However, there was no lack of zeal in executing the cardinal's commands; and Clarke, together with other canons of his college, Dalaber of Gloucester College, Udel, Diet, Radley, and even young Fitzjames, whose friendship with Dalaber was thought highly suspicious, were all cast into prison, and some of them into very close and rigorous captivity, with an unknown fate hanging over them, which could not but fill even the stoutest soul with dread and horror.

The prisons of the middle ages will scarce bear detailed description in these modern days; the condition of filth and squalor of the lower cells, often almost without air, and reeking with pestilential vapours, baffles words in which to describe it. To be sure, persons in daily life were used to conditions which would now be condemned as hopelessly insanitary, and were not so susceptible and squeamish as we have since become. The ordinary state of some of the poorer students' halls in Oxford appears to us as simply disgusting; yet the thing was accepted then as a matter of course.

Nevertheless, the condition of those cast into the prisons of those days was a very forlorn and terrible one, and almost more calculated to break the spirit and the constancy of the captive than any more short and sharp ordeal might do. It is scarcely to be supposed that the prisons in Oxford were superior to those in other parts of the country, and indeed the sequel to the incarceration of Clarke and his companions seems to prove the contrary.

But at least, in those days, bribes to the jailers could do, in most cases, something for the amelioration of the lot of the prisoner; and Arthur Cole was possessed of a warm heart, a long purse, and a character for orthodoxy which enabled him to associate on friendly terms with suspected persons without incurring the charge of heresy. His own near relative being proctor of the university, and his own assured position there, gave him great advantages; and these he used fearlessly during the days which followed, and even sought private interviews with the three heads of houses who had the main jurisdiction in the matter of these unfortunate students.

But for the first few days after Dalaber's arrest and imprisonment the excitement was too keen to admit of any mediation. The authorities were busy unravelling the "web of iniquity," making fresh discoveries of books, chiefly copies of the New Testament, circulating amongst the students, and sending to prison those who possessed them, or had been known to be connected with the Association of Christian Brothers.

All that Arthur could contrive during that first week was a visit to the cell of Dalaber. He was absolutely refused admittance to Clarke, who, he heard, was lodged in a dark and foul prison, where once salt fish had been stored, and which was the most noxious of any in the building.

Clarke, it seemed, had now become the object of the greatest suspicion and distrust. The Bishop of Lincoln—then the Diocesan of Oxford—had written most stringently on his account, and no inducement would prevail to gain admittance to him; nor did Arthur feel the smallest confidence that the money greedily accepted by the warder in charge would ever be expended upon the prisoner.

He was very heavy-hearted about this friend of his; but he had better fortune in his attempts to gain speech with Dalaber.

At the end of a week he prevailed so far as to gain a short interview with him, and was locked into the cell in some haste by the jailer, and bidden to be brief in what he had to say, since it was not long that he could be permitted to remain.

Dalaber sprang up from the stone bench on which he had been sitting in a dejected attitude, and when he saw the face of his friend he uttered an exclamation of joy.

"Arthur! you have come to me! Nay, but this is a true friend's part. Art sure it is safe to do so? Thou must not run thine own neck into a noose on my account. But oh, how good it is to see the face of a friend!"

He seized Arthur's two hands, wringing them in a clasp that was almost pain, and his face worked with emotion.

Arthur, as his eyes grew used to the darkness, was shocked at the change which a week had wrought in his friend. Dalaber's face seemed to have shrunk in size, the eyes had grown large and hollow, his colour had all faded, and he looked like a man who had passed through a sharp illness.

"What have they done to you, Anthony, thus to change you?" cried Arthur, in concern.

"Oh, nothing, as yet. I have but sat in the stocks two days, till they sent me for closer ward hither. After Master Garret's escape bolts and bars have not been thought secure enough out of the prison house. But every time the bolt shoots back I think that it may be the men come to take me to the Tower. They have threatened to send me thither to be racked, and afterwards to be burnt. If it must come to that, pray Heaven it come quickly. It is worse to sit here thinking and picturing it all than to know the worst has come at last."

His hands were hot, and the pulses throbbed. Arthur could see the shining of the dilated eyes. Dalaber's vivid imagination had been a rather terrible companion for him during these days of darkness and solitude. The authorities had shown some shrewd knowledge of human nature when they had shut him up alone. Some of the culprits had been housed together in the prison, but Dalaber had been quite solitary.

It was not so evil a cell that he occupied as some of the others. Arthur's gold had prevailed thus far. But nothing could save him from the horrors of utter loneliness, and these had told upon him more than greater hardships would have done, had they been shared with others. It had been characteristic of Dalaber all through his life that he could be more courageous and steadfast for others than for himself.

"Tush, Anthony! There will be no more such talk now," answered Arthur, with a laugh. "They have found out for themselves all that you withheld. They have laid by the heels enough victims to satisfy the wrath of the bishop and the cardinal. And already there is a difference in the minds of the authorities here. In a short while they will become themselves advocates of mercy. They took a great fright at hearing of heresy in Oxford; but persecution is against the very essence of our existence as a university—persecution for what men think. Mine own uncle only last night was beginning to hope that, having laid hands upon the culprits, they would now be gently dealt with. But for the cardinal and the bishop there would be little to fear."

Anthony drew a deep breath, as of relief. His clasp on Arthur's hands slowly slackened.

"Then they talk not of the Tower for me, or for any?"

"I have heard no word of it. I am sure such matter is not in their thoughts. And truly, if heresy be so grievous a crime, they have need to look to themselves; for those same three judges before whom ye were brought, Anthony, have committed an act of heresy for which the penalty is the same death with which they have threatened you and others."

"What mean you?" asked Dalaber, with wide-open eyes.

"Marry, this—that when they sought in vain for Master Garret, and were unable to find him, they went themselves to an astrologer, and bid him make a figure by the stars, that he might know whither the fugitive had fled; and he, having done so, declared that Garret had escaped in a tawny coat to the southeastward, and was like to be found in London, where doubtless some of the brotherhood have hid him. And this they have dared to tell to the cardinal and to the bishop, in no wise ashamed of their own act; whereas the church forbids expressly any such asking of portents from the stars, and it is as much heresy as any deed of which you and your comrades have been guilty."

Dalaber broke into a short laugh.

"By the Mass, but in sooth it is so!" he exclaimed, drawing a long breath. "Shall not the God of all the earth look down and judge between us and our foes? O Arthur, Arthur, how can one not call such men our foes? They hunt us down and would do us to death because we claim the right to love and study the Word of God, and they themselves practise the arts of necromancy, which have been from the beginning forbidden as an abomination in the sight of the Lord, and they feel no shame, but blazon abroad their evil deed. Is it not time that the church were purged of such rulers as these?"

"Perchance it is; but that I hold is to be settled not by us but by God Himself. He has not shown Himself backward in the past to cleanse His sanctuary of defilement, and I trow we can leave this work to Him now, and wait His time. Patience, good Anthony, patience. That is my word of counsel to you. You will not reform the church singlehanded. The brethren will not do it; and it were only a source of weakness to rob the church of those of her sons who are longing after righteousness and truth. Be not in such haste. Be content to stand aside, and see for a while how the Lord Himself will work. You know the words of Scripture, that in quietness and confidence shall be your rest. There may be periods when quietness does more to prevail than any open strife. You have made your protest. The world will not listen yet; but the time shall come when it will be more ready. Wait in patience for that day, and seek not to run before the Lord."

Such sage counsel was not unpalatable to Dalaber, who was in a less combative mood now than he had been of late. He had been threatened with excommunication, and indeed for a while there was no hope that he would be regarded as a fit person to receive the holy rite. That in itself was terrible to his devout spirit, and when any person spoke gently and kindly to him, and in a friendly and persuasive fashion, he was always eager to declare his love and loyalty for the Catholic Church.

He hated the thought of being regarded as an outcast and heathen. He knew that it was so terribly unjust. He had borne witness to his own beliefs; he had made full confession of faith; he had steadfastly refused to betray any comrade. Perhaps he had now done enough for the cause of liberty and righteousness, and might step aside for a while and see what would be the result of the movement now set on foot.

He asked eagerly about those who had been taken, and his eyes filled with tears when he heard that Clarke was one of the victims, and one who was likely to be treated with greater harshness than the rest.

"A saint of the Lord, if ever there was one!" cried Dalaber earnestly. "Oh, if only they would let me share his confinement! What would not I give to be with him, to tend and comfort him, and listen to his godly words! I should fear nothing, were he beside me. Surely the angels of the Lord will be about his bed through the hours of darkness, and will keep him from the malice of his enemies."

"I trust that he will be liberated ere long," answered Arthur gravely. "But they will never make him speak a word that his heart goes not with. And it is said that the bishop and the cardinal are much incensed against the canons of the college who have been found tampering, as they choose to call it, with the holy Catholic faith."

