Robin rose to follow her, with the first smile (though a mournful one) that Isoult had seen flit across his face.

"Kate is the better comforter, Dr Thorpe, and hath learned the sweeter lesson," he said. "At least she hath learned it me. You would have me count the chastening joyous, even at this present: God's word pointeth to the joyousness to come. 'Blessed are they that mourn,—for they shall be comforted.'"

And he went after Kate.

For a few days more after Robin's coming all was quiet. No one came to inquire for him, and they began to hope the worst was over. But late on the Sunday evening, which was the seventh of July, suddenly there came a rapping on the door. And there, to the surprise of all, stood Dr Thorpe.

"Welcome, good friend!" said Avery; "but your occasion should be great to have you forth this even."

"So it is," said he. "Is it not bed-time, Mrs Avery?"

"In very deed, Doctor," she answered. "We were going above but now."

"Leave the lad and the maids go, then," said he, "and you and Jack bide a space."

So the maids and Robin departed.

"What is it, Doctor?" asked Avery, when they were gone.

"What it is, Jack," said Dr Thorpe, who sat in the corner with his hands upon his knees, "is a great burning mountain that is at this moment quiet. What it may be, is a great rushing and overflowing of the fiery matter, that shall deal death all around. And what it will be—the Lord God knoweth, and He only."

"You speak in parables, Doctor," replied Avery.

"The safest matter to speak at this time," answered he.

"You look for a new riot, an' I take you rightly."

"Hardly for a riot," the other answered. "Is the door fast?"

"I bolted it after you," said Avery.

Doctor Thorpe drew his chair closer, and spoke in a low, earnest voice. "Not a riot," he said. "Say an uprising—a civil war—a mighty rebellion of all that be under, against all that be above. Men that will know no ruler, and bear no curb—little afraid to speak evil of dignities, or to do evil against them. 'We are, and there is none beside us:' yea, 'we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us.'"

"There be such spirits alway," answered Avery, "but, I thank God, rarely so many come together as shall do a mischief."

"There shall be mischief enough done in Cornwall and Devon within the next month or twain," said Dr Thorpe, gloomily. "I see more than you; and I am come to tell you of somewhat that nearly toucheth both you and me. A year gone or thereabout, I was a-riding from Bodmin on the Truro way, when I was aware of a little ragged lad that sat by the roadside, the tears a-rolling down his not over clean face. I drew bridle, and asked the lad what ailed him. He told me his mother did lie at death's door, not far thence. 'Hath she any doctor or apothecary?' quoth I. 'Nay,' saith he, 'neither the priest nor the apothecary would come without money, and father hath not a penny.' Well, I 'light from mine horse, and throwing his bridle athwart mine arm, I bade the lad lead me to his mother, for I was a physician, and could maybe do her some good. I found her under an hedge, with nought save a ragged rug to cover her, twain other children beside clamouring for bread, and her husband, a rugged sullen-faced man, weaving of rushes for baskets. All they were dark-faced folk, and were, I take it, of that Egyptian [gipsy] crew that doth over-run all countries at times. I saw in a moment that though beyond their skill, her disorder was not (with God's blessing) beyond mine; yet it did require speedy remedy to serve her. The physic that I fetched for her quickly gave her ease, and I was something astonied at the blessings which the husband did heap upon me when I departed from them. Methought, though he were rugged of face, yet he must be a man that had some power of affection. Well, the woman amended, and all they left that part. I heard no more of them sithence, until late last night, as I was a-riding home, very nigh the same place, all suddenly an hand was laid upon my bridle. An highwayman, thought I; and I remembered that I had little money upon me. But in the stead of easing me of my purse, mine highwayman put unto me a strange question.—'What is your name, and where dwell you?'—'Verily,' said I, 'I might ask the same of you. But sithence I am in no wise ashamed neither of my name nor my dwelling-place, know you, that the one is Stephen Thorpe, and the other is Bodmin. What more would you?'—'Your calling?'—'A physician.'—'Enough,' quoth my strange questioner. 'I pray you to alight from your horse, and have no fear of me. I will do you no harm; I would not hurt you for a thousand pieces in good red gold. I want neither your money (howsoever much it be) nor your valuables that may be on you. Only, I pray you, let us two whisper together a season.'—'In good sooth,' said I, 'I have nought to whisper unto you.'—'But I have to you,' saith he, 'and what I say must not be spoken aloud. You would trust me if you knew what I would have.'—'Well, friend,' quoth I, 'for a friend metrusteth you be, I will do as you bid me. All the money I have upon me is but some few shillings, and to them, if you lack, you are welcome. For valuable matter, I carry none; and I myself am an old man, no longer of much service unto any. If you desire me to ply my trade of healing, I am content; but I warn you that by murdering of me you should gain little beside an evil conscience.'—So with that I 'lighted down.—'Throw the bridle on your arm,' saith he, 'and follow me.'—So, linking his arm in mine, he drew me (for it was pitch dark, and how he found his way I know not) aside from the road, unto a small forsaken and ruinated hut that stood on the common.—'Stand where you be a moment,' quoth he; and striking the tinder, he lit a rush candle. 'Now, know you me?' saith he. 'Not a whit better than afore,' quoth I.—He blew out the candle.—'You have forgot my face,' he saith. 'Mind you a year gone, ministering unto a dying woman (as was thought), in this place, under an hedge, whereby you did recover her of her malady?'—'I know you now,' said I; 'you are that woman's husband.' 'Then you are aware,' answereth he, 'that I would do you no hurt.'—'Say on,' quoth I.—'Suffer me,' saith he, 'to ask you certain questions.'—'So be it,' said I.—Then he,—'Is your house in Bodmin your own?'—'It is so,' answered I, marvelling if he were about to ask me for mine house.—'Sell it,' quoth he, 'and quickly.'—'Wherefore?' answered I.—'I passed no word touching your questions,' quoth he, grimly.—'In good sooth,' said I, 'this is a strange matter, for a man to be bidden to sell his house, and not told wherefore.'—'You shall see stranger things than that,' he answered, 'ere your head be hoarier by twain s'ennight from now.'—'Well! say on,' quoth I.—'Have you,' pursueth he, 'any money lent unto any friend, or set out at usury? You were best to call it in, if you would see it at all.'—'Friend,' said I, 'my money floweth not in so fast that my back lacketh it not so soon as it entereth my purse.'—'The better,' quo' he.—'Good lack!' said I, 'I alway thought it the worse.'—'The worse afore, the better now,' he answered. 'But once more—have you any friend you would save from peril?'—And I,—'Why, I would save any from peril that I saw like to fall therein.'—'Then,' quoth he, 'give them privily the counsel that I now give you. If the sun find you at Bodmin,—yea, any whither in Cornwall or Devon—twain s'ennights hence, he shall not set on you alive. Speak not another word. Mount your horse, and go.'—I strave, however, to say another word unto him, but not one more would he hearken. 'Go!' he crieth again, so resolute and determinedly that I did go. Now, I fear greatly that this man did tell me but truth, and that some fearful rising of the commons is a-brewing. I shall surely take his counsel, and go hence. What say you, Jack? Shall we go together?"

There was dead silence for a minute. Isoult's head was in a whirl.

At last her husband said slowly, "What sayest thou, Isoult?"

"Jack," she replied, "whither thou art will I be."

"And that shall be—whither?" asked Dr Thorpe. "It must be no whither within Cornwall or Devon."

"But we have not enclosed," objected Avery, answering rather his thoughts than his words.

"I doubt," he answered, "whether they shall wait to ask that."

"For me," Avery resumed, "I have friends in London, and Isoult likewise; and if I thought it should be long ere we may turn again, thither should I look to go rather than otherwhere. But an' it be for a few weeks, it should be unworth so long a journey."

"Weeks!" cried Dr Thorpe. "Say months, Jack, or years. For my part, I look not to see Bodmin again. But there be thirty years betwixt thee and me."

"In that case," said he, "and methinks you have the right—I say, London, if Isoult agree therewith. There should be room in that great city, I account, for both you and me to ply our several callings."

"Whither thou wilt, be it, Jack," said his wife, softly. "But Mother, and Hugh, and Bessy! And Frances at Potheridge, and Mrs Philippa at Crowe—what is to come of them, and who shall warn them?"

Dr Thorpe shook his head.

"Little time for all that, Mrs Avery," answered he. "Send, an' you will, to the two places—Potheridge and Crowe; but leave Potheridge to warn Wynscote, and Wynscote to warn Matcott and Bindon."

"Let Robin take the brown horse," suggested Avery, "and ride post with a letter from thee to Mrs Philippa; and Tom the white nag, and I will send him likewise to Mr Monke. I might have gone myself to one of the twain, but—"

"Nay, Jack! bide thou with me," entreated Isoult, fearfully.

"Well said," answered Dr Thorpe.

"Well!" Avery replied, "there seemeth little time to choose or bowne [prepare] us; but as the Italians have it, 'Che sara, sara.' ['What will be, will be.'] When set we forth, Doctor?"

"Now, if we could," answered Dr Thorpe, significantly.

Preparations for the journey were made in haste, and without waiting for daylight. Robin and Tom were sent on horseback to Crowe and Potheridge, starting with the earliest gleam of dawn. Isoult summoned Jennifer, Barbara, and Ursula the cook, and asked whether they would cast in their lot with hers or remain in Cornwall. Jennifer answered that she feared the journey more than the commons, and the fourth of July was a very unlucky day on which to commence any undertaking: she would stay where she was. Ursula and Barbara, both of whom had been with their mistress ever since her marriage, replied that they would go with her now.

"Nor have I any of mine own that I may well go unto," Ursula added. "Mine only brother dwelleth in Somerset, and he is but an husbandman, with little wages and a great sort of childre; and beside him I have no kin."

