So as soon after Easter as Anthony was fit for the saddle the two friends started off together on horseback for London, whilst the wife and the betrothed stood to watch them away, waving them a farewell, and hiding from their eyes the starting tears, which were only allowed to fall when the sisters were left alone together.



Chapter XVII: The Clemency Of The Cardinal

The great man sat in his private closet, with the ivory crucifix in the corner before the prie dieu chair, a wonderful picture of the annunciation on the wall, where he could see it every time he lifted his eyes, and a table piled with papers before him, though piled with a certain method and order which enabled him to lay his hand in a moment upon any required document.

He wore the scarlet robes of his office, and a scarlet skullcap was on his head. His features were those of the ascetic and man of the world. The skin was pale and slightly sallow, like old parchment; the hair was turning white, and was thin upon the temples. The clear-cut features were impressive, both in outline and in expression, and the eye was as the eye of the eagle, so keenly penetrating and far-seeing that many had shrunk before its gaze as before the sharp thrust of a rapier.

Arthur Cole entered the presence of the great man with the habitual courtly and almost exaggerated reverence that custom imposed. But Anthony Dalaber, who followed, only bowed with a sort of sullen defiance in look and aspect, not even raising his eyes to meet the flashing, rapid glance which the great man bent upon him as he slowly followed his companion into that august presence. He stood in the background, and his dark face and gaunt figure did not lack elements of dignity. There was something distinguished in the personality of Dalaber, of which those who knew him were keenly conscious.

The statesman, who had all his life been wont to take the measure of men with great acumen and discernment, gave more than one quick, keen glance in the direction of Dalaber, as he received Arthur's credentials and cast his eye over them.

"You are welcome, Master Cole. I have heard of you before, and everything I have heard redounds to your credit. You are highly spoken of in Oxford, and your career there has not been without distinction. I am keenly interested in all that happens there, and in the welfare of each individual clerk and student. To hear a good report of any gives me sincere pleasure. I am glad on that account to give you this audience, albeit I am always pressed for time in which to compress each day's work."

"I thank your Eminence from my heart," answered Arthur; "and if I be permitted to speak, I will be as brief as I can in presenting my petition and pleading my Cause."

"You come with a petition? Very good; I will listen and consider it. Is it one that relates to yonder companion of yours?—

"Anthony Dalaber, I believe I mistake not in calling you by that name."

Dalaber came a step forward, but made no reply, for Arthur had answered for him, and the cardinal was turning over some papers upon his table, and selecting one or two, ran his eyes rapidly down them, after which he looked up.

"I hear of you that you are a youth of excellent parts, and of a quick understanding, and that, with industry and application, you may do great things. I also hear that though you have been led into some indiscretions and dangerous courses, that you have submitted to lawful discipline, and are forgiven and reconciled. All this is as it should be. I rejoice in the repentance of any sinner. I pray, my son, that in the future you may be guarded from all such perilous courses."

Arthur almost trembled as these words were spoken. The cardinal's wonderful eyes were fixed full upon the face of Dalaber, and the magnetic nature of the glance seemed to act with a curious, restraining power upon him. He spoke, but it was not with the outburst which his comrade had feared. It was slowly and almost haltingly.

"I have done amiss," he said. "None can better know than I how much amiss I have done. I repent me from the bottom of my heart. But I repent not of those things for which I suffered in prison, for which I thought I might be called upon to lay down my life. I repent me that I, having put mine hand to the plough, did look back. I would I had had the courage and steadfastness to resist and stand firm."

Arthur trembled; his eyes sought the cardinal's face. Wolsey was regarding Dalaber with great intensity of interest, whilst a fine smile played in shadowy fashion over his thin lips.

"Is that what you have come hither to tell me, my son?"

"In part it is," answered Dalaber, "for I have felt like a hypocrite and renegade all these days. I love the church; I hold her doctrines; I trow that I would die for the truth which she teaches: but I hold also that men should not be condemned for the reading and free discussion of the Word of God; and if those who did persuade me to submit to discipline and penance for disobedience believe that I repent me of holding and spreading that doctrine, then must I ever live with the sense of having been a traitor to the cause of my Lord and my God."

"And you wish to tell me this?"

"Yes; that your Eminence may send me back to prison, or to the stake, if it be your will."

The same slight smile played round the cardinal's lips. He looked once more at his papers.

"It is said here, Anthony Dalaber, that you have given up the study of divinity, and have taken up that of the law?"

"That is true," he answered freely. "I am not made for the priesthood; of that I am well assured. I will seek to serve God in the lesser calling, and do my duty there to Him and to the brethren."