"And Freda? How is she, and what says she of all these matters?"

"She is in much trouble of spirit, but she bears it with courage, and I do all that I may to comfort her.

"I have won the right to think of her as a sister now," added Arthur, with the colour rising in his face, "for Magdalen has promised to be my wife. We are betrothed, and I ask your gratulations, Anthony."

These were given with great fervour, and for a brief while the two young men forgot all else in eager lovers' talk. Anthony was assured that no danger threatened the house of Dr. Langton for his friendship with Clarke and others of those now in prison. The anxiety of the authorities was simply with the students and those under their care in the university. The private opinions of private persons in the place did not concern them in any grave fashion.

Already enlightened men were beginning to foresee a gradual change in ecclesiastical government in the land, though it might not be just yet. Even the most zealous of the church party, when they were shrewd and far-sighted men, and not immediately concerned with the present struggle, saw signs of an inevitable increase in light and individual liberty of thought which would bring great changes with it. To check heresy amongst the students was the duty of the authorities, in virtue of their office; but they gave themselves no concern outside the walls of their colleges. Perhaps they knew that if they attempted to hunt out all heretics, or such as might be so called, from the city, they would denude it of half its population.

Indeed, having once laid hands on the offenders, and argued and talked with them, Dr. London himself, though regarded by the culprits as somewhat like a greedy lion roaring after his prey, and being, in truth, a man of whom not much good can be written, wrote to the cardinal and the Bishop of Lincoln, plainly intimating that he thought the matter might be safely hushed up, and that it would be a pity to proceed to any extremity.

"These youths," he said, "have not been long conversant with Master Garret, nor have greatly perused his mischievous books; and long before Master Garret was taken, divers of them were weary of these works, and delivered them back to Dalaber. I am marvellous sorry for the young men. If they be openly called upon, although they appear not greatly infect, yet they shall never avoid slander, because my lord's grace did send for Master Garret to be taken. I suppose his Grace will know of your good lordship everything. Nothing shall be hid, I assure your good lordship, an every one of them were my brother; and I do only make this moan for these youths, for surely they be of the most towardly young men in Oxford, and as far as I do yet perceive, not greatly infect, but much to blame for reading any part of these works."

It was Arthur who brought word to the Bridge House of this letter of mediation which had been sent to the bishop, who would then confer with the cardinal; and the hearts of all beat high with hope.

"Surely, when he reads that, he will not deal harshly with them!" spoke Freda, her colour coming and going.

"I hope not—I trust not; but for the bishop none may answer. I would rather we had the cardinal directly over us; but it is the bishop who is our lord and master."

"And is he a hard and cruel man?"

"He is one who has a vehement hatred of heresy, and would destroy it root and branch," answered Arthur. "It may be that even this letter will in some sort anger him, though it is meant for the best."

"How anger him?" asked Magdalen.

"Marry, in that he sees how godly and toward has been the walk of those youths who are now accounted guilty of heresy. Even Dr. London, who has been so busy in the matter of the arrests, now that he hath gotten them safe in ward, is forced to own that they are amongst the best and most promising of the students of the university, and therefore he himself pleads that they be not harshly dealt with. But how the bishop will like to hear that is another matter."

"Yet to us it cannot but be a testimony," spoke Dr. Langton gravely, "and one which those in authority would do well to lay to heart. In the matter of wisdom, prudence, and obedience, these young men may have failed somewhat—they may have been carried away by a certain rashness and impetuosity; but that they are of a pious and godly walk and conversation, even their accusers know well. And here in Oxford, where so much brawling and license and sinfulness stalks rampant, does it not say somewhat for these new doctrines that they attract the more toward and religious, and pass the idlers and reprobates by?"

So there was much eager talk and discussion throughout Oxford during the days which followed, and excitement ran high when it was known that Garret had been taken—not in London, not in a tawny coat, but near to Bristol—by a relative of Cole, one of the proctors, who had recognized him from the description sent by his relative, and was eager to be permitted to conduct him to Oxford, and hand him over to the authorities.

Arthur heard all the story, and was very indignant; for though Garret was no favourite or friend of his, he was a graduate of his own college, and he felt it hard that he should have been hunted down like a mad dog, and caught just at the very moment when he was nearing the coast, and might well have hoped to make good his escape.

"I am no friend to Master Wylkins for his zeal," he said, "and right glad am I that the law would not allow him to take possession of the prisoner, but had him lodged in Ilchester jail, despite his offer of five hundred pounds as surety for his safe appearance when called for. He is to be taken now to London, to the cardinal, under special writ. But I have greater hopes of his finding mercy with the cardinal than had he come here and been subject to the Bishop of Lincoln."

A little later and the news came that the monk Ferrar, who had suddenly disappeared from Oxford after the arrest of Dalaber, had been taken in London in the house of one of the brethren, and that he and Garret were both in the hands of the cardinal.

"What will they do to them?" questioned Freda of Arthur, who came daily to visit them with all the latest news.

But that was a question none could answer as yet, though it seemed to Freda as if upon that depended all her life's future. For if these men were done to death for conscience' sake, could Dalaber, their friend and confederate, hope to escape?

Arthur always spoke hopefully, but in his heart he was often sorely troubled. He came at dusk today, clad in a cloak down to his heels, and with another over his arm. He suddenly spoke aside to Freda.

"Mistress Frideswyde, I sometimes fear me that if our friend Anthony get no glimpse of you in his captivity he will pine away and die. I have leave to take some few dainties to the prison, and I have below a basket in which to carry them. It is growing dusk. Wrapped in this cloak, and with a hat well drawn down over your face, you might well pass for my servant, bearing the load. I might make excuse that you should carry in the basket instead of me. Are you willing to run the risk of rebuke, and perchance some small unpleasantness at the hands of the keepers of the prison, to give this great joy to Anthony?"

Freda's face was all aflame with her joy. In a moment she had, with her sister's aid, so transformed herself that none would have guessed her other than the servant of Arthur, carrying a load for his master. She was tall and slight and active, and trod with firm steps as he walked on before her in the gathering dusk. She suffered him not to bear the load even a portion of the way, but played her part of servant to perfection, and so came with a beating heart beneath the frowning gateway of the prison, where it seemed to her that some evil and terrible presence overshadowed all who entered.

Arthur was known to the sentries and servants by this time. He visited several of the prisoners, and his gratuities made his visits welcome. He was conducted almost without remark towards Dalaber's cell, and no one made any comment when he said to Freda, in the commanding tone of a master:

"Bring the basket along, sirrah! Follow me, and wait for me till I call. I shall not be above a few moments. It grows late."

Freda had trembled as she passed the portal, but she did not tremble now. She stood where she was bidden, and Arthur, for a very short time, disappeared in the darkness, and she heard the shooting of a bolt. Then the turnkey came back and said, with a short laugh:

"Thy master hath a long purse and a civil tongue. I go to do his bidding, and refresh myself with a sup of good canary. Go on thither with that basket. I shall be back in a few short minutes. He will call thee when he wants thee."

The man and his lantern disappeared, and the door of the corridor was slammed to and locked. There was no hope of escape for any behind it, but at least there was entrance free to Anthony's cell.

The next moment she was within the miserable place, faintly lighted by the small lantern Arthur had brought, and with a cry she flung herself upon her knees beside the pallet bed on which Dalaber lay, and called him by his name. Arthur meanwhile stood sentry without the door.

"Freda, my love!" he cried, bewildered at sight of her, and with the fever mists clouding his brain.

"Anthony, Anthony, thou must not die! Thou must live, and do some great good for the world in days to come. Do not die, my beloved. It would break mine heart. Live for my sake, and for God's truth. Ah, I cannot let thee go!"

He partly understood and kissed her hand, gazing at her with hungry eyes.

"I would fain live, if they will let me," he answered. "I will live for thy sweet sake."

She bent and kissed him on the brow. But she might not tarry longer. The sound of the bolt was already heard, and she stood suddenly up, and went forward.

"I will live for thy sake, sweetheart!" he whispered; and she waved her hand and hurried out, with tears gushing from her eyes.



Chapter XIV: The Power Of Persuasion

"I HAVE sent for you, Master Cole," spoke the Dean of Cardinal College, "because it is told to me that you, whilst yourself a blameless son of Holy Church, have strong friendship for some of those unhappy youths who are lying now in ward, accused of the deadly sin of heresy; and in particular, that you are well known to Anthony Dalaber, one of the most notable and most obstinate offenders."

"That is true," answered Arthur readily. "I have had friendship this many years with Dalaber, long ere he took with these perilous courses against which I have warned him many a time and oft. Apart from his errors, which I trust are not many or great, he has ever appeared a youth of great promise, and I have believed him one to make his way to fame and honour in days to come, when once these youthful follies are overpast."