"My mother is wed again," Barbara explained, "and my father that now is should grudge to be troubled with me; and my sister, that is newly wedded, hath but one chamber in a poor man's house. I will hie after you, Mistress, an' you will have me."

This question being settled, another arose. Who should be left at Bradmond? Tom was too necessary for the journey; besides which, he was ignorant of the arts of reading and writing, and would not be able to send word how matters went on after their departure. In this emergency, while Isoult and John were talking over the subject, Barbara presented herself with a deprecatory courtesy, or rather lout.

"Mistress," said she, "if you and our master bethink not yourselves readily of any that should serve for to dwell here in your absence, I would you would think on Marian my sister, and her husband [fictitious persons]. They should, I do know, be right willing to be set in charge; and Simon Pendexter (that is my brother) can right well read and write, for he hath been a schoolmaster; and is (though I say it) a sad and sober honest man, such as I do know you should be willing to use in this matter."

This information settled the question. Barbara was despatched to ask Simon and Marian if they would be willing to come, and she returned with a reply that they were not only willing, but thankful for the offer, and had no fear of the rioters.

In such arrangements time passed on until the Friday evening, when Robin reached home from Crowe, bringing Philippa Basset with him. She expressed her gratitude for the warning sent, and said that she was ready to go to London.

"As for Crowe," she said, "'tis Arthur his house, not mine; and to me all places be nigh alike. I set some seeds that I looked to see come up this next spring; but that is all I have to lose, save an old gown or twain, and the like. And," added she, turning away her head, "they will not harm what alone I care for—my dead."

On the Sunday morning came Dickon, Dr Thorpe's man, with a message from his master, desiring that all should be ready to set out by five o'clock on the following morning. "Bodmin," said he, "was plainly ill at ease: men gathered together in knots in the streets, and the like, with all manner of rumours and whisperings about; and if they were to go, go they must."

"But Tom is not yet back," said Isoult.

It was settled, however, that it would not do to wait for him; but to their relief, two or three hours before the time fixed for starting, Tom came. He brought letters from Mr Monke to John, and from Lady Frances to Isoult; but he arrived alone. Mr Monke thanked them heartily for their loving care, and would readily undertake to warn Wynscote and Combe; but he declined to join them. Potheridge was well fortified with walls and moat; and he had seven able-bodied men-servants, and double the number of tenants, who could be called within at a few minutes' notice: the house was well provisioned, and his armoury equipped: and he ended his letter by saying,—"My trust is in God. You do well to go; yet methinks I do as well to abide."

"Metrusteth all shall be well," said Isoult, with a sigh; "yet if I might have known how it should be with them, I had gone with an heart the lighter."

"A wilful man," responded Philippa; "let him be."

Lady Frances said in her letter, "Dear heart, God is not gone from Devon. Fear not for us, only pray; and wheresoever we be, and howsoever, let us abide in Him."

At last the preparations were completed. Simon and Marian Pendexter had been installed in office, with orders to write in a month: three sumpter mules were laden with the family luggage: and the last farewells were taken. The party mounted their horses. First rode John Avery on Bayard, with his wife behind him on the pillion; then, on Blanche, a white mare, came Ursula, with Kate strapped before her; on the black farm mare, which had no particular name, rode Tom, with Barbara behind, and Walter before him; and lastly, on a wiry white nag, came Robin, with Philippa on the pillion. So they moved slowly away from the home which, for aught they knew, they might never see again.

It was a trial which cost Isoult Avery many tears. Barbara, too, wept; but no one else, only when Philippa spoke, it was in that short, constrained manner with which some people hide sorrow. Little Kate was in high glee, until she saw her mother weep; and then she looked grave and thoughtful—for about ten minutes.

When they reached the end of the lane which led into the high road from Bradmond, they found Dr Thorpe seated on his bay horse, awaiting them. Behind, on a brown nag, was Dickon, with a bundle strapped at his back.

"Come, friends mine!" cried Dr Thorpe. "If you urge on your horses no faster, we shall sleep on the common to-night." Then as Bayard came up with him, he added in a lower tone, "It was too true, Jack. Fourteen houses were sacked in Bodmin last night."

"Of them that had enclosed?"

"Mostly, but not all," he answered. "They opened the cellars, and set the conduits a-flowing with wine; then, having well drunken, marched to the church, where they cast the new service-book into a bonfire [Note 1]; and at after surrounded Father Prideaux [a fictitious person] his house, shouting and singing in uproarious wise, calling upon him to come forth and set himself at their head. (A fair body to be head of!) By God's providence, he was not within; but it was full two hours ere they would depart, for all the handmaid's telling of them that her master was from home. At long last they did go thence, and down the streets, shrieking and yelling like fiends."

"And is it over, think you?" suggested Avery.

"Is it begun?" answered Dr Thorpe. "Tidings came yestre'en of riots in Somerset; and, Jack, the commons have taken Exeter."

"Taken Exeter!" cried John and Isoult in a breath.

"Taken Exeter!" repeated he. "What think you now?"

"Lord, have mercy upon us!" said Isoult under her breath.

"A letter is come from the King," pursued Dr Thorpe, "exhorting the commons to obedience and patience, and they shall receive redress of their griefs."

Philippa and Robin now came ambling alongside, for here they could ride three abreast.

"But what profess the commons to be their griefs?" said Isoult; "for I did never yet rightly understand."

"Firstly," said Dr Thorpe, "they do allege the young age of the King, and the having a Protector over them."

"What foolishness!" exclaimed Avery. "Would they have the King grow unto manhood in a day? or think they that he abideth a child of set purpose?"

"Then," pursueth Dr Thorpe, "their second matter is, the 'stablishing of Lutheranism within the realm. They would fain see the mass set up again, and have the Six Articles back."

"The Bloody Statute!" cried Isoult. "God forgive them!"

"And the third matter is the enclosures," added he.

"Methinks men are not over weighted with religion, that be so ready to pull it down," remarked Philippa.

"That hangeth on whether it be truth or error," replied he.

"Nay," said she, "you draw lines too fine for me. What I learnt in my youth is truth enough for me."

"So do many think," said Avery. "But there is yet an other question, Mrs Basset, which they shall some day have to front, though they will not now; and that is, whether it be truth enough for God?"

But to that she made no answer.

The fugitives journeyed as quietly as possible, yet as quickly as was safe, until the Saturday. And then, about four o'clock, as they gained the ridge of a hill, Dr Thorpe, who rode first, suddenly drew bridle.

"Back, all of you!" cried he. "Hide you behind the rocks yonder. An immense crowd of men is in the valley, advancing this way. If these be the commons, God be our help, for we can have none other."

"We can sell our lives dearly, at least," said Avery, looking to his matchlock.

"We that be men were best to light off our horses," pursued Dr Thorpe, "and leave the women thereon, that they may fly the faster if need be. Set them and the childre behind, and thou, Jack, with me and Tom and Dickon, stand out afore."

"They shall fly cruel slow on yon old black jade," said Tom, grinning.

"Master," inquired Dickon (who was a Somerset man), "if they catch I, what shall they do to I?"

"Hold your idle tongues!" answered Dr Thorpe sternly, "and see that your arms are in good order. Robin, shall we count thee a man, or as one of the childre?"

"You shall not count me to be guarded, but to guard," said Robin, stoutly.

"Well said," replied Dr Thorpe.

"Truly, good Doctor, on my word," interposed Philippa, "but you shall not count me as a sely woman. I have handled a matchlock afore now, and I can knock down a man an' I have hold of a poker. I stand to the front, an' it like you."

"Well said, brave heart!" answered he. "So do."

So set, they awaited the death that might be at hand, and prayed to God to guard them. All were brave enough but Dickon, and he shivered like an aspen leaf.

"Thou white-livered [our ancestors believed literally that cowards had white livers] dolt!" cried Dr Thorpe sharply, and took the matchlock out of his hands. "Go behind for a child as thou art."

"And give me his matchlock," said Philippa.

"Take it," he answered. "You are ten times over the man that he is."

Slowly they heard the tramp of feet advancing nearer and nearer. All were silent now. The feet gained the ridge of the hill—they crossed it—they came forward on the road. All at once Avery, who was next that side, threw down his matchlock with a shout.

"Forward, friends!" cried he triumphantly. "These are no rebels—these are the King's Majesty's troops. See you not the royal lions flying at the van? God be with the armies of England!"

The revulsion was great from such terror to comfort, joy, and thankfulness. All came forward. The leader of the army looked at the group, stayed his horse, and lifted his visor. A cry of joy broke from Philippa and Isoult, for they saw beneath his helm a face that they had known well in the old Calais days.

"Mrs Philippa Basset!" exclaimed he in amazement; "at the least if mine eyes bewray me not. And Mrs Barry! God keep you both! How come you here? and do you lack aid?"

"Your eyes be true men, my Lord Grey de Wilton," [Note 2] said Philippa, "and right glad are mine to light on no unfriendlier face. Truly at the first we took you for rebels, and had it not been for your coats and your standard, I had picked you off with my matchlock ere I wist who it were."

Lord Grey laughed merrily.

"Nay," said he, "we are marching against the rebels, by the King's gracious commission. What may I do for you, my mistresses? Whither go you?"

"We be on our way to London," answered Philippa, "if it like the saints to have us there."

"It may like the troops, maybe, the better," said Lord Grey. "Well, I will then send with you certain picked soldiers, good men and true, to see you safe on your way, if God permit."

"We thank you heartily, and will accept of your goodness with a very good will," she replied. "And what news, now?"

"Very ill news," answered he. "The rebels be up all through Somerset, and Kent, and Essex, and Lincoln, and Norfolk, and Suffolk."

"Thanks be to our Lady!" cried she; "none of those lie in our way to London."

"Laud be to God therefor!" answered Lord Grey, gravely; "yet be wary. How soon may Dorset and Wilts be up likewise? My Lord of Northampton layeth siege to Norwich, and ere this, I trust, is my Lord Russell and his troops around Exeter. But our work is not yet done by many a day's labour."