"A laudable resolve," answered the great man, "in which I wish you all success. Listen to me for a brief moment, my son. The words you have spoken here this day will not be used against yon. I have followed your career. I know your courage and steadfastness of spirit, as well as its weaknesses and vacillations. I know how many godly youths are in like case with you—halting between two opinions, torn asunder in the struggle to judge all these hard and difficult questions for themselves. For you, and for all who yet love Holy Church, I have this piece of counsel to give. Beware how you seek to tamper with the unity of the one body. Beware how you sacrifice the greater for the lesser. It is only a church at unity in herself that can convert the world; we have the Lord's own word for that. If you have read in any tongue His last charge on earth to His apostles, as recorded in the Gospel of St. John, you must see and recognize that. The burden of that wonderful pastoral is, 'That we all may be ONE: that the world may believe.' To rend the body is to destroy its unity. To destroy its unity is to hinder the work of Christ upon earth. Think and ponder that well, and pray for guidance, for patience, for the submissive will which would endure much rather than bring war amongst the members of the one body. Our Lord Himself has warned those who are devout and sincere from the error of straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel. Let the church minister the Word of God. Let those who hunger for more ask of her. She will not send them empty away. Already those who style themselves reformers are quarrelling amongst themselves. Soon they will be broken up into a thousand camps. Unity will cease to reign in the church. Confusion and hatred and even bloodshed will follow.

"Be advised, Anthony Dalaber. Quit these hard and vexed questions for a while. Take to the less perilous study of the law. With age and experience you will learn your lesson. And I will pray for a blessing upon you, my son, for in truth I believe that the Lord may have work for you to do in days to come; and if so, I trow you will not shrink from doing it."

Anthony stood mute. A thousand questions and replies seemed to spring to his lips, but no word passed them. He felt that in argument he was no match for the cardinal, even had disputation with so eminent and august a personage been possible. He felt that somewhere there was an answer to this irrefragable argument, but for the moment he could not find it; he stood tongue tied, silent. The cardinal looked at him with his slight, peculiar smile, and then turned once again to Arthur.

"And now for your petition. If it is for favour to be shown to your ardent young friend, after the statement he desired to make to me, with greater courage than discretion (for which, however, I like him none the less), then it is granted already."

"It is not for him," answered Arthur; "we have both come hither on the same errand. But we do desire your Eminence's good offices for one who was in somewhat similar case with Dalaber. We have come to plead for the life and liberty of John Clarke, canon of your own beauteous and godly college in Oxford, who, with two other companions, one of them a canon and the other a singing man of that foundation, is lying near to death in a foul prison, and will without doubt perish miserably there, if release doth not speedily come."

The cardinal's steel-blue eyes took a new expression, and one which Arthur could in no wise interpret.

"Like to die!" He spoke somewhat more abruptly than had hitherto been the case. "You are sure of that?"

"I am sure of it," answered Arthur; "and Dr. Higdon, the dean, will tell you the same, if your Eminence will ask him of it. And though Master Clarke lies under the imputation of heresy, I trow there is no sounder churchman nor godly and pure-living man in all Oxford than he, nor one whose life holds so fair a promise of shining like a light in a dark world."

"I have heard of this man," spoke the cardinal thoughtfully; "I have known of him many years. I had report of him or ever he was sent to Oxford."

"It is known in all Oxford how that your Eminence did send to us there this godly man, whom we have learned to love and revere," spoke Arthur eagerly; "and many a time have we blessed you that your choice did fall upon one of so saint-like a walk in this world. How should we, then, not plead with your Eminence for his life, when it lies thus in jeopardy? If you would speak the word of release we would do the rest."

The cardinal sat very still and thoughtful.

"John Clarke is not my prisoner. He belongs to the Bishop of Lincoln."

"I know that well," cried Arthur eagerly. "But surely the word of your Eminence would prevail with the bishop, and free him from his bonds."

"My Lord of Lincoln is very bitter against heretics."

"Then let him take me in lieu of Master Clarke!" suddenly cried Dalaber, stepping forward to the cardinal's table, upon which he leaned with both his hands, and his dark eyes flashed fire. "If he must have a victim, let me be that victim. I am tenfold more heretic than Master Clarke. Let me take his place in the foul dungeon; let me, if need be, go to the stake for him. If there must be a victim, let me be that victim; but shall he die whose life has been given for the purity of the faith, and for teaching that very doctrine of the unity of the one Holy Catholic Church upon which your Eminence laid such stress in speaking awhile ago? Give me up to the mercy of the bishop, and let Clarke go free!"