"I have heard the same from others," answered Dr. Higdon; "and albeit he has never been a student here, nor come under my care, I have oftentimes come across him, in that he has sung in our chapel, and lent us the use of his tuneful voice in our services of praise. I have noted him many a time, and sometimes have had conversation with him, in the which I have been struck by his versatility and quickness of apprehension. Therefore (having in this matter certain powers from my lord cardinal in dealing with these hapless young men) I am most anxious so to work upon his spirit that he show himself not obstinate and recalcitrant. Almost all his comrades have proved their wisdom and the sincerity of their professed devotion to Holy Church by promising submission to the godly discipline and penance to be imposed upon them; but Dalaber remains mutely obstinate when spoken to, and will neither answer questions nor make any confession or recantation of error. I have therefore avoided his company, and abstained from pressing him, lest this only make him the more obstinate. I would fain use gentle and persuasive measures with all these misguided youths, and I trow that we shall thus win them, as we might never do by harshness and cruelty. Loneliness and the taste they have had—some amongst them—of prison life has done somewhat to tame them; and for the rest, we have had little trouble in persuading them to be wise and docile."

"I am right glad to hear it," spoke Arthur quickly, "for I have consorted with many amongst these same men; and I know right well that they are godly and well-disposed youths, earnestly desirous to be at peace with all men, and to live in obedience to Holy Church, whom they reverence and love as their mother. They have been something led away through such men as Master Garret, who—"

Arthur paused, for a curious smile had illumined Dr. Higdon's face. He looked full at Arthur as he said:

"Yes, Master Garret has been much to blame in this matter; but the cardinal has so dealt with him by gentleness and kindness, and by the clear and forceful reasoning of which he is master, that Thomas Garret himself is now here in Oxford, ready to do penance for his sins of disobedience and rebellion; and to this submission do we owe that of his confederates and lesser brethren. When they heard that he had promised compliance to the cardinal's commands, they themselves yielded without much delay."

"Garret here in Oxford!" exclaimed Arthur, in surprise, "and a penitent, submissive to the cardinal! Then, truly, no others should be hard to persuade. But what is it that the cardinal asks of them?"

Dr. Higdon smiled that rather subtle smile which on many faces, and especially on those of ecclesiastics, tends to grow into one of craft.

"He calls it an act of recantation, but we speak of it to the young men as one of obedience and reconciliation. There will be here in Oxford a solemn function, like unto what was seen not more than a year ago in London, when those who have been excommunicated, but are now about to be reconciled, will appear in procession, each carrying a fagot for the fire which will be lighted at Carfax; and having thrown their fagot, they will then throw upon the flames some of those noxious books the poison of which has done such hurt to them and others; and having thus humbled themselves to obedience, they will be received and reconciled, and on Easter Day will be readmitted to the holy ordinances from which they have been excluded all these weeks."

"And Garret will take part in that act of obedience?" asked Arthur, in subdued astonishment.

"He will. The cardinal has persuaded him to it. What means he has used I know not, save that all has been done by gentle suasion, and nothing wrung from him by cruelty or force. And thus it is that I would deal with Anthony Dalaber. If I know aught of his nature, he would stand like a rock against the fierce buffeting of angry waves, he would go to the rack and the stake with courage and constancy. But a friend may persuade where an adversary would only rouse to obstinacy. And therefore have I sent for you, hoping that you may have wisdom to deal with him and persuade him to this step; for if he submit not himself, I fear to think what may be his fate."

"I will willingly try my powers upon him," answered Arthur, speaking slowly and with consideration. "I trow that the world will lose a true and valuable man in losing Anthony Dalaber. It will go far with him that Master Garret has consented to this act of obedience and submission. But there is one other of whom he is sure to ask. Is Master Clarke also about to take part in this ceremony of reconciliation?"

A very troubled look clouded Dr. Higdon's face.

"Alas! you touch me near by that question. With Clarke we can prevail nothing. And yet there is no more pious and devoted son of the church than he; and God in heaven is my witness that I know him for a most righteous and godly man, and that to hear him speak upon these very matters brings tears to the eyes. His face is as the face of an angel; his words are the words of a saint. My heart bleeds when I think of him."

"Why, then, is he accounted heretic and excommunicate?"

"You may well ask. I have asked myself that same question, for, as one of the canons of this college here, he is to me as a son. I was wroth at the first when it was told that here in this place we had a nest of pestilent heretics; but since I have come to know more of John Clarke, the more do I grieve that such doctrine as he holds should be condemned as heresy. It is true that he is unsound on some points—that I may not deny; but he is so full of sweetness, and piety, and the love of God and of the church, that I would hold his errors lightly and his graces and gifts in esteem. But alas! the bishop has heard much about his readings and his expounding of the Scriptures. He vows that he and Garret and the monk Ferrar have been the ringleaders in all this trouble, and that, unless they formally recant and join in this act of open submission, they shall be dealt with as obstinate heretics, and handed over to the secular arm, to perish by fire."

Arthur's face grew suddenly pale to the lips.

"They would burn a saint like Clarke! God forgive them even for such a thought! Truly men may say—"

Dr. Higdon raised his hand to stop Arthur's words, but his face was full of distress and sympathy.

"We will trust and hope that such a fearful consummation will not be necessary. The others have submitted; and Clarke is but a shadow of himself, owing to the unwholesome nature of the place in which he is confined. I do not despair yet of bringing him to reason and submission. He is not like Dalaber. There is no stubbornness about him. He will speak with sweet courtesy, and enter into every argument with all the reasonableness of a great mind. But he says that to walk in that procession, to take part in that act of so-called recantation and reconciliation, would be in itself as a confession that those things which he had held and taught were heretical. And no argument will wring that admission from him. He declares—and truly his arguments are sound and cogent—that he has never spoken or taught any single doctrine which was not taught by our Lord and His apostles and is not held by the Catholic Church. And in vain do I quote to him the mandates of various Popes and prelates. His answer ever is that, though he gives all reverence to God's ministers and ordained servants in the church, it must ever be to the Head that he looks for final judgment on all difficult points, and he cannot regard any bishop in the church—not even the Bishop of Rome—as being of greater authority than the Lord.

"It is here that his case is so hopeless. To subvert the authority of the Pope is to shake the church to her foundations. But nothing I say can make Clarke understand this. It is the one point upon which he is obstinately heretical."

"But you still have hopes of inducing him to submit?"

"I shall not cease my efforts, or cease to hope," answered Dr. Higdon earnestly, "for in truth I know not what will be the end if he remain obstinate or, rather, I fear too much what that end will be. If it lay with the cardinal, there would be hope; but the bishop is obdurate. He is resolved to proceed to the uttermost lengths. Pray Heaven Clarke may yet see the folly of remaining obstinate, and may consent at the last to submit as the others have done!"

"Have all done so?"

"There is Dalaber yet to win," answered the dean, "and there are a few more—Sumner for one, and Radley for another—who have not given the assurance yet. If Clarke would submit, they would do so instantly; but they are near to him in the prison, and they can speak with each other, and so they hang together as yet, and what he does they will do. But their peril is not so great as his. The bishop has not named any, save Garret, Ferrar, and Clarke, as the victims of the extreme penalty of the law. Dalaber may well be included if he remains obdurate, and therefore I am greatly concerned that he should be persuaded.

"Think you that you can work upon him, were I to win you permission to see him? I have heard that you did visit him awhile since, when he was kept less strictly than is now the case. What was his frame of mind then? and what hopes have you of leading him to a better one?"

Arthur sat considering awhile, and then said:

"Dalaber is one of those upon whom none can rightly reckon. At one moment he will be adamant, at another yielding and pliable. One day his soul will be on fire, and nothing would move him; but in another mood he would listen and weigh every argument, and might be easily persuaded. One thing is very sure: gentleness would prevail with him a thousand times more than harshness. A friend might prevail where a foe would have no chance. I will gladly visit him, and do what I can; but I would fain, if it might he accorded, see Master Garret first, and take word to Dalaber of mine own knowledge that he has promised submission."

The dean considered awhile, and then rose to his feet.

"Come, then," he said. "It is not known in Oxford yet; but the cardinal has sent Garret here to me, to be kept in close ward till the day of the reconciliation, now at hand. This is what is to take place. The men who have been excommunicated and set in ward, but who are ready to make submission, will be brought to trial a few days hence, and will sign their recantation, as we call it, to the cardinal, in the presence of the judges, who will then order them to take part in this act of penance, after which they will be admitted once more to communion, and have liberty to resume their studies, or to return to their homes and friends, as best pleases them. Thus we trust to purge Oxford of heresy. But if Master Clarke remain obdurate, and others with him, I fear me there will be some other and terrible scene ere this page of her history closes."