"I pray you, noble sir," asked Dr Thorpe, "if I may aventure myself to speak unto your Lordship, what think you of this rebellion? Shall it be a thing easily crushed, or a more graver matter?"

"I know not," said Lord Grey, turning his head to the speaker. "It should seem a very grave matter—another Jack Cade's rebellion. Yet it may be subdued readily. I know not. This only I know—that 'unless the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.'"

Lord Grey, turning, called to him one of his officers, and spoke quietly with him a moment. Then turning again to Philippa, he said, "Look you here, Mrs Basset, an't like you. I will send with you twelve picked men, that shall be a guard unto you, and shall not leave you until (by God's allowing), they have you safe in London. And there come," pursued he to the captain of the men, "report yourself unto Sir Francis Jobson, and await his order. Stay—take with you a token."

Lord Grey drew a ring from his finger, and gave it to that officer who seemed to be in authority as captain over the twelve men forming the guard. Then bowing low, he bade God keep them; and the troops marched forward at his giving the word.

The little group journeyed on towards Dorset, their guard marching before with their halberds in their hands. The captain [a fictitious person] had some talk with Dr Thorpe and Avery; he told them he was a London man, and that his mother—a widow—dwelt in the Minories; and both were Gospellers. So in due time they reached Dorchester; and thence Salisbury, both which they found quiet. And at Windsor they heard a rumour that Norwich had yielded; which on coming to London they found true. They heard further that Exeter was taken by Lord Russell; and that Lord Grey de Wilton had reached Cornwall.

The captain of their guard took them to his mother, Mistress Brent, [fictitious persons] whom they found a pleasant and pious woman. The next day they began looking for a house; and being inclined to settle in the Minories [Note 3], Mrs Brent told them of a comfortable house which was empty next door to her own. John and Isoult went to see it, liked it, and took it. Philippa went to her sister, Lady Elizabeth Jobson, in the Tower; and Dr Thorpe agreed to remain with the Averys until he should make up his mind what to do. Perhaps it was difficult to make up; for without any regular agreement on the subject, yet to everybody's satisfaction, they formed one family thereafter.

Meantime there was sad work at Exeter.

The Lord Privy Seal [John Russell, afterwards first Earl of Bedford], who was sent there with his troops, finding his own forces fewer than the rebels, stayed at Honiton, while the rebels besieged Exeter: and right valiantly the men of Exeter kept their town. [King Edward, from whose Diary these details are taken, spells these names Honington and Outrie.] The rebels burnt the gates, but those within "kept them off by hot fire, till they had made a rampart; and when they were undermined, they drowned the mine and the powder with water." The Lord Privy Seal, hearing of their bravery, endeavoured to go round a bye-way to reinforce them; but the rebels, having spies, discovered his movements, and cut down all the trees between Saint Mary Ottery and Exeter. Lord Russell then burnt the town, intending to return home. But the rebels held a bridge against him, forcing him with his small band to fall upon them; when he gained a great victory, killing some hundreds of them, and retreating homeward without any loss of his own men. Then Lord Grey came to his help, and together they raised the siege of Exeter.

At Bodmin, Sir Anthony Kingston, who was sent there, hanged the Mayor, a fervent Papist: and Father Prideaux would have fared ill at his hands, had not all the Lutherans and Gospellers in the town risen in his favour, and testified that he had not joined with other priests in the rising (for the priests urged and fomented all these risings), but was a good Protestant and faithful subject.

The fugitives were at first too busy to have much time for lamentation. But when the pressure of constant occupation was relaxed, and the furnishing and arranging of matters ended, they began to feel a little like ship-wrecked men, thrown upon a strange coast. Isoult Avery was astonished to find what a stranger she felt in London, where she had lived some years with Anne Basset and the Duchess of Suffolk. One afternoon in September she was peculiarly oppressed by this sense of solitude in a crowd—the most painful solitude of any—but was trying to bear up bravely. She sat at her work, with Kate at her hornbook beside her, when the door was unlatched, and Isoult heard her husband's well-known voice say,—"Come in,—you shall see her now."

Isoult rose to receive her unknown visitor.

He was a man of some fifty years or upwards, neither stout nor spare, but tall, and of an especially stately and majestic carriage. His face was bronzed as if with exposure to a southern sun; his hair and eyes were dark, and he had a long dark beard. Grave and deliberate in all his actions, his smile was exquisitely sweet, and his expression thoughtfully gentle.

"Isoult," said her husband, "this is Mr Rose, an ancient friend of mine, and now parson of West Ham, nigh unto Richmond. He would be acquaint with thee, and so would his wife and daughter."

Isoult rose and louted to the visitor, and gave him her hand; and to her surprise, Kate, who was commonly very shy with strangers, went up at once to Mr Rose, and suffered him to lift her upon his knee and kiss her.

"I knew not you were a man so much to childre's liking," said Avery; "methinks I never saw my little maid so friendly unto a stranger afore."

"I love them dearly," answered Mr Rose. "And I pray you, Mrs Avery, if it will please you to take the pain to visit my wife, that you bring this little maid withal."

This was Isoult's first introduction to one of the most remarkable men of the sixteenth century. Not so, perhaps, as the world sees eminence; but as God and His angels see it. Thomas Rose was a Devonshire man, and had begun to preach about the same time as Latimer. He was one of the earliest converts of the Reformation, and was constantly and consistently persecuted by the Papal party. Much of his life had been spent: abroad to escape their machinations. The entire history of this man was full of marvellous providences and hairbreadth escapes; and it was to be fuller yet. Weary of dealing in this manner, Rome had at length tried upon him those poisoned shafts which she launched at many a Gospeller—suborning false witnesses to accuse him of uncommitted crimes. Mr Rose stood the trial, and came unscathed out of it.

Isoult readily promised to visit Mrs Rose, though she was slightly dismayed on afterwards hearing from John that Mr Rose had married a foreigner.

"A Protestant, I trust?" she asked doubtfully, for she knew little of foreigners, and with the exception of a handful of Lutherans and Huguenots, thought they were all Papists—with a margin, of course, for Jews, Turks, heretics, and infidels.

John laughed as if the question amused him exceedingly. "Were it possible," he responded, "that Thomas Rose's wife should be any thing else?"

The train of visitors was only just beginning. When Isoult came in from the market, feeling very tired and overworked, on the following morning, she found Philippa Basset in her large chair, looking very much at home, while Kate, on her knee, was chattering away to her with the utmost freedom.

"Well, Isoult!" was Philippa's greeting. "Thou dost well to go a-cheapening of carrots, and leave thy friends that come to visit thee to find none in the house that they know save this," pointing to Kate. "How dost thou, dear heart?"

"The better to see you, Mrs Philippa," said she. "I will not ask how you do, for you look rarely well. Verily, I left more in the house than Kate, or I had taken her withal."

"Isoult, dost thou mean to call me mistress all the days of thy life?" she asked in answer.

"I mean to call you what it list you," said Isoult, "but truly you never gave me leave to do other."

"And truly you never asked for it," replied she. "Howbeit, take it now, prithee, for ever henceforward."

Isoult thanked her, and asked her "if any news were abroad."

"Any news, quotha?" she answered. "But a yard or twain. Hast heard that my Lord Protector is not in very good case?"

"Nay!" cried Isoult. "My Lord Protector! what mean you, Mrs Philippa?"

"This, Mrs Avery," answered she. "My Lord Protector, being no Lutheran, but a Gospeller, is not over well liked of some that be Lutherans, and no Gospellers: and as for us poor Catholics, we never (you know) held him for a saint. So this being the case (this in thine ear, Isoult—'tis under benedicite [under the seal of confession]), certain, if not all of the King's Council, be resolved to be rid of my high and mighty Lord. And ere thou be ten days older, I count thou shalt hear somewhat thereof. I have so much from a good hand, that can be trusted; the name I utter not."

"Then," said Isoult, "be the Catholics and Lutherans conspiring together for this?"

"Truth," answered she; "they that be least Christians of both."

"You say well, Mrs Philippa," replied Isoult.

"Do I so, Mrs Avery?" she answered.

"I cry you mercy!" said Isoult; "Philippa, then, if you will have it so."

"Ay, I will have it so," said she, laughing.

"But," answered Isoult, "what saith the King's Highness thereto?"

"The King!" exclaimed she. "The King marketh but his twelfth birthday this month, dear heart. What can he know? or an' he spake, who would heed him?"

"But," said Isoult, "we hear for ever of his Highness' sageness and wisdom, such as 'tis said never had Prince afore him."

"Did we not so of his father?" asked she, with a short laugh. "There be alway that will sing loud hymns to the rising or risen sun. Sageness and wisdom, forsooth! of a lad of twelve years! He may be as sage as he will, but he will not match Dr Stephen Gardiner yet awhile."

A shudder ran through Isoult Avery at the name of the deviser of the Bloody Statute. But the danger of the Protector was too serious a question to every Gospeller not to be recurred to and prayed against.

"It doth seem to me, Jack," said Isoult that evening, when the story had been told, "as though the cause of the Gospel should stand or fall with my Lord Protector. What thinkest thou?"

"Sweet wife," he answered, "if my Lord Protector were the only prop of the Gospel, it had fallen long ago. The prop of the Gospel is not my Lord or thy Lord, but the Lord of the whole earth. His strength is enough to bear it up."

"I know that, Jack," she said. "Yet God worketh by means; and my Lord Protector gone, who else is there?"

"Nay, child!" answered Dr Thorpe. "Is God so lately become unable of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham? Shall He, by whose word a nation shall be born in a day, be too weak to strengthen the King, in despite of his tender years, or to raise up another man that shall follow in the wake of my Lord Protector?"

"I know God can do miracles," said Isoult, somewhat despondingly.

"'For all but me'—is that thy thought, sweeting?" asked Avery, smiling.