The piercing gaze of the cardinal was fixed upon Dalaber's strenuous face. All weakness had vanished from it now. It was full of passionate earnestness and dauntless courage. His dark eyes met those of Wolsey without fear or shrinking. The loftiness of a great resolve, a great sacrifice, was shining in them.

"I will consider this matter, my sons," spoke the cardinal, whose face softened as he gazed first at one young man and then at the other. "I must communicate with the bishop, and I will see you again. Fortunately he is not far from London. A messenger can quickly reach him. Come to me here in four days' time, and I will see you again and perchance give you an answer. Will your mind have changed in those days, Anthony Dalaber? Do you indeed mean the things that you have said?"

"I do," he answered quietly, and added no protestations.

"I will remember," spoke the cardinal; and rising to his feet he gave to Arthur the benediction for which he bent his knee.

Dalaber hesitated for a moment, and then he too knelt. There was no hypocrisy in this act. Something in the aspect and the words of the cardinal had changed his opinion of the man during the brief interview.

"The Lord bless thee, my son," spoke the priest solemnly. "The Lord give thee grace and discernment, wisdom and light. The Lord strengthen all that is good in thee, that it may live and grow, and cast out and uproot all that may become a stumbling block or root of bitterness within thee. The Lord give to thee the understanding mind, the childlike heart, the pure spirit of the children of light, and lead and guide thee into all truth. Amen."

The two companions went quietly from the room, and through the long and stately passages, where the worldly pomp visible had stirred in Dalaber on entering a sense of incongruity and almost of contempt.

But he did not think of these things as he walked out into the sunny street; and both had got far upon the road to their lodgings, hard by Moor Fields, ere either spoke a word.

"I trow he will do it," then said Arthur, drawing a long breath.

"You think so truly?"

"I watched his face. It was hard to read its look; yet I thought there came a gleam of anger into it when I spoke of the peril they lay in from death by sickness in that noisome prison. After all, they are all scholars of his own college; and methinks he and the bishop have disagreed ere this over matters of discipline, and where mercy rather than judgment should be shown. All the world says that Master Garret and Robert Ferrar would have been sent to the stake had the bishop's word prevailed, but that the cardinal would not give them up to him. It may be that he will be loath to give up Master Clarke and his friends; but surely the cardinal's word would prevail, if he desired to make it."

"And if the bishop has a victim, that might satisfy him," spoke Dalaber gravely.

"Thou art thinking of thyself?" asked Arthur quickly.

"Why should I not? I have offered myself as a substitute. If they permit the exchange, I will not draw back."

Arthur regarded him with a species of admiration. But he was silent awhile, finding speech difficult. Then he asked:

"Does Freda know?"

"Yes," answered Dalaber briefly.

"And she was willing?"

"She was willing."

They walked on in silence for some time, only pausing when they reached the open space of Moor Fields, where the apprentices were playing quarterstaff, wrestling, and shooting with bow and arrows, and shouting aloud in their glee. The friends stood awhile watching, but their thoughts were far away.

Suddenly Arthur broke out into what for him was rather vehement speech.

"Then thou art in truth a hero, Anthony, with the spirit of the warrior and the martyr. I have sometimes misjudged thee, thinking thee somewhat unstable, though a man of parts and one to be much beloved. I ask thy pardon now for having so misjudged thee. Thou hast all the stuff in thee which I have sometimes thought was lacking."

"It was lacking. Thou hast not misjudged me," answered Anthony gravely. "I have been unstable. I know it myself, none better. Alone, I should be unstable still. Indeed I may not trust myself even from day to day. But there is One who changeth not—One who is with us, and in us, and for us. He will be our strength and our stay in times of darkness and perplexity, and teach us to guide our steps aright. If I have found courage, that courage is His; if I can hold steadfast, it is in His power. That is all. I have put myself into His hands. I shall take no thought for myself, what I shall speak or do. He is showing me that He would have all Christian men to live together in unity and peace. I do truly see and believe that. Yet if He command me to speak or to do that which men will call heresy and sin, He will give me grace to stand firm, even unto death."

Arthur was silent awhile. In his heart he scarcely believed that the cardinal would offer up Anthony Dalaber to the tender mercies of the implacable bishop; yet there was no knowing. The great man had evidently been struck by the personality and history of the young graduate, and it was possible he might recognize in him a type of character which might prove dangerous and subversive to the existing order of things. It was an anxious time for Arthur—more anxious, as it seemed, than for Anthony, who remained all the while very calm and tranquil, much occupied in reading and prayer, and very constant in his attendance at the various churches in the great city.