"Let me see Master Garret," said Arthur abruptly. "I would I might also see Master Clarke. But whenever I ask this boon it is refused me."

The dean shook his head slowly.

"No one is permitted access to him, save those who go to reason with him; and so far we reason in vain. But I will admit you to the other prisoner for a few minutes. You have been acquainted with him in the past?"

"Slightly. He has never ranked as my friend, but I have known him and met him. He is of my college, and I have been sorry that he has used his knowledge of Oxford to spread trouble there."

Garret sprang up as Arthur entered the bare but not unwholesome room where he was confined. He had grown very thin with the long strain of flight, imprisonment, and hardship that had been his portion of late. He greeted Arthur eagerly, his eyes aglow, and on hearing somewhat of his errand he broke out into rapid and excited speech.

"Tell Dalaber that the time is not ripe—that it lingers yet. I have been warned of God in a dream. My hour has not yet come. There is work yet for me to do, and how am I straitened till it be accomplished! Yes; you need not shrink from me as from a blasphemer. I hold that every man must follow in the steps of the Lord, and drink of His cup, and be baptized with His baptism. But He waited for His hour. He hid Himself and fled and conveyed Himself away. He paid tribute to kings and rulers. He submitted Himself to earthly parents, earthly potentates. And shall we not do likewise? I would lay down my life in His service, and He knows it. But something within me tells me that my work is not yet done. And the church is yet holy, though she has in part corrupted herself. If she will but cleanse herself from her abominations, then will we work in her and not against her. Even the cardinal has spoken of the purifying which must be accomplished. Yes, he has used good and godly words, and I will wait and hope and trust. The Lord would be served by one body, of which He is the Head. He wants one, and not many. Let us have patience. Let us wait. Let us watch and pray. And if we have to submit ourselves to painful humiliation in this life, let us fix our eyes upon the crown of glory which is laid up for us in the heavens, and which fadeth not away."

Arthur was convinced of the truth of what Dr. Higdon had spoken, and saw that Garret's mind was made up to do what was required of him. The young man was glad enough that this should be the case; but he felt a certain contempt for the facile disposition of the man, who, after spending years of his life and running innumerable perils in the circulation of these books, could in a few weeks consent to become a participant in the ceremony of solemnly burning them, in acknowledgment that they were dangerous and evil in their tendencies. Far greater was his admiration for Clarke, who, in obedience to the vows he had taken, would have no hand in distributing the forbidden volumes, yet in the hour of trial and peril refused to take part in the ceremony which would be regarded by the spectators and by the world at large as an admission that the Word of God was not for the people, and that he, as a teacher and preacher, had spoken unadvisedly with his lips in expounding the living Word to his hearers.

With his mind full of these things Arthur found his way to the prison, and was conducted to Dalaber's cell, which was more closely guarded than at first. The young man, who had been prostrated by fever at the first, had recovered in a measure now, but looked very gaunt and wan and haggard; and he seized Arthur's hands, and wrung them closely in his, whilst tears of emotion stood in his eyes.

"I thought you had forgotten me, Arthur!"

"Surely you know that I would have come had I been able. But of late neither bribes nor entreaties have availed to gain me entrance. How has it been with you, my friend?"

"Oh, I am weary of my life—weary of everything. I would they would end it all as soon as may be; death is better than this death in life. I am sick for the sight of the sun, for a breath of heaven's pure air, for the sight of my Freda's face. Tell me, was it all a dream, or did she indeed come to me?"

"She came, and she would have come again, but they made your captivity closer at that time. She grows thin and pale herself in grief and hunger for your fate, Anthony.

"But today I come to you with glad tidings of hope. In a few days from this, if you act but wisely and reasonably, as your friends and companions are about to do, you will stand a free man, and you will see your Freda face to face, none hindering."

He staggered back almost as though he had been struck.

"I shall be free! I shall see Freda! Speak, Arthur! Of what are you dreaming?"

"I am not dreaming at all. I come from the Dean of Cardinal College, and from Master Garret, whom he has there in ward, but who is also to be released at the same time. I was permitted speech with him, that I might bring word to you, and that you might know in very truth what was about to happen."

"And what is that? Speak!" cried Anthony, who was shaking all over like an aspen.

To some temperaments hope and joy are almost more difficult to bear than the blows of adverse fortune. Had the commissary come with news that Dalaber was to suffer death for his faith, he would not have found him so full of tremors, so breathless and shaken.

"I have come to speak," answered Arthur kindly, as he seated himself upon the low pallet bed, and made Dalaber sit beside him. "It is in this wise, Anthony. When you and your comrades were taken, the heads and authorities were in great fear that all Oxford was infect and corrupt by some pestilent heresy; but having found and carefully questioned the young men of their faith, and having read your confession, and heard more truly what hath been the teaching they have heard and received, they find nothing greatly amiss, and are now as anxious to deal gently and tenderly with you all as at first they were hot to punish with severity. Had they the power to do as they would, you might all be sent speedily to your homes; but they have to satisfy the cardinal, and, worse still, the bishop, and hence there must somewhat be done ere peace be restored, to assure him that Oxford is purged and clean."

"And what will they do?" asked Dalaber, who was still quivering in every nerve.

"Marry, nothing so very harsh or stern," answered Arthur, who was feeling his way carefully, trying to combine truth and policy, but erring distinctly on the side of the latter. "But those later books which were found in your hiding place and Radley's room, which are more dangerous and subversive than any that have gone before, are to be cast solemnly out of the place; and, in truth, I think with cause. See, I have brought you one or two to look at, to show you how even Martin Luther contradicts himself and blasphemes. How can the Spirit of God be in a man who will say such contrary things at different times?"

And Arthur showed to Anthony a few marked passages in certain treatises, in which the reformer, as was so often the case in his voluminous and hastily-conceived and written works, had flatly contradicted himself, to the perplexity and confusion of his followers.

"Such books are full of danger," pursued Arthur, speaking rapidly now. "I say nothing about the translated Scriptures; but the works of a man, and one who is full of excitement and the spirit of controversy, are like to be dangerous to the young. Let the church read and decide, but do not you disseminate such works. It may be more sinful than you have thought.

"And now for what will soon happen. You did see the same in London once. There will be a fire in Carfax, and those who have circulated and read such books will walk each with his fagot, and cast first these and then the books upon the flames. So will the bishop be satisfied, and so will peace be restored.

"Be not proud and disobedient, Anthony, and refuse to be reconciled with the mother you have offended. The cardinal has shown even to Master Garret the error of his ways, and he will be one to share in this act of submission and reconciliation. He bid me tell you that the hour has not yet come for any further blow to be struck. He, like Master Clarke, now begins to hope that, having pleaded with their mother, she will hear and cleanse herself from all defilement and impurity. He will submit and be reconciled; and if he will do this, surely you, friend Anthony, need not stand aloof."

Anthony was pacing the floor in hot excitement. He recalled the scene at St. Paul's the previous year, and his face was working with emotion.

"Am I to be called upon to burn the Word of God, as though it were an unholy thing, to be cast forth from the earth?"

"No," answered Arthur boldly; "you will only be required to burn a few pamphlets of Martin Luther and other reformers."

And he vowed in his heart that he would make good this word, and that, whatever other men might do, Anthony's basket should contain nothing but those later and fiery diatribes, which were certainly not without their element of danger and error and falsehood.

"And if I refuse?"

Arthur answered with a patience and gentleness that went farther than any sort of threat could have done.

"If you refuse, friend Anthony, I fear you will find yourself in danger, and that not in a good or holy cause. For if Master Garret and your comrades are willing to make a small sacrifice of pride, and do a small penance to satisfy the bishop, who is in some sort your lawful ruler in the church, so that peace and amity may be restored, and hatred and variance banished from our university, it were an ungracious act that you should refuse to join with them, for they have sought by patience and kindliness to restore you to your places; and surely it cannot be God's will that you should hold back for this small scruple, and remain cut off from His church by excommunication, as must surely be if you will not be advised and humble yourself thus."

"What would Freda bid me do?" suddenly asked Anthony, who was much agitated.

Arthur was thankful that he did not ask a question about Clarke. The young man was doing his utmost to win his friend, and had been reared in a school where it was lawful to do evil for the sake of the good which should follow. But he did not wish to be driven to falsehood, and it was with relief that he heard this question.

"When Freda came to see you she bid you live—live for her sake," he answered, without hesitation. "Let me leave that word with you—live for her sake. Do not fling away your life recklessly. She has begged that you will live. Therefore, for love of her, if for no other reason, make this submission—be reconciled, and live."

Anthony's face was working; he was greatly moved; the tears rained down his cheeks. But at last he seized Arthur's hands in his, and cried:

"I will! I will! God forgive me if I judge amiss; but for her sake I will do it, and live."



Chapter XV: The Fire At Carfax

"Magda, I want my reward."