"But where is there a man?" cried Isoult.

"How know I?" said Dr Thorpe. "Some whither in the Indies, it may be. But the Lord shall surely fetch him thence when the time cometh. Prithee, Jack, bid thy friend the Hot Gospeller to dinner, and leave us see if he (that I gather from thy talk to be mighty busy in public matters) can find us a man for the time."

Avery smiled, and said he would ask Mr Underhill to dinner. But Isoult shook her head, averring that neither Dr Thorpe nor even the Hot Gospeller could find a man for the time.

For some days, at her husband's desire, Isoult had been on the look-out for a bower-woman to replace Jennifer. She inquired from Mrs Brent and other neighbours, but could nowhere hear of a satisfactory person. On the Sunday evening following Philippa's visit, as they were coming home from Saint Botolph's, the church which stood at the top of the Minories, Isoult heard her name softly called from the crowd of dispersing worshippers. She looked up into a pair of black, pensive eyes, which she knew to belong to an old friend—a converted Jewess, who had been one of her bridesmaids, but whom she had never met since that time. The friends halted and clasped hands.

"I knew not you were in this vicinage," said Esther in her grave manner, "but methought that face could belong to none other."

"We dwell at this present in the Minories," said Isoult, "and are but now come hither, by reason of certain riots in the western parts. And where dwell you?"

"I am now abiding," she replied, "with a friend, one Mistress Little, until I may find conveniency to meet with a service: for I have left the one, and am not yet fallen in with the other."

"And I am but now looking for a bower-woman," said Isoult.

"Have you covenanted with any?" asked she quickly.

"Nay," was the answer, "I have not yet fallen in with any with whom to covenant."

"Mrs Avery, will you take me?" she said, earnestly.

"Nay," answered Isoult, "but will you come to me? I had thought you should look for a much better service than mine."

"I could not have a better, methinks," she responded, with a rather sorrowful smile. "I would right fain come to you, if that might be."

"Then it may be, dear heart!" said Isoult, much moved by her urgency. "I would fainer have you than any which I do know, unless it were Annis Holland, that I have known from the cradle. But should it like you to follow me into Devon? for we do look to return thither when the troubles are past."

"I will follow you any whither," answered she. "I care nothing where I am, only this,—that I would liefer be out of London than in it."

So Esther came, and took up her quarters at the sign of the Lamb. Every house in London had then its sign, which served the purpose of a number.

Meanwhile the clouds gathered more darkly over the only man in power (excepting the boy-King himself), who really cared more for the welfare of England than for his own personal aggrandisement. And it was not England which forsook and destroyed Somerset. It was the so-called Lutheran faction, to the majority of whom Lutheranism was only the cloak which hid their selfish political intrigues. There had been a time when Somerset was one of them, and had sought his own advancement as they now did theirs. And the deserted regiment never pardons the deserter. The faction complained that Somerset was proud and self-willed: he worked alone; he acted on his own responsibility; he did not consult his friends. This of course meant in the case of each member of the faction (as such complaints usually do), "He did not consult me." Somerset might truthfully have pleaded in reply that he had not a friend to consult. The Court held no friend to him; and, worst of all, his own home held none. He had, unquestionably, a number of acquaintances, of that class which has been well and wittily defined as consisting of "intimate enemies;" and he had a wife, who loved dearly the high title he had given her, and the splendid fortune with which she kept it up. But neither she nor any one else loved him—except One, who was sitting above the Water-floods, watching His tried child's life, and ready, when his extremity should have come, to whisper to that weary and sorrowful heart, "Come and rest with Me."

But that time was not yet. The battle must be fought before the rest could come.

On Friday, the 5th of October, a private gathering of nineteen of the Council was held at Lord Warwick's house in Holborn—that Lord Warwick of whom I have already spoken as John Dudley, the half-brother of Lady Frances Monke. No man on earth hated Somerset more heartily than Warwick, and perhaps only one other man hated him quite as much. While they were yet debating how to ruin Somerset, a letter came in the King's name from Secretary Petre, inquiring for what cause they thus gathered together: if they wished to speak with the Protector they must come peaceably. This letter sealed the fate of the conference—and of Somerset. The victim, it was evident, was awake and watching. Ruin might have served the original purpose: now only one end would serve it—death. But Warwick was one of the few who know how to wait.

In this emergency—for he manifestly feared for his life—Somerset appealed to the only friends he had, the people of England. And England responded to the appeal. Hour after hour thickened the crowd which watched round Hampton Court, where the King and Protector were; and in the middle of Sunday night, when he thought it safe, Somerset hastened to take refuge with his royal nephew in the strong-hold of Windsor [Note 4], the crowd acting as guards and journeying with them.

It was a false move. The populace were with Somerset, but the army was with Warwick. The crowd melted away; the Lords held London; and on every gate of the city a list of the charges against the Protector was posted up. The bird, struggling vainly in the toils of the serpent, was only exhausting its own life.

These were the charges (in substance), which Isoult Avery found Dr Thorpe carefully reading when she came home from the market on Monday morning. The old man was making comments as he proceeded, not very complimentary to my Lord of Warwick and his colleagues.

"One. That he hath made inward divisions.

"Two. That he hath lost his Majesty's pieces beyond the sea.

"Three. That he did enrich himself in the war, and left the King's poor soldiers unpaid of their wages.

"Four. That he hath laboured to make himself strong in all countries.

"Five. That he hath subverted all law, justice, and good order, whereby he hath fearfully shaken the chair of the King's seat.

"Six. That he hath little esteemed the grave advice of the King's good and faithful councillors.

"Seven. That he hath little regarded the order appointed by King Henry, for the government of his son.

"Eight. That he hath laboured to sow dissension in the kingdom among the nobles, gentlemen, and commoners.

"Nine. That the King and kingdom hath suffered great loss by his wilful negligence."

"'Shaken the chair of the King's seat!'" cried he. "If the men be not rebels that writ this paper, I have little wit to know what a rebel is. How dare they speak or think of shaking the King's seat, which is in the hands of God, and is accountable unto none save Him?—'Little esteemed the advice of the King's faithful councillors'—to wit, the runagates that writ this paper. 'Laboured to sow dissension betwixt the gentry and the commoners!' 'Tis the enclosures they point at, I reckon. What! was he the only man that allowed them? and who could have thought the commons had been such dolts? Now let us see the names of these wise, good, and faithful councillors. 'R. Rich, W. Saint John, W. Northampton, J. Warwick,'" [Note 5] and he paused a minute. "Isoult," said he again, "methinks that Earl of Warwick is a knave."

"I never thought him otherwise, Dr Thorpe," said Isoult quietly.

Sir Anthony Wingfield was sent by the Lords of the Council to Windsor on the following Friday. He parted the Lord Protector from the King, and set a strong guard to watch him until the coming of the Lords. On the Saturday the Lord Chancellor and the Council rode to Windsor, and that night the Protector was set in ward in the Beauchamp Tower of Windsor Castle. And on the Monday afternoon was the Duke of Somerset (no longer Lord Protector) brought to the Tower of London, riding between the Earls of Southampton and Huntingdon, accompanied by many gentlemen, and three hundred horse. At his own desire, he came into London by way of Saint Giles in the Fields; and opposite Soper Lane were knights sitting on horseback, and all the officers with halberds. And so they led him from Holborn Bridge to Cheapside; where, with a loud voice, he cried to the bystanders, "Good people, I am as true a man to the King as any here." In all the streets were Aldermen or their deputies, on horseback; and the householders, each man at his door, all standing with bills in their hands, as he passed. And so he was conducted to the Tower, where he remained.

"As true a man to the King!" Poor little Edward, bewildered and deceived! He did not know there was none other half so true.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The enclosure riots had a more religious aspect in the West than in the East or the Midland Counties.

Note 2. William Lord Grey de Wilton was an eminent General, and a staunch Gospeller. He had been a member of the Council at Calais during the persecution, and his close friendship with Lord and Lady Lisle is shown by the fact that of his three children, two bore their names. Lord Grey died at Cheston, near Waltham, December 25, 1562.

Note 3. The Minories was then to all intents in the country. A single street, Whitechapel Bars, lay between it and the Spital Field on the north; in front (west) was the city wall, with its gardens; on the east lay Goodman's Fields, and an open space to the south, bounded by the Tower enclosure and the Thames. It must have been a very pleasant suburb.

Note 4. Most historians say that the removal was against Edward's will. The account given by himself shows no trace of any such feeling.

Note 5. At this era, peers did not use their titles only in signature, but added at least the initial of the Christian name.



CHAPTER FOUR.

BENEATH BLUE SKY.

"Ere suns and moons could wax and wane Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled The heavens, God thought on me His child, Ordained a life for me, arrayed Its circumstances every one To the minutest; ay, God said This head this hand should rest upon Thus, ere He fashioned star or sun."

Robert Browning.

The 24th of October brought the expected letter from Simon Pendexter to the master of Bradmond, and another from Marian to the mistress. Simon's epistle was read first; but it proved to require both an English dictionary and a Latin lexicon. Simon wrote of "circumstances," [then a new and affected word], of the "culpable dexterity" of the rebels who had visited Bradmond, of their "inflammatory promulgation," of the "celerity" of his own actions in reply, and of his "debarring from dilation the aforesaid ignis." He left them in a cloud of words, of which Dr Thorpe understood about half, and Isoult much less. John, being a little wiser, was called upon for a translation. "Hang me if I know what the fellow is a-writing about!" testily cried Dr Thorpe. "Jack, do thou put this foolery into decent English!"

"The enclosure men burnt your house, old friend," said John. "Have there the English."

"Plain enough at last, by my troth!" cried he.

A little more progress was made with Mr Pendexter's missive, when Isoult interrupted it by exclaiming—

"Do tell me what he meaneth, Jack!"

"They set our house afire, dear heart, but he soon put it out," translated John.