Having been for long debarred from taking part in public worship, it seemed a great refreshment of spirit for him to do so now. Arthur generally accompanied him; but often he rose quite early, and slipped out alone for some morning Mass, and came back with his face aglow with the mystic devotion in which he had been engaged.

"Call that man a heretic!" thought Arthur, as he watched and marked him; and he little knew that he was not the only man dogging Dalaber's footsteps in those days. The cardinal had his own methods and his own carefully-trained servants, and not a thing that either young man did in those few days was unknown to Wolsey in his sumptuous palace, with the affairs of the kingdom and of other realms more or less pressing upon his attention.

On the appointed day they again appeared before him in his closet, and he received them with an urbanity which sat graciously upon his rather austere person.

"I have made inquiry concerning the matter upon which you came to me, my sons," he said, "and to my sorrow and regret I find that you spoke only too truly as to the condition into which the unwholesome state of their prison has reduced those three men. I have therefore prevailed with the bishop to permit them to be delivered to their friends.

"And if you, Master Cole, who are well known in Oxford, will make personal application to the dean of the college, he will give you the needful authority for obtaining possession of the persons of the prisoners, who will be released and placed under your care. All that will be demanded of you, or of their friends, is that you will take care of them, and be answerable for their appearing at the bishop's tribunal, should he summon them later to appear before him."

Arthur's heart leaped for joy within him. He spoke a few words of heartfelt thanks. But Anthony's eyes never left the cardinal's face.

"And shall I surrender myself prisoner in their place?"

A slight smile lighted the thin, pale face.

"Do you so desire to court prison and death, my son?"

"I do not desire it," answered Anthony humbly. "I once did think I had courage and strength to fight and to overcome; I did think myself to be a hero. I have learned to know myself better since then. Love and life are sweet to me as to other men. But I did mean that which I did say, and I will not draw back. If a victim be wanted, let it be rather me than Master Clarke."

This time the cardinal's smile was more full and free.

"We will see whether we cannot make shift without a victim. Anthony Dalaber, you are a free man. There is no talk of arresting you in place of any other. That is neither the law of the land nor the practice of the church. I have watched you, my son; I see that you are of a godly mind. You may yet be a good and a great man in this land. Hold fast the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace, and God will bless and keep you.

"I trust we shall hear no more of heresy in Oxford. And when you receive John Clarke into your keeping, tell him that I regret the harshness to which he has been exposed, and that I have prevailed to effect his release, but that beyond this I cannot help him, but trust that between him and his bishop some better understanding may be speedily arrived at."

"We thank your Eminence from our hearts," spoke Arthur, as he bent his knee, feeling a double load of anxiety and sorrow lifted from his heart. "We will not forget all we owe to your clemency and kindness, and with more others than I can name we will pray for all blessings to rest upon your Eminence for this gracious act."

The cardinal was pressed for time, and dismissed the young men with a blessing. They went out into the sunny courtyard, scarce able to believe their own success.

Liberated from prison! Clarke to be liberated and delivered over to their care! Oh! they would soon restore him to health and strength by their loving ministrations. They would surely succeed in this. All the three to be given up to their friends! They must lose no time in riding to Oxford with the news.

Not a day of this lovely springtide should be wasted. They would ride all night, that release might come the earlier. Yes, there was full moon, and already the daylight lasted long and came again early. They would ride without a pause, save for needful refreshment for man and beast, till they reached Oxford. They could be there before daybreak.

On the morrow they could carry forth their friends to Poghley. It was a thought fraught with happiness and joy. They would not lose an hour. And so quickly were all their preparations made that before the shadows had grown long, before the sun had sunk far towards the horizon, their reckoning was paid, their bags were packed, their servants summoned, and the little cavalcade was ready to start forth and ride with loose rein to Oxford ere break of day.

It was no hardship, that quiet riding through the long hours of the misty night. They did not hurry their beasts, for they could not obtain any interview with dean or prison governor in the dead of night. So they pursued their way quietly, discussing many plans; and before the first light of day had begun to glimmer in the east it was settled that, whilst Arthur should go direct to Oxford with the cardinal's mandate, and should make all needful arrangements for the immediate transportation of the sick men to Poghley, Anthony should ride there direct, to advise the young wife and her sister of what they might expect, and to see all made ready there.