She raised her eyes to his face, a deep flush suffused her cheek, and then faded, leaving her somewhat paler than before.

"Thy reward, Arthur? And what is that?"

"Nothing less than thyself, my beloved," he answered, with a passionate tenderness. "I have thy heart, thy love; these have been enough this long while. Now I want thee, thine own self. Why should we wait longer? Art thou not ready to give thyself to me—now?"

She let her lover draw her close to his side. She looked up at him, and saw that his face was grave and pale. This gravity had grown upon him of late, and she saw that lines of anxiety had begun to appear on his brow, which had not been there six months ago. Her woman's instinct of seeking to comfort and support came instantly to her help.

"I will do all that thou dost wish of me, Arthur. If thou hast some trouble, let me share it. A wife should be the helpmeet of her husband in all things. If I am soon to be that, let me begin mine office now."

He bent his head and kissed her, and drawing her hand through his arm, began pacing to and fro in the budding nut walk, where the tender flickering green of early springtide was shimmering in the golden sunlight.

"My Magda, I have been thinking much of late. I have many plans, and some of them must needs be carried out in all haste. But ere I can fulfil them as I would, I must needs have my wife at my side to help and support me. There will be woman's work as well as man's, and such work as thou dost love."

"Tell me," she said, lifting her eyes to his face.

"Magda, thou dost know that tomorrow there will be a form of trial, and Anthony Dalaber and others will make submission, be condemned to do penance, and in a few days will fulfil that penance, and then be restored to communion with the church, and to liberty and life?"

"Yes, I know," answered Magdalen gravely.

"And when this has been done, and they are free, it will be better, far better, that they should quit Oxford for a while, and remain in some seclusion, away from prying eyes and from the suspicion which must attach to all those upon whom the taint of heresy has once fallen. Oxford will be no place for them for a while."

"I can believe that they would be happier elsewhere," she answered. "But I sometimes fear for Anthony. He will suffer from agonies of shame and remorse; I know he will. Thou dost think him right to make submission, but he will feel that in so doing he has denied his faith and his Lord. I fear for him, and so does Freda. She is very unhappy."

"I know it," answered Arthur quickly; "I can see both sides of this most difficult question of conscience. But I may not be the one to blame Anthony, for I have greatly persuaded him to this act of submission, and I would that, if blame attach to any in Freda's mind, she should throw that blame on me. I will speak with her later anent the matter.

"But, Magda, this is the plan I am revolving in my mind. I would provide for Anthony and for others a place of rest and peace and refreshment, where they can regain health of body and serenity of spirit. And where better than at the old manor near to Poghley, where we have spent so many happy days of yore? But I would have my wife with me there—not as guest, but as mistress of the house. And Freda would have a home with us, and thy father likewise, when he desired it. But thou dost know how that he greatly desires to visit Italy; and wert thou my wife, and Freda beneath our care, then he could start with a free heart upon his journey. And we would take up our abode together at Poghley, and live such a life as I have sometimes dreamed of, but which has ever seemed too fair and peaceful for attainment in this world of strife."

Magdalen's eyes grew bright and big with the rush of thoughts that came over her.

"And thou wouldst have Anthony and his friends, and would seek for them there health, both of body and of spirit? Oh, that would be a sweet and commendable work, Arthur. I would that I might share it with thee."

"And so thou shalt, my beloved, for alone I should be sorely let and hindered. Anthony shall be our guest and kinsman—soon to be our brother; for he is without home, and his brother in Dorset is a man of fierce temper, and has sent him a violently accusing letter on hearing what has happened in Oxford, which has cut him to the quick. He will be in sore need of comfort and repose; and if there be others in like case with him, whose friends will only persecute and revile them, then let them come to us also. Ours shall be a house of refuge for the distressed and oppressed.

"Thou wilt not refuse to aid me in that task, Magda? I know that thy heart yearns always over all who suffer from sorrow and pain, even though they may in some sort have brought this upon themselves."

"I should love such a task," answered the girl earnestly; "I would ask nothing better myself than to tend and comfort those who have suffered in such a cause. But thou, Arthur—how hast thou come to think of such a thing? Thou hast never been one of the brethren; thou hast never been touched by heresy; thou hast ever deplored the rashness of those who have committed themselves to such courses; and yet thou art showing thyself now the friend of all."

He looked straight before him with a thoughtful smile.

"These men will be 'purged from heresy,' as it is called, ere I offer them the shelter of my house," he answered. "I am risking nothing by so doing. And in truth, sweetheart, if there were somewhat to risk, methinks I would be willing to do the same, if thou didst not shrink from the task. Whether we study the Scriptures for ourselves, or whether we let the church expound them, one lesson we always learn if we listen and read aright, and that is the lesson of charity. We are brethren in Christ, if we are bound by no closer tie—no tie of our own making. Christ was ever merciful to the sick, the afflicted, the erring, the desolate, and we are bidden to follow in His steps. He did not shut Himself up behind walls to live the life of meditation; He walked amongst men, and bid men come to Him. In lesser measure we may surely do the same; and this is what I would fain attempt in these days of trouble for so many—bind up the broken heart, give medicine to the sick, rest to the weary, cheering and comfort to those who are cast down in spirit. It may be little we can accomplish, but let us do that little with all our might. I trust and hope that God will give us His blessing, and grant us power to be a blessing to others."

Dr. Langton heard Arthur's proposal with great satisfaction. He had grown somewhat weary of his life in Oxford, and was desirous of taking a long journey into foreign countries, to pursue there some studies which would require the assistance of foreign libraries. Moreover, the frequent outbreaks of sickness now sweeping over Oxford, and especially during the summer months, had aroused his concern, and made him anxious to remove his daughters into some more healthy place. Latterly this matter had appeared likely to arrange itself, with the betrothal of the girls respectively to Anthony Dalaber and Arthur Cole. Still there might be a lapse of several years between betrothal and marriage, and he was seriously meditating the best course to pursue, when Arthur's proposition came as a solution of the problem.

Marriages were very quickly and easily performed in those days. They could be consummated at the briefest notice. And Magdalen, having given her promise, was ready to give her hand at any time that Arthur should desire, and depart with him at once for the new home, whither Freda and their father would quickly follow them, and any amongst their suffering friends who, on release, desired that haven of peace and rest.

The trial of the tainted students was over. It was Arthur who brought word to the Bridge House as to what had been the result. All day Freda had moved to and fro with restless steps and burning eyes. Her whole being seemed rent asunder by the depth of her emotion. What would Anthony say and do? How would he comport himself? Would he yield and sign the recantation, and join in the act of humiliation and penance, or would he at the last stand firm and refuse compliance? Which choice did she wish him to make? Could she bear to see him treated as an outcast and heretic—he, her faithful, devoted Anthony? But would he ever be quite the same in her eyes, if he, to save himself from the pains and penalties which beset him, drew back and denied those things which he believed?

She knew not what to think, what to wish. She paced the house and garden with restless steps, and when Arthur came at last, her agitation was so great that she could not speak a word.

But her face was eloquent of her emotion, and he kept her not a moment in suspense.

"All has gone well," he answered, "with Anthony as with the rest. They were gently handled and fairly spoken. The confession of faith demanded of them was such as no Christian man could hesitate to make. They were admonished for disobedience, but the errors with which they were charged were not sternly pressed home. They were asked if they desired to be reconciled and restored to communion; and on affirming that they did, they were only bidden to take part in the public act of penance of which they had already heard. All consented to do this, and were then removed to their several prisons; and four days hence will this act of penance be performed, after which our friends will be restored to us and to the church once more."

"And Anthony consented with the rest?" asked Freda, with pale lips and wistful eyes.

"He did."

Arthur looked her full in the face as he spoke.

"Anthony might perchance have refused compliance, had it not been for me, Freda. If thou hast any blame for him in this matter, let it rest upon my head, not upon his."

"Thou didst persuade him?"

"I did. I would do so again. Anthony is young, hot headed, impulsive, rash. Whatever he may grow to in the future, whatever convictions he may then hold, he is not fit yet to be a leader of men, to take up an attitude of defiance to the laws and statutes of the university—leaving the church out of the question—to ruin his career in an impulse which may not be a lasting one. Let him and others have patience. Those things which they ask they may likely obtain without such fierce struggle and such peril. Let men bear the yoke in their youth; it does them no hurt. To be cast forth from the communion of the church would be a greater hurt to Anthony, body and soul, than to do a penance which may do violence to some of his cherished convictions. In this world we ofttimes have to choose, not between absolute right and wrong, but between two courses, neither of which is perfect; and then we are forced to consider which is the less imperfect of the two. I trow that Anthony has made a wise choice; but if to you it seems not so, I pray you blame me rather than him, for I did plead with him more than once, and right earnestly, to take this way. I did use your name also, and begged of him to live for your sake; and methinks that argument did more prevail with him than any other I could have urged."