"It was likely afeard of his big ruffling words!" said Dr Thorpe.

The letter concluded thus:—"With the which considerations, I do commit your Honour to the tuition of God. Inscribed at Bodmin, die Veneris, the fourth in the month of October. By the hand of your Honour's most undemeritous and obeisant paedagogus, Simon Pendexter."

"This companion is clean out of his wits!" exclaimed Dr Thorpe.

"Isoult, read thy little letter," said John. "Metrusteth it shall be more clear than Simon's, and, at all charges, 'tis shorter."

"Unto Mistress Avery, At the Minories in London."

"Mistress,—This shall be to advertise you (my lowly duties first remembered), that the fourteenth of July come unto Bradmond the ill men you wot of, and after casting mine husband and me forth of the house with little gentleness, did spread themselves thereabout, drinking up the wine in the cellar, and otherwise making great bruit and disorder. And in the end they set fire thereto, and departed. God helping us, we shortly had the fire under, for it began to rain; but the whole house is ruinated, and a deal of mischief done. Mistress, all the hangings be burned or torn, and the furniture is but splinters; and the very walls so knocked about, and the garden all trampled and desolated, that I am well assured, were you this minute on the ground you should not find conveniency to enter and abide for many a long day yet. And in good sooth, 'twill lack a mint of money spent thereon ere the house be meet for any, let be a gentleman and gentlewoman of your honourableness. Mistress, they tare away all the shutters, and tare up the planks of some of the floors: and they left not a latch nor an andiron whole in all the house. Mine husband hath writ to Mr Avery. From Bodmin, this fourth day of October. Mistress, I do beseech you of your gentleness to give my poor sister to know that I do fare well, and trust so doth she likewise.

"By the rude hand of her that is your servant, Marian Pendexter."

"Rude hand!" said John. "Commend me to Marian Pendexter for the writing of a letter. 'Tis one-half so long as Simon's, and tells us twice so much as he; and her round letters be as clear as print, while his be all quips and flourishes. Well, I account we shall needs abide hither for some time, Isoult; but methinks I must ride home, and see how matters stand; and if the garden be truly desolated as for roses and the like, well, the ground may as well be set with carrots and cabbages, that can be sold. And on my return hither, I must set me, as fast as I may, unto the making of pecunia, as Simon hath it, in my calling. Metrusteth the house shall not need to be pulled down and built up again; for that should take, methinks, some years to raise. Howbeit, 'tis no good looking forward too far."

Dr Thorpe said, when he had sat for a time in silence, "Ah, well! the will of the Lord be done! I trow they shall scantly burn mine other house, in that city which hath foundations."

"Mr Edward Underhill, the Hot Gospeller."

Isoult Avery looked up and rose when John made this announcement, to the evident amusement of the person introduced.

The Hot Gospeller's age was thirty-seven; of his personal appearance we have no trustworthy account. It may safely be asserted that his feelings were strong, his affections warm, his partisanship fervent, and his organ of humour decidedly developed. I picture him lithe and quick, with ready tongue and brilliant eyes; but perhaps I am as much mistaken as Isoult was concerning Alice Wikes. If the mania "de faire son portrait" which was so much the fashion in France in the reign of Louis the Fourteenth had pervaded England in the sixteenth century, we might have obtained much curious information which is now lost to us.

When all the members of our little group were gathered round the dinner-table,—which was not until eleven a.m., for the Averys dined unusually late that day—Dr Thorpe laid the subject which had been discussed before Mr Underhill, and requested his opinion on the matter. Could he find a man for the time?

Isoult shook her head dubiously.

"With whom take you part?" said Dr Thorpe.

"With both of you," answered Mr Underhill. "I lean to Mistress Avery's thought that there is no man for the time; but I do partly share your opinion, in that methinks there may be a woman."

"A woman, Mr Underhill?" cried Isoult, in amazement.

"What woman?" said Dr Thorpe. "My Lady Duchess of Suffolk, I ween. Nay, Master; she is good enough as may be, but her money-bags are a sight scantier than when my Lord Duke was in life."

"My Lady of Suffolk! not she, forsooth," replied he. "Nay, good Doctor; mine hopes are anchored (under God) on none other than the King's 'sweet sister Temperance'—my young Lady Elizabeth's Grace."

"The Lady Elizabeth!" repeated Dr Thorpe, in a voice which intimated his meaning. "A child at her book and needle, Master Underhill!"

"She will not alway be so," answered he. "Nor shall she be such long."

"And afore her standeth another," continued the doctor.

"Afore her standeth another," repeated Mr Underhill. "Nor shall any man alive ever see me to do evil that good may come. But I scantly signified all you would make me to say. I did but point to my Lady Elizabeth's power with the King, not to her being one to stand in her own power, which God long defend!"

Dr Thorpe shook his head in turn, but did not further explain himself.

"You have friends at Court," said John to Mr Underhill. "Which of these ladies is commonly thought to stand best with the King her brother?"

"The Lady Elizabeth, by many a mile," answered he. "And to go by what I hear from her tutor Mr Ascham, a fair and ready wit enough she hath. The Lady Frances [Note 1] her daughters, likewise, be great with the King, and are young damsels of right sweet nature and good learning, so far as their young age may show the same."

"What say men of the King's wedding?" quoth Dr Thorpe. "Is it yet the Queen of Scots?"

"The friends of my Lord Protector say 'tis a Princess of France; and his foes will have it that had he not fallen too soon, it should have been— the Lady Jane Seymour."

"What, my Lord Protector his daughter?" inquired Isoult.

"She," said Mr Underhill.

"That hath an ill look, an' it were so," remarked John, thoughtfully.

"'Less like than Paul's steeple to a dagger sheath,'" quoted Dr Thorpe, who was rather fond of proverbs.

"Go to, Jack! we are all for ourselves in this world," responded Mr Underhill philosophically. "As to like, it may be no more like than chalk to cheese, and yet be in every man's mouth from Aldgate to the Barbican. My Lord Protector is neither better nor worse than other men. If you or I were in his shoes, we should do the like."

"I trust not, friend," said John, smiling.

"A rush for your trust!" laughed Mr Underhill. "I would not trust either of us."

"But I would so!" said Isoult warmly. "Mr Underhill, you surely think not that if Jack were Lord Protector, he should strive and plot for the King to espouse our Kate?"

"Of course he would," said Underhill coolly. "And so would you."

"Never!" she cried.

"Well, I am sure I should. Think you I would not by my good will see my Nan a queen?" answered he.

"With a reasonable chance of Tower Hill?" suggested Avery. "You and I have seen queens come to that, Ned Underhill."

"Well, there is better air at the Lime Hurst," replied Underhill sententiously.

A long conference was held concerning the repairs at Bradmond. The resolution finally adopted was that John should ride home and ascertain what the state of affairs really was. Hitherto the family had been living on their rents, with little need for professional work on John's part unless it pleased him. Slight repairs, however, would entail saving; and serious ones might keep them in London for years, until he had laid up sufficient money to defray them.

"'Tis all in the day's work," he said lightly, to cheer his wife. "I must have a factor to see unto the place, and for that Simon Pendexter shall serve, if he affright not the poor tenants with his long words; and I myself must needs set to work hard. 'Twill do me good, dear heart; (for he saw Isoult look sad) I have hitherto been lazy, and only have played at working."

So John left London on the first of November, along with a convoy of travellers bound for Exeter; charging Isoult to make acquaintance in his absence with Mrs Rose and Mrs Underhill, with the object of giving her something to do.

"And think not, sweet wife," said he, "that we be all going a-begging, because of what I said touching money. I cast no doubt to make more than enough thereof in my calling to keep all us, and that comfortably; only if there lack much outlay at Bodmin, it shall need time to gather wherewith to pay it. Above all, I would not with my good will have any stint in mine hospitality, specially unto them that be of the household of faith. Leave us not turn Christ our Master out at the doors, at the least unless we need go there ourselves with Him."

A week after John's departure, Isoult put his advice into action, rather because he had given it, than with any real hope of dispelling the intense loneliness she felt. Robin went with her, and Kate, all riding upon Bayard, to West Ham, where they were directed to a small house near the church as the residence of the parson. For in those days parson had not lost its original honourable meaning, whereby the clergyman was spoken of as par excellence "the person" in the parish. The trio alighted, and Isoult rapped at the door. A girl of fifteen answered the knock.

She was tall for her age, but slenderly built. Her hair was of the fairest shade of golden—the pale gold of our old poets—and her eyes were brown. Not a bright, shining brown; this brown was deep and misty, and its light was the light given back from a lake, not the light of a star. In her face there was no rose at all; it was pure and pale as a snowdrop; and her look, Isoult thought, was like the look of an angel. Her smile was embodied sweetness; her voice soft and low, clear as a silver bell. There are few such voices out of England, but the combination of fair hair with dark eyes is the Venetian style of beauty. Rare in any land, yet there are occasional instances in each. For such, in Italy, was Dante's Beatrice; such, in Germany, was Louise of Stolberg, the wife of the last Stuart; and such, with ourselves, was "England's Elizabeth."

"Doth Mistress Rose here dwell, and may one have speech of her?" inquired Isoult of the vision before her.

"Will it please you to take the pain to come within?" answered the sweet voice. "I am Thekla Rose."

Wondering at a name which she had never heard before, Isoult suffered Thekla to lead her into a small, pleasant parlour, where Mrs Rose sat spinning. She was a comely, comfortable-looking woman of middle height, round-faced and rosy, with fair hair like her daughter's, but grey eyes. Isoult had forgotten her foreign origin till she heard her speak. Her English, however, was fluent and pleasant enough; and she told her visitors that she came from a town in Flanders, close to the German border.