Eager as Arthur was to return home to Magdalen, he knew that his authority and his purse would go farther in Oxford than Anthony's. It was needful for him to be there in person; but it might be just as well for Anthony to keep away from the town at that juncture. Dalaber did not himself think of or fear any peril, but Arthur's other arguments prevailed with him; and shortly after dawn, at the parting of the ways, the two friends separated, Arthur and the servants riding direct to Oxford, whilst Dalaber took his solitary way towards Poghley.

His heart beat high as he began to trace the familiar outline of wood and hill. When he rode away a week ago, it was with a very strong presentiment that he would never see the place again. So resolved had he been to make confession of such of his beliefs as were accounted heresy that he had not dared to believe he could escape. Yet here he was, safe and sound, and rid at last of that haunting fear and remorse which had eaten into his very soul.

True, he had not said much, yet he knew that the cardinal had understood, and had, as it were, declined a further and fuller revelation. He had understood, on his side, that the church did not desire to push matters to extremity, and to lose the love and adherence of its most promising sons. He was willing, for his part, to avoid publicity for a time, to resume his interrupted studies, and to wait in patience for what would come out of this movement within and without the church.

But the sense of sailing under false colours had now been taken away. He had relieved his soul; he had spoken the truth; he had offered himself as a victim; he no longer stood condemned as a coward and a denier of his faith.

With a glad heart he rode onward through the rosy glow of a red and golden dawn. All nature seemed in harmony with his joy and triumph. The birds shouted their morning songs, and the budding trees and waving grass seemed silently to voice a happy answer. Primroses gemmed the banks, and the frail white anemones carpeted the twinkling woodlands, where sunbeams and shadows chased each other through a maze of tender green leaves. Then the horse beneath him, though somewhat wearied from the long journey, knew his homeward way, pricked forward his ears, and broke into a canter, bravely bearing his rider up the gentle incline, and through the gate that led towards the moated house.

Suddenly a white figure seemed to emerge from the thickets of shrubs, and a joyous voice exclaimed:

"Anthony, Anthony! is it thou?"

He was on his feet in an instant. The horse set off riderless for his own stable. Anthony's arms were about her, his kisses on her face.

"Freda! my beloved! my wife!"

"Anthony, O Anthony! And thou art free!"

"I am free, and the load has fallen. I am free and forgiven, and at peace with God and man. And, Freda, we must hasten to the house with the news; for Arthur has gone forward to obtain the release of Clarke and Sumner and Radley, and as soon as possible—it may even be today—he will bring them here to be cared for."



Chapter XVIII: The Release

Five days, however, elapsed at Poghley before any news came from Arthur at Oxford, and then it was brought by Dr. Langton, who, upon Dalaber's return, had started forth again to that place, partly to set his house in order and arrange his books and papers before his departure for foreign lands, partly because he hoped his skill in medicine and the arts of healing might prove of use to the victims of the prison house on their release.

For the sisters and Dalaber those days were happily passed, despite the anxiety they felt as to what might be passing in Oxford. To them it seemed as though the clouds of peril which had hung so long in their sky were rolling fast away. Dalaber was relieved from that burden of remorse and bitter humiliation which had been weighing upon him. Humble and contrite for past errors, past weaknesses, he was, and would remain; but he had delivered his soul by his frank admissions to the cardinal, and he could respect and admire the dignity and clemency of that powerful man, and be grateful to him for both.

Freda was his own, as she had never been before—her mind at rest, her heart satisfied, her old esteem and admiration and trust restored. Together they wandered through orchard, meadow, and woodland, speaking to each other from the bottom of their hearts, unveiling their most sacred thoughts and feelings, and sharing every aspiration, every hope, every plan for present or future. The world for them was a pure Arcadia; they almost forgot for the time being the more troublous world without.

It was like a green oasis in their lives, like a haven of rest and peace after driving storms and perilous hurricanes. They lived in the sunshine, and thanked God in their hearts, and received that rest and refreshment of body, soul, and spirit of which both stood rather sorely in need.

Then on the fifth day, as the sun was drawing towards its setting, Dr. Langton returned. They pressed eagerly round him to learn the news. His face was thoughtful and very grave.

"They are bringing Master Clarke. He is not more than a few miles distant. He will be here before dark. I have come to make all ready for him."

"Is Arthur with him?" asked Magdalen, whose hands were clasped about her father's arm.

"Yes; he is riding at a foot pace beside the litter. We have had to carry him thus all the way, and by very gentle stages. At the first I doubted if he could bear the journey. But he was himself desirous to see Poghley once again, and we decided to risk it. He has borne the journey almost better than I had feared."