Freda drew her breath rather hard, but the expression of her face softened.

"You did bid him do it for my sake? Did he think that I would have thus bidden him act?"

"I know not that, but it is like. Remember, sweet Freda, how that, when thou didst see him in his prison, thou didst rain kisses and tears upon his face, and bid him live for thee. How could I not remind him of that? And wouldst thou not rather that he should live than die?"

"Oh yes, oh yes! I cannot bear to think of that other terrible peril. I am torn in twain by grief and perplexity. Why do they make it so hard for men to take the perfect way? He would be faithful unto death—I know he would—if he could but see his course clear. But as it is, who can tell what is the best and most right way? To be cut off from the Church of Christ—it is so terrible! Yet to tamper with conscience—is not that terrible too?"

"They made it as easy for them as was possible," answered Arthur gently; "let not us make it hard afterwards. Anthony would suffer—it is his nature—whatever course he took. To be excommunicate is keen pain to one of his devout nature; to do penance for what he holds to be no act of sin or heresy will pain him, likewise—not the humiliation of the pageant alone, but the fear lest he has taken a false step and denied his Lord. It is for us, his friends, to receive him joyfully, and restore him to peace and comfort. Be sure that Christ would pardon him, even though he may find it hard to pardon himself."

Freda sighed, but her face softened. Magdalen asked a whispered question.

"And Master Clarke—did he submit?"

"He was not called," answered Arthur gravely; "some say he is too sick to appear, others that he has recanted, but has been spared joining in the procession because that he and two more are not able to walk. Others, again, say that he will not abjure the errors with which he is charged, nor take part in the prescribed penance. I have not been suffered to see him. I know not how it may be. But in sooth, if he be sick as they say, it were time they let him forth from his prison. It is not right nor justice that men should be done to death in noisome dungeons when no crime has been proven against them."

The girls' faces were pale with horror and pity.

"Canst thou do nothing, Arthur?" pleaded Magdalen. "Thou art rich, and powerful, and well known to so many. Canst thou do nothing to aid them?"

"I will do what I can, once the act of penance be over," he answered. "Till then it is useless to stir, for they will seek to work upon them to the very last moment by threats, or by argument, or by entreaty. Should they prove obstinate to the last, I know not what will befall. But if they are like to perish in the prison, it may be that the dean's word will prevail for their release. He is grieved that one so godly in his life and conversation should suffer so cruelly. When this act has been accomplished, belike they may listen to the words of his friends, unless the cruel will of the bishop prevail, and he is sent to a fiery death."

It was a very quiet wedding on the morrow that united Magdalen Langton and Arthur Cole as man and wife. They were married at an early hour in St. Mary's Church, and set off that same day for the old manor house, which was to be their future home. Freda could not, however, be persuaded to accompany them on that day.

"I must see the fire at Carfax," she said; "I would see it with mine own eyes. Afterwards I will come to you, and will bring Anthony with me; but not till I have seen this thing for myself. I cannot help it. I must be there."

Magdalen entreated awhile, but Freda stood firm.

"I must see the fire at Carfax," she answered; and at last they forbore to press her, knowing her mind was made up.

It wanted but a few days to Easter when the day came for which Freda had waited with feverish, sleepless eyes. The sun rose clear and bright birds carolled in the gladness of their hearts; all nature was filled with the joy of happy springtide; but there was a heavy cloud resting upon Freda's spirits.

"I will not blame him; I will speak no word of reproach. In this hard strait should I have been more brave? It may be he is doing what he believes most right. I will not believe him unfaithful to his truer self. Who can judge, save God alone, of what is the most right thing to do in these dark and troublous days?"

She rose and donned a black gown, and shrouded herself in a long cloak, the hood of which concealed her face. She was very pale, and there were rings around her eyes that told of weeping and of vigil. Oh, how she had prayed for Anthony, that he might be pardoned wherein he might sin, strengthened wherein he was weak, purified and enlightened in the inner man, and taught by the Holy Spirit of God!

As she walked through the streets by her father's side, and marked the gathering crowd thronging towards Carfax and the route to be taken by the procession, she seemed to hear the words beaten out by the tread of hurrying feet: "Faithful unto death—faithful unto death—unto death!" till she could have cried aloud in the strange turmoil of her spirit, "Faithful unto death—unto death!"

There was a convenient window in the house of a kindly citizen, which had been put at her father's disposal. When they took their places at it they saw the men already at work over the bonfire in the centre of the cross roads. All the windows and the streets were thronged with curious spectators, and almost at once the tolling of the bells of various churches announced that the ceremony was about to begin.

The procession, it was whispered about, was to start from St. Mary's Church, to march to Carfax, where certain ceremonies were to be performed, and then to proceed to St. Frideswyde, where a solemn Mass would be performed, to which the penitents would be admitted. Then, with a solemn benediction, they would be dismissed to their own homes, and admitted to communion upon Easter Day.

Freda sat very still at the window, hearing little beside the heavy beating of her own heart and the monotonous tolling of the bells. The crowd was silent, too, and almost all the people were habited in black, partly out of respect to the season of the Lord's passion, partly because this ceremony took the nature of a solemn humiliation.

Perhaps there were many standing in that close-packed crowd who knew themselves to have been as "guilty"—if guilt there were—as those who were compelled to do penance that day. There was evident sympathy on many faces, and the girl, looking down from above, noted how many groups there were talking earnestly and quietly together, and how they threw quick glances over their shoulders, as though half afraid lest what they were saying might be overheard.

"I trow there are many here who have dared to read the Word of God and discuss it freely together, and compare the church as it now is with the church, the Bride of the Lamb. I wonder if they would have all submitted, had it been their lot to stand before those judges and hear the sentence pronounced."

A thrill seemed suddenly to pass through the crowd; the people pressed forward and then surged back.

"They are coming! they are coming!" the whisper went round, and Freda felt the blood ebbing away from her cheeks, and for a moment her eyes were too dim to see.

The solemn procession of heads and masters, clerks and beadles, seemed to swim before her in a quivering haze. Her strained eyes were fixed upon those other figures bringing up the rear—those men in the garb of the penitent, each bearing a fagot on his shoulder, and carrying a lighted taper in his hand.

Was Anthony among them? She held her breath in a sickening suspense, scarce knowing whether or not she longed to see him. She knew almost each face as it loomed up into view: there was young Fitzjames, their kinsman, looking shame-faced but submissive; there were Udel and Diet, Bayley, Cox, and others whom she had never suspected of having been concerned in the movement; and there, almost at the rear of the long procession, walked Anthony Dalaber, his dark, thin face looking worn and haggard, his hair tumbled and unkempt, his dark eyes bent upon the ground, his feet slow and lagging, but whether from weakness or unwillingness she was not able to say. She held her breath to watch him as he appeared. She saw the heavy frown upon his brow; she marked the change which had come over him—the cloud which seemed to envelop him. She knew that he was bowed to the ground with shame and humiliation, and with that sort of fierce despair of which she had seen glimpses in his nature before now.

Suddenly all the old tenderness rushed over her as in a flood. She forgot her sense of disappointment in his lack of firmness; she forgot how he had boasted of his courage and devotion, and how, in the time of temptation and trial, he had let himself be persuaded to take the easier path; she forgot all save that he had loved her, and that she had loved him, and that love can surmount all things, because its essence is divine. If he had fallen, he had suffered keenly. Suffering was stamped upon every line of his face.

Was not God's love for sinners so great that before the world repented of its wickedness He gave His Son to die for an atonement and expiation? Must we then not love those who err, and who repent of their weakness? Nay, are we not all sinners, all weak, all frail and feeble beings in weak mortal bodies? Shall we judge and condemn one another? Shall we not rather seek to strengthen one another by love and tenderness, and so lead one another onward in the way which leads to life everlasting?

These thoughts rushed like a flood through Freda's mind as she watched through a mist of tears the throwing of the fagots and the books upon the fire at Carfax. Three times did the penitents walk round the fire, the bells tolling, and the crowd observing an intense silence, as the servants handed to the young men books from the baskets to fling upon the fire.

Only one was given to Anthony, and he gave one quick glance before he threw it into the heart of the blaze. Arthur Cole had been as good as his word. It was no portion of God's Word that he was condemned to burn, but a pamphlet of peculiar bitterness by one of the foreign reformers.

Then the procession formed up again, and started for its final goal; and Freda, rising, laid her hand upon her father's arm and said:

"Take me home, I prithee, sweet father—take me home first. I have seen enough. I would now go home. And then, when all is over, go thou to St. Frideswyde and bring Anthony to me."