"Where," pursued Mrs Rose, "people are bred up in their common life to speak four tongues; which shall say, Flemish—that is the language of Flanders; and Spanish—the Spaniards do rule over us; and Low Dutch [German],—because we have much to do with the Low Dutch; and the better bred women also French. And I teach my Thekla all these tongues, saving the Flemish; for they speak not Flemish only in Flanders; it should do her not much good. But in all these four tongues have I kinsfolk; for my father was a true-born Fleming, and to him I alway spake Flemish; and my mother was a Spanish woman, and I spake Spanish with her; and my father's brother was wedded unto a dame of Low Dutchland (for whom my daughter is named Thekla, which is a Low Dutch name); and his sister did marry a Frenchman. So you shall see I am akin to all this world!"

Mistress Rose entreated her guests to stay for four-hours, when she hoped Mr Rose would be at home; but Isoult was somewhat afraid of losing her way in the dark, and declined. So she called her maid, and bade her bring cakes and ale, and take Bayard to the shed where their nag was stabled, and give him a mess of oats; begging them at least to stay an hour or two. Then Robin came in, and talked to Thekla and Kate, while Isoult was occupied with Mrs Rose. Mr Rose they did not see; his wife said he was in his parish, visiting the people. So at two o'clock they departed, and reached home just as the dusk fell.

The next day Isoult rode to the Lime Hurst, to see Mrs Underhill. She found her a pleasant motherly woman, full of kindness and cordiality. As they sat and talked Mr Underhill came in, and joined the conversation; telling Isoult, among other matters, how he had once saved Lord Russell from drowning, the heir of the House of Bedford. The boy had been thrown into the Thames opposite his house, in a bitterly cold winter; and Underhill, springing in after him, rescued him, carried him to his own house, and nursed him back to life. Since that time the Earl of Bedford had been the attached friend of his child's preserver. [Underhill's Narrative, Harl. Ms. 425, folio 87, b.]

When Isoult returned home, she found a letter from Annis Holland awaiting her. It contained an urgent invitation from the Duchess of Suffolk to visit her at her little villa at Kingston-on-Thames. Isoult hesitated to accept the invitation, but Dr Thorpe, who thought she looked pale and tired, over-ruled her, chiefly by saying that he was sure John would prefer her going; so she wrote to accept the offer, and started with Robin on the following Monday.

Skirting the City wall, they passed through Smithfield and Holborn, and turned away from Saint Giles into the Reading road, the precursor of Piccadilly. The roads were good for the time of year, and they reached Kingston before dark. The next morning Robin returned home, with strict charges to fetch Isoult in a week, and sooner should either of the children fall ill.

After Robin's departure, Isoult waited on the Duchess, whom she found sitting in a cedar chamber, the casement looking on the river and the terrace above it. As the friends sat and talked in came a small white dog, wagging its tail, but with very dirty paws.

"Get out, Doctor Gardiner!" cried her Grace, rising hastily, as the soiled paws endeavoured to jump upon her velvet dress. "I cannot abide such unclean paws. Go get you washed ere you come into my chamber!— Bertie!"

Mr Bertie came in from the antechamber at her Grace's call; and smiling when he saw what she wanted, he lifted the dog and set it outside.

"Have Dr Gardiner washed, prithee!" said the Duchess. "I love a clean dog, but I cannot abide a foul one."

Isoult could not help laughing when she heard her Grace call her dog by Bishop Gardiner's name.

"He is easier cleansed than his namesake," she resumed, shaking her head. "If my Lord of Winchester win again into power, I count I shall come ill off. As thou wist, Isoult, I have a wit that doth at times outrun my discretion; and when I was last in London, passing by the Tower, I did see Master Doctor Gardiner a-looking from, a little window. And 'Good morrow, my Lord!' quoth I, in more haste than wisdom; ''tis merry with the lambs, now the wolves be kept close!' I count he will not forgive me therefor in sharp haste."

Mr Bertie smiled and shook his head.

"Now, Bertie, leave thine head still!" said her Grace. "I know what thou wouldst say as well as if I had it set in print. I am all indiscreetness, and thou all prudence. He that should bray our souls together in a mortar should make an excellent wit of both."

"Your Grace is too flattering, methinks," said Mr Bertie, still smiling.

"Am I so, verily?" answered she. "Isoult, what thinkest thou? 'Twas not I that gave the dog his name; it was Bertie here (who should be 'shamed of his deed, and is not so at all) and I did but take up the name after him. And this last summer what thinkest yon silly maid Lucrece did? (one of the Duchess's waiting-women, a fictitious person). Why, she set to work and made a rochet in little, and set it on the dog's back. Heardst thou ever the like? And there was he, a-running about the house with his rochet on him, and all trailing in the mire. I know not whether Annis were wholly free of some knowledge thereof—nor Bertie neither. He said he knew not; I marvel whether he spake truth!"

"That did I, an't like your Grace," replied Mr Bertie, laughing. "I saw not the rochet, neither knew of it, afore yourself."

"Well, I count I must e'en crede thee!" said she.

It struck Isoult that the Duchess and her gentleman usher were uncommonly good friends; rather more so than was usual at that time. She set it down to their mutual Lutheranism; but she might have found for it another and a more personal reason, which they had not yet thought proper to declare openly. The Duchess and Bertie were privately engaged, but they told no one till their marriage astonished the world.

Isoult reached home on the sixteenth of December; and on Twelfth Day, 1550, John returned from Cornwall. He brought word that the repairs needed were more extensive than any one had supposed from the Pendexter epistles. Part of the house required rebuilding; and he was determined not to begin before he could finish. The result was, that they would have to remain in London, probably, for five or six years more.

Shortly after John's return, a gentleman called to see him. His name was Roger Holland, and he was a merchant tailor in the City, but of gentle birth, and related to the Earl of Derby. Isoult wished to know if he could be any connection of her friend Annis. John thought not: but "thereby hung a tale."

"This gentleman," said John Avery, "was in his young years bound apprentice unto one Master Kempton, of the Blade Boy in Watling Street: and in this time he (being young and unwary) did fall into evil company, which caused him to game with them, and he all unskilfully lost unto them not only his own money, but (every groat) thirty pounds which his master had entrusted unto him to receive for him of them that ought it [owed it]. Moreover, at this time was he a stubborn Papist, in which way he had been bred. So he, coming unto his master's house all despairing, thought to make up his bundle, and escape away out of his master's house, (which was a stern man) and take refuge over seas, in France or Flanders. But afore he did this indiscreet thing, he was avised [he made up his mind] to tell all unto a certain ancient and discreet maid that was servant in this his master's family, by name Elizabeth Lake, which had aforetime showed him kindness. So he gat up betimes of the morrow, and having called unto her, he saith—'Elizabeth, I would I had followed thy gentle persuadings and friendly rebukes; which if I had done, I had never come to this shame and misery which I am now fallen into; for this night have I lost thirty pounds of my master's money, which to pay him, and to make up mine accounts, I am not able. But this much I pray you, desire my mistress, that she would entreat my master to take this bill of my hand that I am this much indebted unto him; and if I be ever able, I will see him paid; desiring him that the matter may pass with silence, and that none of my kindred nor friends may ever understand this my lewd part; for if it should come unto my father's ears, it would bring his grey hairs over-soon unto his grave.'

"And so would he have departed, like unto Sir Richard at the Lea, in the fair old ballad—

"'Fare wel, frende, and have good daye— It may noo better be.'

[From "A Litel Geste of Robyn Hode."]

"But Elizabeth was as good unto him as ever Robin Hood unto the Knight of Lancashire; yea, and better, as shall be seen. 'Stay,' saith she, and away went she forth of the chamber. And afore he was well over his surprise thereat, back cometh she, and poured out of a purse before him on the table thirty pound in good red gold. This money she had by the death of a kinsman of hers, but then newly come unto her. Quoth she, 'Roger, here is thus much money; I will let thee have it, and I will keep this bill. But since I do thus much for thee, to help thee, and to save thy honesty, thou shalt promise me to refuse all wild company, all swearing, and unseemly talk; and if ever I know thee to play one twelve-pence at either dice or cards, then will I show this thy bill unto my master. And furthermore, thou shalt promise me to resort every day to the lecture at All Hallows, and the sermon at Poules every Sunday, and to cast away all thy books of Papistry and vain ballads, and get thee the Testament and Book of Service, and read the Scriptures with reverence and fear, calling unto God still for His grace to direct thee in His truth. And pray unto God fervently, desiring Him to pardon thy former offences, and not to remember the sins of thy youth; and ever be afraid to break His laws, or offend His majesty. Then shall God keep thee, and send thee thy heart's desire.'

"So Mr Holland took her money, and kept his obligations unto her. And in the space of one half-year, so mightily wrought God's Spirit with him, that of a great Papist he became as fervent a Gospeller; and going into Lancashire unto his father, he took with him divers good books, and there bestowed them, so that his father and others began to taste of the gospel, and to leave their idolatry and superstition: and at last his father, seeing the good reformation wrought in this his son, gave him fifty pounds to begin the world withal, and sent him again to London, where he now driveth a fair trade."

"And hath he met again with Mistress Lake," said Isoult, "and restored unto her her thirty pounds?"

"That I cannot tell," returned John.

A letter came before long from Mr Barry, written at Christmas, and informing his sister that matters were now settled and peaceable. Indeed, at Wynscote they had heard nothing of the rioters. But Potheridge had been surrounded, and in answer to the rebels' summons to surrender, Mr Monke had sent them a dauntless message of defiance: upon which they had replied with threats of terrible vengeance, but had retired, discomfited at the first trial of strength, and never came near the place more.

Darker grew the clouds, meanwhile, over the prisoner in the Tower. His enemies drew up twenty-nine articles against him, and, going to him in his captivity, read them to him, and informed the world that he had humbly confessed them.

"Well," said John Avery, "some of these be but matter for laughter. To wit, that the Duke did command multiplication [coining] and alcumistry, whereby the King's coin was abated. As though my Lord of Somerset should take upon him to abate the King's coin!"