"And now we will nurse him back to health and strength," cried Magdalen, with earnestness. "Alas that so good a man should have to suffer so sorely!"

Freda observed that her father turned his head slightly away. She felt a sort of constriction at the heart, but it was Dalaber who put the next question.

"Is only Clarke coming hither?" he asked. "What of Sumner and Radley who were with him in prison?"

Dr. Langton paused a brief while before answering, and then he said in a low and moved voice:

"Radley was scarce alive when we came to them. They were all taken to the Bridge House, where we had made preparation to receive them. But he died within a few hours. I scarce know whether he did really understand that liberty had come at last. On the morning of the second day Sumner died, and we thought that Clarke was lying in articulo mortis; but I tried in his case a certain drug, the use of which I have only recently discovered, whereupon he fell into a quiet, natural sleep, and the fever began to leave him. There is much sickness again in the town, and it seemed to me well that, if he could bear removal, he should be taken where stronger and purer air could be breathed.

"Yesterday, very early in the morning, we started forth. Arthur had had an easy litter constructed under his own eyes, which can be slung between two horses walking gently and evenly. In this way we have brought him. In another hour he should be here. I wish to make ready some large and airy chamber that opens direct upon the garden, where he can be carried daily to inhale the scents of the flowers and be enwrapped by the sunshine. If there be a chance of recovery—"

Dr. Langton stopped short, and Magdalen looked earnestly into his face. She read his thoughts there.

"You think he will die?"

"I fear so. I misdoubt me if there can be any rally. And in truth, my child"—he drew Magdalen gently onwards with him towards the room which he had fixed upon in his own mind as the one most suited to his purpose—"in truth, I know not if it were true kindness to seek to save that stainless life. I had speech with Dr. Higdon anent this very matter only the night before we started forth, and he told me that, albeit the bishop had been persuaded by the cardinal to permit the release of the prisoners for the present, yet that, should any recover—and in particular, Master Clarke—he was like to demand his surrender later into his own merciless hands; and it is well known that he has said that, since Wolsey would not burn Garret or Ferrar when he had them in his clutches, be would burn Clarke so soon as he was able to stand his trial. Some even say that he only suffered the men to be released from prison that Clarke should be sufficiently recovered to perish at the stake."

Magdalen shuddered and hid her face in her hands.

"Oh that such things should be! And in a Christian land, and within the very Church of Christ itself!"

"We will trust it is not true," spoke Dr. Langton gravely, "or that more Christian and more merciful counsel may prevail. But in all truth I know full well that, short of a miracle, Clarke will only come here to die. Perhaps the best that we can wish for him now is a peaceful and painless passing away in the midst of his friends, with no more fears of prison or martyrdom before his eyes; for in sooth I think his soul has soared into a region where all fear and anxiety are left behind."

Magdalen's eyes were full of tears. She had been from the first deeply attracted both by the words and by the personality of John Clarke, and sometimes she had had intimate talks with him on spiritual matters, which had made an indelible impression upon her heart.

She now busied herself diligently in making ready for his reception that pleasant sunny chamber which her father had selected. The great canopied beds of the day were too heavy and ponderous to be easily moved; but smaller couches and abundant bedding were quickly collected, and the room began to glow with the masses of flowers that Freda brought in from the garden and woodland beyond. The place was fragrant with the breath of cowslip and primrose, whilst, as the light faded from the west, the dancing flames of the log fire on the hearth gave a cheery air of welcome.

The sisters stood clasping hands as their friend was brought in by the bearers, and tenderly laid upon one of the two soft couches made ready—one beside the window, and one in a warmer situation near to the hearth.

It was upon this one that he was laid first, and Magdalen caught her breath in a little sob as she gazed upon his face—it was so thin and sunken, so absolutely colourless. The eyes were closed, and though there was an expression of deep peace and happiness upon the face, it looked to her more like the face of one who has triumphed in death than of one who is living and breathing yet.

Dalaber flung himself upon his knees beside the couch with a lamentable cry upon his lips.

"My master! my master! my friend!" he cried, and at the sound of these words and the familiar voice the long lashes quivered and slowly lifted themselves, and they saw the dim, sweet smile steal over the wan face.

"Is that Anthony? I cannot see. God bless thee, my son! He is giving me all I could ask or wish."

Dr. Langton signed to his daughters to come away. The patient had no strength for further greetings then. Freda's eyes were blind with tears as she found herself hurrying from the room, and Magdalen threw herself into her husband's arms, weeping aloud in the fulness of her heart. He held her closely to him; he too was deeply moved.