Chapter XVI: "Reconciled"

Anthony sat with his face buried in his hands, in an attitude of profound dejection. He was gaunt and haggard and worn to a shadow, and Freda's gentle, pitying gaze held in its depths nothing but love and tender compassion.

The first rapture of meeting once again had passed. The exultant joy engendered by a sense of freedom had lasted for several hours. Anthony had laughed and sung aloud and shouted for joy in the shady alleys of the garden, amid all the blissful sights and sounds of springtide. He had wandered there with Freda beside him in a sort of trance of happiness, in which all else had been forgotten. The joy to both had been so keen, so exquisite, that it had sufficed them for the present.

But with the falling of the softened dusk, with the setting of the sun, with the natural and inevitable reaction upon an enfeebled body and sensitive spirit, following upon a severe and protracted strain, Dalaber's spirits had suddenly left him. An intense depression both of body and mind had followed, and in the gathering twilight of that familiar room he sat in an attitude of profound dejection, whilst Freda scarce knew whether it were better to seek to find words of comfort, or to leave him alone to fight out the inevitable battle.

"Why did I do it? Why did I consent?" he suddenly broke out. "Why did I listen to the voice of the charmer? Would it have been so hard to die? Will it not be harder to live with the stain of this sin upon my soul?"

"'The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin,'" spoke Freda very softly.

"And I have denied my Lord—in deed, if not in word," and he groaned aloud.

"It was an act of submission and obedience," spoke Freda, using the arguments familiar to her. "Nor did you yourself cast upon the fire the precious Word of God; you did not deny your faith. You affirmed—so they say—your assent to the doctrines of Holy Church, and did penance for past disobedience. Is that a matter to grieve so greatly over?"

She spoke very gently, yet not as though her heart went altogether with her words. Anthony raised his head and broke out into vehement speech, which she welcomed gladly after the long silence of utter depression.

"They made it easy for us. They sought to win us by gentle methods. They knew that the most of us loved Holy Church, and were loath indeed to be divorced from her communion. They did not bid us in so many words to deny those things which we have held—the right of every man to hold in his hand the Word of God, and to read and study it for himself; but they made us perform an act which in the eyes of the world will be taken to mean as much—to mean that we acknowledge the sinfulness of circulating that precious, living Word, and are ready to cast it into the flames like an unholy and corrupt thing.

"And I consented. I let them persuade me. I let mine eyes be blinded. And now, whither shall I go? I have denied my Lord. I have sinned in His sight. I have not taken up my cross and followed Him. I have sought to save my life, and yet I had thought myself ready to follow Hun to the cross and the grave."

"Like Peter," spoke Freda softly. "Yet the Lord looked upon him with tender love; and He forgave him freely and fully, and gave him special charge to strengthen the brethren, to feed the sheep and the lambs. The Lord wore our mortal flesh. He knows that it is weak. He understands all. Be not too much cast down, my Anthony. Perchance in the past thou didst too much trust in thine own strength. In the days to come let us look ever more and more to the Lord Himself. He will first forgive, and then confirm His strength in us."

"In us? But thou hast ever been strong in faith," spoke Anthony quickly. "I can read it in thine eyes how that thou dost hold me weak and wavering. Had it been thou who wast thus tried, I trow thou wouldst have stood firm."

"Indeed I know not that, Anthony," she answered earnestly, "and I dare not say that I did desire it of thee. I was rent in twain by the struggle. If, indeed, patience and tenderness are shown by those in authority to the sons they hold to be in error, then love should be met by love. We must not rend the body of the Lord by needless strife and contention, if other and gentler means may with patience prevail. We know that obedience and submission to the powers that be are enjoined upon us; yet we know that we must keep our conscience void of reproach. It is hard, indeed, to judge; but let us always seek to take the highest path, and if we fall by reason of weakness in faith, in judgment, or in spirit, let us pray the more fervently for the Spirit of truth to guide us into all truth, and keep us pure within."

They had been so earnestly talking that they had not heard the sound of steps and voices in the house, and started when the door was suddenly opened by young Fitzjames, who ushered in Garret and the monk Robert Ferrar.

Dalaber started to his feet. He had seen both these former companions of his in the procession that morning, but not a word had been exchanged between them. He stood gazing at them with a strange mixture of emotion.

"Anthony Dalaber, we have come to say farewell," said Garret, whose thin, white face and the burning brightness of his eyes testified to the struggle through which his own spirit had passed. "For the present the brotherhood is broken up; for the present the powers of the world are too strong for us; but the day will come when the truth shall be vindicated, when it shall shine forth as the sun in his strength, and we of the faith will be the first to welcome the rising rays. Be not afraid; be not cast down. The Lord will arise, and His enemies will be scattered. And there is work for us all to do, to prepare for His appearing. Let us not be weary in well doing. Though we have bent our heads to the storm, yet we will lift them up with joy anon, knowing that redemption draweth nigh. You believe that, Anthony Dalaber?"

"I verily believe that God will visit the earth and His church, and that He will sit as a refiner, and purify her from all impurities; but whether He will condescend to use again such imperfect instruments as we have proved, I do not know. We have bowed ourselves in the house of Rimmon. Shall we ever be fit for the service of the house of God?"

Garret was still for a moment, silenced by the strange expression of concentrated remorse upon Dalaber's face. It was Ferrar who spoke in his low, even voice.

"'And when I bow myself in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon his servant in this thing. And Elisha said unto him, Go in peace.'"

Deep silence fell upon the room, and then Freda spoke.

"I think God is ever more merciful than man. God reads the heart, and He knows that, though men may fail through weakness, they may rise again in His strength and yet do valiantly."

"I will yet live to do Him service!" cried Garret, with kindling eyes. "I will yet live that I may lay down my life for Him if He call me. If I have been deceived this once, He will lead me aright in the days to come. Mine hour will yet come; I know it, I feel it. And He shall see then that Thomas Garret will not shrink even from death for His name's sake."

Dalaber looked straight into his face.

"I consented to take part in this penance today because I heard that you had submitted. I believed that all had done so. Had I known that Master Clarke had refused, God helping me, I would have refused also; for surely never was there a man who had so fully the mind of the Lord Jesus as John Clarke."

Garret's glance fell before that burning gaze. He too had noted that Clarke was not amongst the penitents, and it had cut like a knife into his heart. He had always been so ready with his protestations of willingness to die for the faith, yet he had been won over to an act which looked like one of recantation. Clarke had never boasted, had always spoken with gentle warning of the dangers which beset them, and his doubts as to whether they should have strength to withstand the fiery trial if it came upon them. There had been times when Garret had openly charged him with being lukewarm in the cause. Yet Clarke lay still in his noisome prison, excommunicate, and in danger of death at the stake, whilst they stood free men, reconciled to the church, and restored to her favour.

Whose position was that of most true blessedness? Garret twisted his hands nervously together as this flood of thought came surging over him.

"They say that Clarke would have been there," spoke young Fitzjames, "but that he was too enfeebled by captivity to walk in the procession."

"That is false," said Freda, in a low voice. "Master Clarke might have won his liberty with the rest, but he refused to take any part in the spectacle today at Carfax."

"Yet he never circulated the books," broke out Garret. "He ofttimes cautioned me against importing too many of the treatises written in Germany. He would not approve all that they contained. He could have cast such books upon the flames without violating his conscience. Wherefore was he not there with the rest of us?"

It was Freda who, after a pause, made answer:

"He knew that men would not distinguish between the burning of books by men and the burning of the precious Word of God. It was this that held him back."

"Yea, verily," cried Dalaber, with a blaze of his old excitement, "he was true to his conscience, and we were not. He knew that those who saw that procession would regard it as an admission of heresy. He was no heretic, and he would have neither part nor lot with it. He has ever stood firm in this—that the church of the living God is pure and holy, and that she asks no such acts of submission and recantation from her sons, when their only desire has been to extol Him and to make His way clear upon earth. How could his pure and holy spirit make confession of evil? He could not, and he would not. He will lay down his life for the gospel's sake; but he will not be deceived, as we were.

"I can see it now as I could not when the walls of prison and the mists of fever were closing me in. We have, as it were, admitted that to read the Word of God and to give it to others to read is a sin against the church. He has stood on the ground he adopted from the first—that the church has never forbidden it, and that those who do so are not her true and faithful stewards and ministers; and for that conviction he is ready to die. He will not let himself be deceived or cajoled. His light is the light from above, and it will shine upon his path to the very end."

Ferrar and Garret had no intention of lingering long. They were about to go forth together into the world—probably to make their way to Germany—and Garret had had some thought that Dalaber might possibly accompany them on their journey. But they saw that he had other views for himself, and did not even ask him.

The spell which Garret had once exercised upon him was broken now. They would ever be as friends and brothers in a good cause, but the special tie had snapped. Garret was no longer a hero in the eyes of Dalaber, and he felt the subtle change which had come over his ex-pupil.