"Nay, better men than he have dealt with alcumistry," answered Dr Thorpe. "The former charge moveth my laughter rather,—That my said Lord hath done things too much by himself: to wit, without the knowledge and sage avisement of these my Lords of the King's Council. Is there so much as one of them that would not do the same an' he had the chance?"

"Why," said Avery, "he had the chance, and therein lieth his offence. They had not, and therein lieth their virtue."

From two poor innocent lambs cruelly pent up by the Protector, now that he was himself in durance, there came a great outcry for relief. These were the imprisoned prelates, Bonner and Gardiner. The latter said that "he had been in prison one year and a quarter and a month; and he lacked air to relieve his body, and books to relieve his mind, and good company (the only solace of this world), and lastly, a just cause why he should have come thither at all." How well can the wolf counterfeit the lamb! Had none of his prisoners lacked air, and books? And had my Lord Bishop of Winchester been so careful to see to a just cause in the case of every man he sent to Tower or Fleet?

On the 27th of January the leaders of the Devon riots were hanged at Tyburn; the chief of whom was Humphrey Arundel. And on the 6th of February the Duke of Somerset was delivered from the Tower, and suffered to go home; but four days before a change had been made in the Council, the Earls of Arundel and Southampton being dismissed and ordered to keep their houses in London during the King's pleasure.

Mrs Rose and Thekla came several times to visit Isoult, and she returned the compliment. And one day in February came Philippa Basset, who was about to go into Cheshire, to visit her sister, Lady Bridget Carden, with whom she passed nearly a year before Isoult saw her again. Lady Bridget really was not her sister at all, she being Lord Lisle's daughter, and Philippa Lady Lisle's; but they had been educated as sisters, and as sisters they loved. Not long afterwards, Sir Francis Jobson resigned his office at the Tower, and went home to his own estate of Monkwich, in Essex. His wife was the Lady Elizabeth, sister of Lady Bridget; and with her Philippa had lived ever since she came to London. When she came back, therefore, she was forced to look out for another home, for she did not wish to follow them into Essex: and she went to her own youngest brother, Mr James Basset, who had a house in London.

All this while the Reformation was quietly progressing. On the 19th of April, Bishop Ridley came to Saint Paul's Cathedral, in communion-time, and received the sacrament, together with Dr May, the Dean, and Dr Barne; both the Dean and the Bishop took the consecrated bread in their hands, instead of holding out the tongue, for the priest to put the wafer upon it. And before the Bishop would come into the choir, he commanded all the lights that were on the Lord's Table to be put out. The Dean, who was a Lutheran, was well pleased at all this; but not so other men who were more kindly disposed towards Popery; and there was much murmuring and disputing.

At this time the Princess Mary was hanging between life and death at Kenninghall. We know now how all things had been changed had she died. But God could not spare her who was to be (however unwittingly or unwillingly) the purifier of His Church, to show which was the dross, and which the gold.

Some turmoil was also made concerning Joan Boucher, an Anabaptist girl who had been condemned for heresy, and was burned in Smithfield on the 2nd of May. The Papal party, ever ready to throw stones at the Protestants, cried that "the old burning days were come again," and that Archbishop Cranmer was just as much a persecutor as Bishop Gardiner. They saw no difference between a solitary victim of the one (if Joan Boucher can be called so), and the other's piles of martyrs. Isoult, rather puzzled about the question, referred it to her husband—the manner in which she usually ended her perplexities.

"Dear heart," said he, "there be so few that can keep the mean. When men take God's sword in hand, is it any wonder that they handle it ill?"

"But wouldst thou leave such ill fawtors unchastened, Jack?" exclaimed Dr Thorpe rather indignantly.

"That were scantly the mean, I take it," quietly returned he.

Mr Underhill was just then busied in presenting before the Archbishop of Canterbury his parish priest, Mr Albutt, Vicar of Stepney, for his unseemly behaviour to the Lutheran clergy who came, by order of the King and the Archbishop, to preach in his church. For he disturbed the preachers in his church (writes Underhill), "causing bells to be rung when they were at the sermon, and sometimes began to sing in the choir before the sermon were half done, and sometimes would challenge [publicly dispute his doctrines] the preacher in the pulpit; for he was a strong stout Popish prelate. But the Archbishop was too full of lenity; a little he rebuked him, and bade him do no more so."

"My Lord," said Mr Underhill, "I think you are too gentle unto so stout a Papist."

"Well," said he, "we have no law to punish them by."

"No law, my Lord!" cried Mr Underhill; "If I had your authority, I would be so bold as to un-vicar him, or minister some sharp punishment unto him and such other. If ever it come to their turn, they will show you no such favour."

"Well," said the Archbishop in his gentle manner, "if God so provide, we must all bide it."

"Surely," answered Mr Underhill in his manner, which was blunt and fearless, "God shall never con you thanks [owe you thanks] for this, but rather take the sword from such as will not use it upon his enemies." [Note 2.]

Mr and Mrs Rose, Thekla, and Mr Underhill, dined at the sign of the Lamb one day in June. Unfortunately, their conversation turned upon the succession: and owing to the warmth of the weather, or of Mr Edward Underhill, it became rather exciting. Mr Rose was unexpectedly found to hold what that gentleman considered heretical political views: namely, that if the King should die childless, it would be competent to the Gospellers to endeavour to hinder the succession of the Princess Mary in favour of the Princess Elizabeth. This, Underhill hotly protested, would be doing evil that good might come.

"And," said he, "if it come to that pass, I myself, though I would a thousand times rather have my Lady Elizabeth to reign, yet would I gird on my sword over my buff jerkin, and fight for the Lady Mary!"

Mr Rose shook his head, but did not speak.

"Right is right, Thomas Rose!" cried Underhill, somewhat hotly.

"Truth, friend," answered he, "and wrong is wrong. But which were the right, and which were the wrong, of these two afore God, perchance you and I might differ."

"Differ, forsooth!" cried Underhill again. "Be two and two come to make five? or is there no variance in your eyes betwixt watchet [pale blue] and brasil [red]? The matter is as plain to be seen as Westminster Abbey, if a man shut not his eyes."

"I have known men do such things," said Mr Rose, with his quiet smile.

"I thank you, my master!" responded Underhill. "So have I."

"Now, Ned Underhill, leave wrangling," said Avery. "We be none of us neither prophets nor apostles."

"'Brethren, be ye all of one mind,'" repeated Dr Thorpe.

"I am ready enough to be of one mind with Rose," said Underhill, "an' he will listen to reason."

"That is," answered John, smiling, "an' he will come over to you, and look through your spectacles."

"Man o' life! we can't be both right!" cried Underhill, striking his hand heavily on the table.

"You may be both wrong, Ned," gently suggested John.

"Come, Rose!" said Underhill, cooling as suddenly as he had heated, and holding out his hand. "We are but a pair of fools to quarrel. I forgive you."

"I knew not that I quarrelled with you, friend," said Mr Rose, with his quiet smile; "and I have nothing to forgive."

But he put his hand in Underhill's readily enough.

"You are a better Christian than I, methinks," muttered Underhill, somewhat ashamed. "But you know what a hot fellow I am."

"We will both essay to be as good Christians as we can," quietly answered Mr Rose; "and that is, as like Christ as we can. Methinks He scantly gave hot words to Peter, whether the Emperor Tiberius Caesar should have reigned or no."

"Ah!" said John, gravely, "he that should think first how Christ should answer, should rarely indeed be found in hot words, and in evil, never."

"Well," replied Mr Underhill, "I am of complexion somewhat like Peter. I could strike off the ear of Malchus an' I caught him laying hands on my Master (yea, I know not if I should stay at the ear); and it had been much had I kept that sword off the High Priest himself. Ay, though I had been hanged the hour after."

"The cause seemeth to lack such men at times," said John, thoughtfully, "and then the Lord raiseth them up. But we should not forget, Ned, that 'they which take the sword shall perish with the sword.'"

"Well!" cried Underhill, "I care not if I do perish with the sword, if I may first mow down a score or twain of the enemies of the Gospel."

"Such men commonly do so," said Mr Rose aside to Isoult, by whom he sat.

"Do what?" broke in Underhill, who heard it.

"Do perish with the sword," answered he firmly, looking him full in the face.

"Amen!" cried the other. "I am abundantly ready—only, pray you, let me have a good tilt with the old mumpsimuses first." [Note 3.]

"I would I were a little more like you, Underhill," said Mr Rose. "I could suffer, as methinks, and perchance fly, an' I had the opportunity; but resist or defend me, that could I not."

"Call me to resist and defend you," answered Underhill. "It were right in my fashion."

"You may not be within call," said Mr Rose somewhat gloomily. "But God will be so."

"Mr Rose," said Isoult, "look you for a further persecution, that you speak thus?"

Thekla's eyes filled with tears.

"As Jack saith, Mrs Avery," he answered, "I am neither prophet nor apostle. But methinks none of us is out of his place upon the watch-tower. There be black clouds in the sky—very black thunder-clouds. How know I whether they shall break or pass over? Only God knoweth; and He shall carry us all safe through them that have trusted ourselves to Him. That is a word full of signification—'Some of you shall they cause to be put to death... Yet shall not an hair of your heads perish.' Our Master may leave any of His servants to die or suffer; He will never allow so much as one of them to perish. O brethren! only let the thunder find us watching, praying always; and whether we escape or no, we are assured that we shall be 'counted worthy to stand before the Son of Man.' I would not like to 'be ashamed before Him at His coming.'"

No one answered. All were too full of thought for words.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The Lady Frances was the eldest daughter of Charles Duke of Suffolk by his fourth wife, the Princess Mary, and was therefore in the line of succession to the throne. Her daughters were the Ladies Jane, Katherine, and Mary Grey.

Note 2. Harl. Ms. 425, folio 93.—Underhill gives no date for this incident beyond saying "In King Edward's time."