"But we must not grieve for him, my beloved; as he himself has said so many times during these days, 'To depart, and to be with Christ, is far better.' He goes forth so joyfully into the great unseen that we must not seek too much to hold him back. His Lord may have need of him elsewhere. In truth, he is more fit for heaven than earth."

"He dies a martyr, if any ever did!" spoke Freda, choking back her tears, and speaking with shining eyes. "He has laid down his life for a testimony to the truth. What martyr can do more than that?"

"Is there no hope of his life?" asked Magdalen, still clinging to her husband's arm.

"Your father fears not," answered Arthur; "and in sooth, after hearing the story of their imprisonment, I think the same myself. Oh, the patience, the sweetness, the self forgetfulness, with which he has borne all! One could weep tears of blood to think that such things are done to living saints on earth in the name of religion."

They looked breathlessly at Arthur, and he spoke again.

"I will not describe to you what we found when we entered the prison. Enough that one would not herd one's swine in such a place. Two out of the three were dying; and the third, though sick as you now see him, was yet dragging himself from one to the other, to minister to their still greater needs, as he had done from the first, giving to them of his own meagre food and water—neither of which was fit for human beings to touch—and enduring all the slow agonies of fevered thirst day after day, that their in some way be lightened.

"Sumner lived to tell us that. From the first Radley had sickened, as the strong men ofttimes do in such places more quickly than the weaker and feebler of body. Clarke, who had brought his body into subjection by fasting, who had nursed the sick in their filthy homes, and spent weeks at times in fever-stricken spots—he resisted longest the ravages of the fell prison fever. He and Sumner nursed Radley as best they might. Then Sumner fell sick, and Clarke had them both to care for.

"To the very last he tended them. Though well nigh in as evil a case, he yet would rise and crawl to them, and give them food and water, or moisten their lips when they could no longer eat the coarse prison fare. His patience and sweetness were not quite without effect even on the jailer, and from time to time he would bring them better food and a larger measure of water.

"But even so, there was none to help or succour them in their hour of extremest need. May God look down and judge the things which pass upon this earth, and are done by those who take His name freely upon their lips! He whose eyes see all things have seen those three men in their prison house. May He be the judge of all things!"

"Thank God you came in time!" spoke Magdalen, with streaming eyes. "Thank God they did not die in that foul hole!"

"I do thank Him for that. I fear me poor Radley did not know that release for him had come; his greater release followed so hard afterwards. But Sumner lived long enough to know us, and to rejoice in the hope that Clarke's life would be spared. We did not tell him how little chance there was of that. 'He is one of God's saints upon earth,' were amongst his last words; 'surely He has a great work for him to do here. Afterwards he will walk with Him in white, for he is worthy.' And then in broken words he told us the story of those weeks in prison; and with a happy smile upon his lips he passed away. He did not desire aught else for himself. He left Clarke in the hands of his friends. He folded his hands together and whispered, 'Say the Nunc dimittis for me, and the last prayer;' and as we did so his soul took flight. The smile of holy triumph and joy was sealed by death upon his face."

"Faithful unto death," whispered Freda softly to herself, "he has won for himself a crown of life."

Anthony came to her presently, looking strangely white and shaken. They passed together out into the moonlight night. He was deeply moved, and she saw it; and her silence was the silence of sympathy.

"If only I had shared their faith, their steadfastness, their sufferings!" he spoke at last.

But she laid her hand upon his arm and whispered tenderly:

"Think not now of that. The past is not ours; and I know that God has forgiven all that was weak or sinful in it. No sin repented of but is washed away in the blood of the Lamb. Let us rejoice in that there are ever those who will follow the Lamb whithersoever He goeth, both here and hereafter, and will sing the song that no man else can learn. And if we ourselves fail of being counted in that glorious numbered host, may we not rejoice that others are found worthy of that unspeakable glory, and seek to gain strength and wisdom and grace from their example, so that in the days to come we may be able to tread more firmly in the narrow way they have travelled before us?"

They saw him the next day, for he asked to be moved out into the garden, into the sunshine of the sweet spring day. Weak as he was, Dr. Langton was of opinion that nothing could either greatly hurt or greatly restore him. And to fulfil his wishes was the task all were eager to perform. So, when the light was just beginning to grow mellow and rosy, and the shadows to lengthen upon the grass, Clarke was carried out and laid upon a couch in the shelter of the hoary walls, whilst he gazed about him with eyes that were full of an unspeakable peace and joy, and which greeted with smiling happiness each friendly face as it appeared.