So they clasped hands warmly, exchanged farewells, and the two companions passed out into the darkening night, whilst young Fitzjames lingered wistfully, and brightened as Freda bade him take up his old quarters in that pleasant house.

"And on the morrow we will all travel to Poghley together; and you, Fitzjames, shall take word to others who have suffered imprisonment, and whose friends, perchance, may look coldly upon them, that they are welcome to Arthur's house, if they desire a brief space for rest and refreshment. It is open to all who have suffered, but are now 'reconciled,' as it is termed. Anthony and I go thither early in the day, and any who desire may come with or follow after us."

"I feel as though I never wished to set eyes on Oxford again, once I get free from it!" cried the youth, who felt bitterly the ignominy and hardships through which he had passed.

He had submitted to the imposed penance, having, indeed, no very strong opinions of his own upon controverted subjects, though he had heard much, and received the new doctrines with open mind. But now he felt as though he hated the rulers of the church with a deep and implacable hatred. His boyhood seemed to have passed away from him during those weeks of harsh imprisonment; and he came forth a man, with a stern hatred of bigotry and intolerance, with no formulated plan of action or resistance, with no very definite opinions as to doctrine or dogma, but with a fixed resolve to cast in his lot with those who were fighting for liberty of conscience, or liberty in any form, and with a strong hope that he might live to see the day when he should break a lance for the cause he had espoused.

It was indeed too often that men's hearts were filled with bitterness, and that those in places of power and authority made themselves bitter enemies, even of those towards whom they were kindly disposed; whilst the day was coming slowly but surely when they were to reap what they had sown.

It was a soft and radiant evening when Freda and her father and Dalaber rode slowly through the gates which led to the moated manor where Arthur Cole and his bride awaited them. Fitzjames and a few others were to follow. But these three, with a couple of servants, arrived first; and upon their approach through the golden green of the beech avenue, Magdalen flew, as it were, to meet her twin, and the sisters were clasped in each other's arms. Arthur was not far behind his fleet-footed spouse, and was clasping hands with Dalaber, and gazing long and searchingly into his face.

"Welcome, my friend, welcome!" he said. "It is good to see you stand a free man once more. You have suffered, Anthony; I can see it all too clearly in your face. But I trust that the dark days are over now, and that better times are in store. In the sweet security of home we will seek to forget those trials and troubles which have gone before."

Dalaber looked round him at the awakening beauty of the springtide world, and a lump seemed to rise in his throat. His face contracted as though with a spasm of pain, and he spoke in sharpened accents of suffering.

"The world of nature looks—thus—to me. And Master Clarke lies rotting in a foul prison, in peril of his life both from sickness and from the cruel malice of the bishop. How can I forget? How can I be happy? Methinks sometimes I would he more truly happy were I lying beside him there."

Arthur drew Dalaber a little away from the rest.

"Have you had news of him?"

"Such news as might be had. Some of the brethren, if they can still be so called, when they are as sheep scattered without a shepherd—some of them came to bid me adieu and speak comforting words. I asked them one and all of him, our beloved teacher; but none had seen him—only they had one and all made inquiry after him, and one had heard this, and the other that. But all affirmed that he, together with Sumner and Radley, was lying in a foul prison, sick unto death with the fever that besets those who lie too long in these noisome holes, or, as some said, with the sweating sickness, which has shown itself once more in Oxford.

"But since he refused to take part in the scene at Carfax, and as his companions were firm as himself, they are kept yet in the same foul place. And if help come not they will certainly die; for how can men recover of sickness without some care, or tendance, or better nourishment than will be given them there? Ah, it makes my blood boil to think of it!"

It was almost impossible for Dalaber to rejoice in his own freedom and in the beauty of all about him, so woeful were his thoughts about this man whom he so greatly loved. He went to his room that night, but sleep came not to him. He paced to and fro in a strange tumult of mind; and with the first light of dawn he clad himself in his riding suit, and when the household began to stir he sought a servant, and bade him tell the master that he desired instant speech of him.

Arthur came in brief space, and looked with surprise into Dalaber's pale, set face. His wan looks told of his sleepless vigil, but he gave no chance for questions to be asked. He spoke himself, and that rapidly.

"Arthur, I must forthwith to London. Canst thou lend me a good horse? Else I must needs go afoot."

"A horse! Why, the pick of the stable is at thy service, friend Anthony. But whither away so fast, and wherefore?"

"I go to seek speech with the cardinal."

"With the cardinal, quotha? And wherefore with him?"

"I go to ask the life of Master Clarke. They say the cardinal is not bloodthirsty or cruel. I will prove that for mine own self. And if a victim must needs be had, I will offer myself in his place.

"Yes, Arthur, I will. Seek not to stay me by fair words. Methinks I have had too much of such. I have been cozened both by friend and by foe—for mine own good, as they would say, but not I. My heart is heavy and hot within me. If Clarke is to lie languishing in prison, let me lie there with him. There can be a worse prison house of the soul than any made by bolts and bars. We can suffer as keenly in such a place as this as in the lowest depth of a dungeon. I have made trial of both. I know what I say. Seek not to stay me, good Arthur, for I must needs go. The fire burns hot within me. It will not be quenched."

Arthur looked keenly at him. He was silent for a very brief while, and then he spoke quietly and persuasively.

"Thou shalt go, Anthony; but wait only for Monday. Thou art in need of rest, and upon the eve of the festival of Easter thou wouldst never get nigh to the cardinal. Thou art not fit for the long ride today. In two days more thou wilt be in better case for the journey. And I myself will be thy companion, for I have some friends in high places who will lend me their help; and it will be strange if together we cannot succeed in obtaining sight and speech of the cardinal, and proffering our petition. Only wait these two days, that thou mayest be more fit for the fatigues lying before thee."

Dalaber would fain have been off that moment, but he saw the force of Arthur's words; and, in truth, the long strain was telling heavily upon him, and as he stood he almost reeled from weakness. He was in no fit state for another day's riding; and when Freda added her voice to that of Arthur, he consented to put off his journey until after Easter.

Yet he looked straight into her eyes in making this concession, and added firmly:

"But when the time comes I must go. And thou wilt bid me Godspeed, my beloved; and if this journey should perchance bring me hurt—if I should not return to thee therefrom—thou wilt not grieve over it too much. Thou wouldst not withhold me, Freda?"

She looked into his eyes. She knew that peril might menace her lover. It was as though he would, having once escaped, put his head again into the jaws of the lion. None could say, if he and the cardinal met, what might be the result to the impulsive but not always discreet Dalaber. It seemed as though some power from within urged him to make a confession, different from the one he had so recently signed. It seemed as though his conscience would not let him rest—as though he felt that he had been guilty of some act of treachery towards his Lord.

Freda understood. She would not hold him back, though her eyes filled with tears as he put the question.

"I will never withhold thee from what thou dost deem the right path to tread, my beloved," she answered. "I will trust thee in the hands of the all-loving Father, and pray that He may deliver thee out of all peril. Be not rash. That is all I ask. Be as Master Clarke—gentle, faithful, true, pure of heart and blameless of speech. I ask nothing more of thee. Be true unto thine own better self, and thou wilt be supported and upheld through all."

Arthur and his wife spoke much of the proposed journey.

"Wilt thou risk aught by it, my husband?" asked Magdalen, with a tender anxiety in voice and look.

"I risk but little—nothing, perhaps; and right glad am I to proffer this petition for our dear friend and teacher, Master Clarke. It may be we shall fail in what we seek to accomplish, and it may be that Anthony may fall once again under suspicion, and be cast into prison as a heretic. No man can forecast these things, and he will not seek to save himself this time.

"He has suffered already from tampering with his conscience. Perchance I overbore him too much. It is hard to know what a man in such straits should do. But I will seek to safeguard him all I can, and bring him safely back. And if we win our petition, and gain liberty for those three sick prisoners, it will be worth all the risk and labour we have undergone to gain it."

"Hast ever had speech with the cardinal before?" asked Magdalen, trembling a little at the thought.

"I have been in his company at times, but received nothing but a fleeting glance or a passing word of courtesy. I have watched him in converse with others many times. He hath a stately presence, and a great gift of speech. He can win hearts by the grace and kindliness of his address, or he can send men away quaking in fear by the flash of his eagle eye and the stern rebukes which fall from his lips. And none can know beforehand which will be his fashion of receiving a petition, and particularly such a petition as ours.

"In God's hands must we leave the issues. But at least for such a man as John Clarke it must surely be right to adventure somewhat. I will go with Anthony. Together, I trust, we shall succeed."

"And we at home will pray day and night for your success," answered the young wife, clinging to her husband, from whom she must make up her mind to part on an errand that might be fraught with peril; "and surely I think that God will hear and answer us, and give you grace and power to intercede."