up again.

"I fear I was over full of myself. Let the Lord's will be done, and His glory ensured, by His doing with me whatsoever He will. I will strive to be patient, and not grieve more than I should."

"Therein wilt thou do well, my sister. And now I go--when as it shall please Wastborowe," added Mr Ewring with a slight smile of amus.e.m.e.nt, and then growing grave,--"to visit one in far sorer trouble than thyself."

"Eh, Master, who is that?"

"It is Margaret Thurston, who hath not been, nor counted herself, rejected of the Lord, but hath of her own will rejected Him. She bought life by recanting."

"Eh, poor soul, how miserable must she be! Tell her, if it like you, that I will pray for her. Maybe the Lord will grant to both of us the grace yet to be His witnesses."

Mr Ewring had to pa.s.s four weary hours in the dungeon before it pleased Wastborowe to let him out. He spent it in conversing with the other prisoners,--all of whom, save Agnes Bongeor, were arrested for some crime,--and trying to do them good. At last the heavy door rolled back, and Wastborowe's voice was heard inquiring, in accents which did not sound particularly sober,--

"Where's yon companion that wants baking by Lexden Road?"

"I am here, Wastborowe," said Mr Ewring, rising. "Good den, friends.

The Lord bless and comfort thee, my sister!"

And out he went into the summer evening air, to meet the half-tipsy gaoler's farewell of,--

"There! Take to thy heels, old shortbread, afore thou'rt done a bit too brown. Thou'lt get it some of these days!"

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

"REMEMBER!"

Mr Ewring only returned Wastborowe's uncivil farewell by a nod, as he walked up High Street towards East Gate. At the corner of Tenant's Lane he turned to the left, and went up to the Castle. A request to see the prisoner there brought about a little discussion between the porter and the gaoler, and an appeal was apparently made to some higher authority.

At length the visitor was informed that permission was granted, on condition that he would not mention the subject of religion.

The condition was rejected at once. Mr Ewring had come to talk about that and nothing else.

"Then you'd best go home," said Bartle. "Can't do to have matters set a-crooked again when they are but now coming straight. Margaret Thurston's reconciled, and we've hopes for John, though he's been harder of the two to bring round. Never do to have folks coming and setting 'em all wrong side up. Do you want to see 'em burned, my master?"

"I want to see them true," was Mr Ewring's answer, "The burning doesn't much matter."

"Oh, doesn't it?" sneered Bartle. "You'll sing another tune, Master Ewring, the day you're set alight."

"Methinks, friend, those you have burned sang none other. But how about a thousand years hence? Bartholomew Crane, what manner of tune wilt thou be singing then?"

"Time enough to say when I've got it p.r.i.c.ked, Master," said Bartle: but Mr Ewring saw from his uneasiness that the shot had told.

People were much more musical in England three hundred years ago than now. Nearly everybody could sing, or read music at sight: and a lady was thought very poorly educated if she could not "set"--that is, write down a tune properly on hearing it played. Writing music they called "p.r.i.c.king" it.

Mr Ewring did not stay to talk with Bartle; he bade him good-bye, and walked up Tenant's Lane on his way home. But before he had gone many yards, an idea struck him, and he turned round and went back to the Castle.

Bartle was still in the court, and he peeped through the wicket to see who was there.

"Good lack! you're come again!"

"I'm come again," said Mr Ewring, smiling. "Bartle, wilt take a message to the Thurstons for me?"

"Depends," said Bartle with a knowing nod. "What's it about? If you want to tell 'em price of flour, I don't mind."

"I only want you to say one word to either of them."

"Come, that's jolly! What's the word?"

"Remember!"

Bartle scratched his head. "Remember what? There's the rub!"

"Leave that to them," said Mr Ewring.

"Well,--I--don't--know," said Bartle very slowly. "Mayhap _I_ sha'n't remember."

"Mayhap that shall help you," replied the miller, holding up an angelet, namely, a gold coin, value 3 s.h.i.+llings 4 pence--the smallest gold coin then made.

"Shouldn't wonder if that strengthened my wits," said Bartle with a grin, as the little piece of gold was slipped through the wicket.

"That's over a penny a letter, bain't it?"