Note 3. In the reign of Henry the Eighth, an old priest was found who for forty years had read the word sumpsimus in his breviary as mumpsimus. On being remonstrated with, he retorted that "He would not leave his old mumpsimus for their new sumpsimus." This story was long popular with the Gospellers, who dubbed the Popish priests mumpsimuses.



CHAPTER FIVE.

GATHERING CLOUDS.

"God lays His burden on each back; But who What is within the pack May know?"

Half of the reign of Josiah, as his people loved to call him, was run out in the summer of 1550. The breathing-time of hope was nearly over.

A June morning in that summer found Isoult Avery seated by the window at work, and Robin Tremayne holding a book which he was not reading. His eyes were intently watching the light feathery clouds which floated across the blue space beyond, and his thoughts were equally intent on some subject not yet apparent. Except Walter, who was busy in the corner, manufacturing paper boats, there was no one else in the room.

Robin broke the silence, and rather suddenly.

"Mother,"—he had come to call her so,—"what think you of Mr Rose?"

"What think I of him, Robin?" repeated Isoult, looking up, while a faint expression of surprise crossed her gentle countenance. "Why, he liketh me very well!"

"And what think you of Mrs Rose, Mother?"

The surprise increased in Isoult's look, and it was accompanied now by perplexity. But she only answered—

"She liketh me only less than her husband. I would she had been English-born, but that cannot she well help; and I have none other fault to find with her."

"And what think you, Mother, of Mrs Thekla?"

Robin said this in a very low voice. Dr Thorpe was coming in as he spoke, and the old man turned and faced round on the lad.

"O ho!" cried the Doctor, "blows the wind from that quarter?"

Apparently it did so, for Robin coloured scarlet.

"Come, come, lad!" said he, "thou art but now out of thy swaddling-clothes, and what dost thou with such gear? Put it away, and go whip thy top, like a good lad!"

"Dr Thorpe!" said Robin in an aggrieved voice, and drawing himself to his utmost height, "I was nineteen years of age last Saint Agnes!" [January 21.]

"Thou art as many years of discretion as there be crowns o' the sun [Note 1] in a halfpenny," said he. "Nineteen, quotha! Why, thou idle hilding [youth], I have years sixty-nine, and I never thought of marrying yet."

Isoult laughed, but Robin was grave as a bishop, and plainly deemed himself affronted.

"That is your affair, Dr Thorpe," said he, demurely, "and this is mine, an't like you."

"A pretty plain hint to mind mine own business, whether it like me or no," replied the old man, with a little merry laugh. "Well, Robin, hie after. Are ye agreed? and is the wedding-day fixed? Shall it be Midsummer Day? Give me a jolly piece of the cake, as what else thou dost; and Isoult! mind thou set it mighty thick with plums."

"Dr Thorpe," said Robin, his patience woefully tried, "I wish you would let me be. I was talking with my mother."

"Say on!" answered he. "I will strive hard to set mine old legs a-dancing at thy wedding, though I promise not a galliardo [a dance wherein high leaps were taken, requiring great agility]. My word on't, it shall be a jovial sight! Hast seen the tailor touching thine attire? Purple satin, or cramoisie?" [Crimson velvet.]

Robin's forbearance was plainly worn out. He rose and walked toward the door.

"Nay, lad, come!" called the old man. "I meant not in deed to grieve thee. Come back, Robin, and I will cease flouting thee, if it trouble thee. Come back, thou silly child!"

Robin turned back, after a moment's thought, and sat down on the settle he had left.

"I take your word for it, Dr Thorpe," he said, soberly. "But think you it not too grave a matter for jesting?"

"Grave!" cried Dr Thorpe. "What, wouldst thou have it spoken of like an execution?"

"I cry you mercy, Doctor," said Isoult, now joining in; "but in this matter I do take part with Robin. It alway seemeth me that men (ay, and women too), do speak with too much jesting and lightness touching this matter, which should be right serious. A man's choice of a wife is a choice for life, and is hardly to be talked of, meseemeth, in the same fashion with his choice of a partlet [neck ruff]. I pray you, pardon me if in so speaking, I fail aught in the reverence due unto your years."

"Why, dear child," saith he, "thou wist more of the matter than I, which was never married; so talk away, and I will hold my peace, and trouble my master the bridegroom no further. Say on, Mr Robert Tremayne."

"Methinks enough is said," answered Robin, staidly. "I await my mother's answer."

"Which may scarce be given in a moment, Robin," said Isoult, "nor without talk with mine husband thereupon. Moreover, Mr Rose shall have a word to say touching the matter."

John was hardly allowed to speak on his return from the law courts, before he had heard Isoult's story. He received the news at first as something irresistibly comic, but the next minute he grew grave, and evidently began to consider the matter seriously.

"I would fain hear thy thought hereon, Jack," said his wife, "for methinks I do see in Robin his manner that this is no lad's fantasy only, as Dr Thorpe did suppose, but a set purpose, that must be fairly faced, and said yea or nay to."

"We must not forget, dear heart," was John's answer, "that though we are unto him in place of elders [parents], Robin is truly his own master, even afore he be of full age. He is not our ward in law, neither in articles nor apprenticeship; and he hath but himself to please. And even were we to let [hinder] him now (when I doubt not his natural kindly and obedient feeling for us should cause him to assent thereto), yet bethink thee that in a year and an half, when he cometh to his mature age, he shall be at liberty in every way. There be many husbands in the realm younger than he; and truly, I see no way but leaving him to his will, so soon only as we can be satisfied that it is no mere passing fantasy that swayeth him, but that his heart and mind are verily set and engaged therein. Remember, we have no right over him; and think yet again, that his choice (so far as I am able to judge) is a thorough good one. I see not what else may be done."

"But he did refer him unto our judgment by asking me thereon," said Isoult.

"Truth," he answered; "wherein he showed his own judgment and wisdom, and himself to be a good and gentle lad, as he is alway. The more reason, sweet heart, that our judgment should be gracious, and should lean unto his wishes, so far as we may in right dealing and love unto himself consent thereto. And in good sooth, I see no cause for dissent."

"Then," said Isoult, somewhat surprised, though she scarcely knew why she should have expected any other decision, "thou wilt speak unto Mr Rose?"

"Certainly," said he, "if Robin desire it."

"And we really shall have a wedding!" said Isoult.

"I said not that, dear heart," answered John, smiling.

"Mr Rose may refuse consent; or were he to give it, methinks I should allgates [at all events] move (wherein I would look for Rose to agree with me) that it should not be by and bye [immediately]; but to wait until Robin be fairly settled in his calling."

The calling which Robin had chosen was holy orders. He was studying divinity, and Bishop Ridley had already promised to ordain him when he should arrive at the proper age, if he were satisfied as to his fitness on examination. Mr Rose directed his reading—a fact which had caused him to be thrown rather more into Thekla's society than he might otherwise have been, in his frequent visits to West Ham, and occasional waiting required when the Vicar happened to be absent. "But, Jack!" cried Isoult, with a sudden pang of fear, "supposing that the King were to die issueless (as God defend!) and the Lady Mary to come in, and set up again the mass, and—"

"And the Bloody Statute," he answered, reading her thought. "Then we should have a second Walter Mallet."

"And Thekla to be Grace!" murmured Isoult, her voice faltering. "O Jack, that were dreadful! Could we do nought to let it?"

"Yes," he said in a constrained tone. "We might do two things to let it. Either to hinder their marriage, or to let Robin from receiving orders."

"But thinkest thou we ought so?"

"I think, sweet wife," answered he, tenderly, "that we ought to follow God's leading. He can let either; and if He see it best, whether for Robin or for Thekla, that will He. But for myself, I do confess I am afeard of handling His rod. I dare not walk unless I see Him going afore. And here, beloved, I see not myself that He goeth afore, except to bid us leave things take their course. Dost thou?"

"I see nothing," she answered; "I feel blind and in a maze touching it all."

"Then," said he, "let us 'tarry the Lord's leisure.'"

It was finally settled between John and Isoult that the former should see Mr Rose after the evening service on the following Sunday, when he was to preach at Bow Church, and speak to him on the subject of Robin and Thekla. So after the service they all returned home but John; and though no one told Robin why he stayed behind, Isoult fancied from the lad's face that he guessed the cause. It was a long time before John's return. Isoult dismissed Esther to bed, determining to wait herself; and with some indistinct observation about "young folk that could turn night into day," Dr Thorpe took up his candle and trudged up-stairs also. Robin sat on; and Isoult had not the heart to say anything to him; for she saw that his thoughts were at Bow Church, not occupied with the copy of Latimer's sermon on the Plough, which lay open before him.

At last John came, with a slow, even step, from which his wife augured ill before he entered the room. He smiled when he saw Robin still there.

"Ill news, Father!" said Robin. "You need not to tell me."

"Thou art a sely prophet, lad," answered John, kindly. "At this time I have no news at all for thee, neither good nor ill, only that Mr Rose giveth no absolute nay, and doth but undertake to think upon the matter, and discourse with Mrs Rose. Is that such ill news, trow?"

"Thank you," answered Robin in a low voice. "You did your best, I know. Good-night."

And he lifted his candle and departed. But Isoult thought the lad looked sad and disappointed; and she was sorry for him.

"Well, Jack, how spedst thou?" said she, when Robin was gone.

"Ah, grandmother Eva!" replied Jack, smiling. "Wouldst know all?"

"Now, Jack!" said she, "flout me not for my womanly curiosity, but tell me. I am but a woman."

"Pure truth, dear heart," answered he, yet smiling. "Well, I had to await a short space, for I found Thekla with her father, and I could not open the matter afore her. So at last I prayed her of leave [asked her to go] (seeing no other way to be rid of her), for I would speak with Mr Rose privily. Then went she presently away, and I brake Robin's matter."