They knew not how to speak to him; but they pressed his wasted hand, and sat in silence round him, trying to see with his eyes and hear with his ears, and listening to the fitful words which sprang from time to time to his lips.

"It is like the new heavens and the new earth," he said once—"the earth which the Lord will make new, free from the curse of sin. Ah, what a glorious day that will be! If this fallen world of ours can be so beautiful, so glorious, so full of His praise, so full of heavenly harmonies, what will that other earth he like, where He will reign with His saints, and sin and death shall be no more?"

It seemed to others as though he were already living in that new earth of peace and joy, and in the immediate presence of the Lord. The light in his eyes grew brighter day by day, the shining of his face more intense. As his hold upon the things of this world relaxed, so did his sense of heavenly realities increase in intensity. All his words were of peace and love and joy. It seemed as though for him the veil were rent in twain, and his eyes saw the unspeakable glories beyond.

His gratitude to those who had brought him forth from the prison and set him in this fair place was expressed again and again. But once, in answer to something Freda spoke, he said with a wonderful lighting of the eyes:

"And yet, if you can believe it, we were strangely happy even there, for the Lord was in the midst of us, as surely as He is here amid this peace and loveliness. When we are holding Him by the hand, feeling His presence, seeing His face in the darkness, believing that it is His will for us to be there, it is strange how the darkness becomes light, the suffering ceases, the horror all passes away. I do not mean that the enemy does not intervene—that he does not come and with his whispers seek to shake our faith, to cloud our spirits, to shroud us in darkness and obscurity. But thanks be to God, His Son, having overcome temptation in human flesh, we in His strength, by Him, and through Him, and in Him, have power to overcome. Satan came; but he did not stay, for One that was mightier was with us. Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."

That was all he ever spoke of the prison life—no word of its hardships and sufferings, only of the power of the Lord to take away the bitterness, and to comfort, cheer, and strengthen. And so they ceased to think or to speak of it, too. It had not hurt him. The iron had never entered into his soul. And almost by now he had forgotten. All was peace and joy and love. And even the knowledge that his companions had passed away was no trouble to him.

"We shall meet so soon again," he said, and the light deepened in his eyes. "I am so curious to know how it is with the departed—whether they lie at rest as in a heaven-sent sleep, while their heart waketh; or whether the Lord has work for them beyond the grave, into which they enter at once. I long to know what that blessed state is like, where we are with Christ, yet not in the glory of the resurrection, but awaiting that at His good pleasure. Well, soon all this will be made known to me; and I cannot doubt we shall meet again in joy and love those with whom we have walked in fellowship upon this earth, and that we shall in turn await those who follow after into peace, and so with them look forward to the glorious day when the living shall be changed and the dead receive their bodies back, glorified in resurrection life, and so enter all together into the presence of God, presented as one holy mystical body to Him, the Bride of the Lamb."

There was just one shadow that fell for a moment athwart the perfect peace and joy of this departure. But it was not one that could touch his spirit for more than a moment.

As he felt life slipping fast away, and knew that very soon he must say farewell to earth and its sorrows and joys, he called Arthur to his side and asked:

"Will they admit me to the rite of the Holy Communion before I die?"

It was a question which Arthur had foreseen, and he had himself taken a special journey to Oxford to see the dean upon that very point.

But Clarke still lay beneath the ban of excommunication. He was still regarded as a heretic; and although, after all he had passed through, much sympathy was expressed for him, and any further cruelty was strongly deprecated, yet the law of the church forbade that the holy thing should be touched by unhallowed hands, or pass unhallowed lips.

So now he looked compassionately into Clarke's face and said:

"I fear me they will not do so. I have done what I can; but they will not listen. None may dare to bring it to you until the ban of the church be taken off."

Clarke looked into his face at first with a pained expression, but gradually a great light kindled in his eyes. He half rose from the couch on which he was lying, and he stretched forth his hands as though he were receiving something into them. Then looking upwards, he spoke—spoke with a greater strength than he had done for many days—and a vivid smile illuminated his face. They were all standing about him, for they knew the end was near, and they all saw and heard.

"Crede et manducasti," he said; and then, with a yet more vivid illumination of his features, he added in a whisper, "My Lord and my God!"

Then he fell back, and with that smile of triumph upon his face, passed away.

Over his remains, which were permitted to lie in consecrated ground, they set up a white cross; and beneath his name were the words:

"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."



Notes

[i] "Believe, and thou hast eaten." Words often used by the early "heretics," who were debarred from partaking of the feast of Holy Communion.

THE END