"Indeed I am not, master!" exclaimed Ernst. "At the time you speak of, I was on the north side of the river. Only once, when I entered London, did I ever cross London Bridge."

"Thou wouldest swear to any falsehood, young traitor," answered the priest. "Thy word is of no value."

"But I can swear that he did not cross London Bridge on that day!" exclaimed Andrew A'Dale, who had been at some little distance from Ernst at the time, but, seeing him seized hold of by the guard, had hurried up, and heard the last remarks of the priest.

"Ah, ah!" exclaimed the priest, looking at Andrew, "why, of course thou wilt swear anything for thy companion, for thou wert there thyself. Thy nature is shown clearly enough, because thou didst not shout for the good Queen Mary and her loving spouse. Seize him also: carry them both away to the Fleet. They are a brace of traitors and heretics. Away with them! Away with them!"

On this both the lads were seized, and, in spite of all their expostulations and assertions of their innocence, were being dragged off by the officers of the so-called justice. At that instant, a richly-dressed gentleman on horseback, who had for some reason remained somewhat behind the royal party, was passing by in order to rejoin them. Observing the youth struggling in the hands of the guards, he turned his head aside. He gave a second glance at Ernst's countenance, and after doing so stopped his horse, and made a sign to the guard to allow the boys to approach. "What, my lad," he exclaimed, "have you been breaking the peace? Of what crime are you accused?"

Ernst looked up at the speaker, and recognised Sir John De Leigh.

"I am wrongfully accused of having been, with other boys, at the church of Saint Mary Overy when it was sacked; but to my knowledge I have never been near the place, and during the whole of that day was on the north side of the river."

"I believe your words, my boy, and will see what can be done for you," answered Sir John.

He spoke to the guards, but they shook their heads. The boys had been given into their charge by Father Overton, and they dared not let them go free. In vain Sir John offered to be answerable for them. "The father is in the service of Bishop Gardiner, and he is not one likely to pardon us, should we allow the prisoners to escape."

"Well, my lads, I am afraid you must submit to it," said Sir John, in a kind voice. "But trust to me; I will see after you, and hope, if you can prove yourselves innocent, to get you set free."

"Thank you, sir," said Ernst; "but, in the meantime, I fear me much that Lady Anne will be anxious at not hearing of me, and so will A'Dale's friends; will you, therefore, send to her, and beg her also to let them know what has become of him?"

"You are a thoughtful boy," answered Sir John; "I will see to it;" and slipping a purse into Ernst's hands, he rode on, whispering as he did so, "You will require that to obtain some few necessaries in prison."

Seeing there was no help for it, the boys walked on rapidly, endeavouring to look as little like prisoners as possible. Their guards, indeed, with their heavy arms, had some difficulty in keeping up with them. Proceeding down Cheapside, they reached Ludgate, and then turning to the north by the banks of the river Fleet, they arrived at the entrance of the prison, surrounded by strong walls. On either side of the entrance, which had a room overhead, were two low, tower-like buildings facing a flight of steps leading down to the river. The porter quickly opened the gate, and eagerly received his prisoners, well pleased at the thoughts of the fees they might bring him.

"Glad to see you, my young masters; we shall find you pleasant apartments, I doubt not; and maybe you will occupy them to the end of your days—or perchance until you go forth to grace one of the gibbets with which our ancient city has of late been adorned."

The guards, having received a proper acknowledgment from the warden of the delivery of the prisoners, demanded a fee, that they might have the honour of drinking their healths, and were evidently disappointed when A'Dale stoutly refused to yield to their demands. The boys were now carried before the governor of the prison, or sub-warden, as he was called, who farmed the management from the warden, his chief business being to wring, as much out of the prisoners as he possibly could, either by threats, or barbarous treatment, or offers of favour to be shown them.

A'Dale, who was a well-practised London lad, and knew its ways thoroughly, whispered to Ernst to produce only one of his coins at a time, being very sure that the sub-warden would otherwise not grant them any favour until he had possessed himself of the greater number. Ernst accordingly at once placed a couple of marks in the warden's hands.

"There, Master Warden," he said; "we are unjustly brought in here; but we would desire, while we remain, to enjoy such conveniences as the place can afford."

"Of course, young masters, all who come hither consider themselves brought here unjustly. You shall have an upper chamber, or at least a portion of one, as perchance you may have companions, whence you can enjoy a view of the Fleet river, and the barges passing up and down it. Such bedding as many a dignitary of the Church has had to rest on, and food from my own buttery. More, surely, you cannot desire; and, hark you! these two marks are very well as a beginning, but I must see more of them, or you will find your quarters and your fare changed pretty speedily." The sub-warden having thus, as he said, examined his prisoners, summoned the jailer to conduct them to the apartments he indicated.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

DELIVERANCE.

Ernst and A'Dale were led through many passages, in which the air was close and heavy, and their nostrils were assailed with many foul odours. At length the jailer unlocked a door at the end of a long passage, and, pointing to the inside of the room, told them they might walk in. With sinking hearts they entered, and the man, without more ado, turned the lock upon them.

The room was almost destitute of furniture, and dirty in the extreme, evidently not having been cleaned out since its last occupant was dismissed. In one corner was a truckle bed, covered with a cloth and a pile of loose straw. There was a rickety table of rough boards, with three legs, and a couple of stools of the same character. The window was long and narrow, with bars across it; though a moderately stout man could not have squeezed through, even had the bars been wanting. It was only by standing on one of the stools they could look out of the window, whence, as the warden had told them, they could see the muddy waters of the Fleet flowing by, with Fleet Street beyond, winding its way to Temple Bar.

"This is a scurvy place to put us in," observed A'Dale, "we who are innocent of any crime."

"Better men have been placed in a worse situation," answered Ernst. "In my country hundreds, nay thousands, of persons, for no crime but that of worshipping God according to their consciences, have been not only committed to prison and tortured, but burned, and otherwise put to death."

"Surely the people of England would never submit to such tyranny as that!" exclaimed A'Dale.

"I know not," observed Ernst; "may be they will have no choice. Had there been more men of true heart among them, they would have rescued that sweet Lady Jane Grey and her young and handsome husband. When I found that the Queen had the heart to allow them to be put to death, I felt sure that she would not hesitate to destroy all who might oppose her will."

"I hope we may escape from her power," observed A'Dale. "Who was the gallant gentleman who spoke to you? Do you think he can help us?"

Ernst told his friend. "I know little of him," he added; "but he seems to be a man of influence, and kindly disposed towards me."

The warden fulfilled his promise to the lads, though not exactly as they desired. A mattress was brought them, and a coarse and not over-clean covering; food also on a trencher, and a mug of ale was sent in, but the food was badly cooked, and the ale was none of the best. There was, however, a sufficiency to satisfy hunger and thirst; and they hoped for little more than that. They had been on foot all day. They were glad, when it grew dark, to throw themselves on their rough bed, and there in a short time they forgot their anxiety in sleep. The next day they waited anxiously for news from Sir John De Leigh, but none came. Ernst hoped also that some messenger might arrive from Lady Anne, trusting that Sir John had fulfilled his promise by informing her what had happened to them. They were doomed, however, to be disappointed. Towards evening, Master Babbington, the sub-warden, failed not to make his appearance.

"You remember my remark of yesterday evening, my young masters," he observed. "I have to demand a further payment, or I must place another person in this chamber instead of you, and remove you to one below, which may not be so pleasant."

"We are willing to pay yet further, Master Warden," answered Ernst; "but I would beg you also to give us more liberty. We neither desire nor have the power of quitting the prison, having reason to believe that our friends will intercede in our behalf; but to be shut up all day in this room is far from pleasant; and we will pass our words not to escape for the next week, should we be confined as long."

The warden laughed grimly. "That were a pretty way of looking after prisoners," he observed. "However, on payment of another mark each, you may perchance obtain the liberty of taking the air, on passing your word that you will make no attempt to leave the prison."

The money and the promise were at once given, and the boys were told that at certain hours of the day they would have liberty to take the air in the courtyard below.

The very thought of this gave the boys considerable satisfaction. They did not sleep soundly that night, and both were awoke, it might have been about midnight, by hearing groans, as of a person in pain, proceeding apparently from the chamber below them. They listened attentively, and now they heard a human voice; it seemed lifted up in prayer. Getting out of bed, and putting their ears to the floor, they could distinguish the very words. Fervent and earnest was the prayer. It was addressed neither to the Virgin nor to saints, but to One always ready to hear prayer—to One who "so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." The voice was deep-toned and earnest. Sometimes it trembled like that of a man advanced in life, or suffering from great bodily sickness. The boys felt almost that they had no right to listen to words which were spoken to God alone. Still they felt their own spirits revive, and their courage strengthened. The speaker seemed to think that the hour of his death was fast approaching, that he might have to stand before a tribunal of his fellow-men, and he prayed that strength might be given him to make a good confession, to hold fast to the faith. At length the prayer ceased, and once more the boys lay down in their beds, and were soon again asleep.

The following day, at the hour of noon, the door of their ward opened, and the red nose of Master Babbington appeared at it.

"You may go forth, young masters," he observed; "but remember you are watched, and if you are seen spying about, instead of the leniency you have hitherto experienced, you will be treated with no small amount of rigour." Saying this, the warden went on his way to visit other prisoners.

The boys, glad to find themselves in the enjoyment of even such limited liberty as was given them, hastened from the room and found their way into the courtyard. There were several other persons brought into the prison, for slight offences probably. Most of them were engaged in various games, some of ball or tennis, while others were content to walk up and down, to stretch their legs and to inhale such air, close and impure as it was, as they were allowed to breathe.

As Ernst and A'Dale were on their way back to their chamber, the hour of their liberty having expired, they met a venerable personage, accompanied by a guard, proceeding along the passage. He stopped and gazed at them with an air of commiseration, and inquired for what cause, they, so young and innocent-looking, had been committed to prison.

"On a false accusation, sir," answered Ernst; and in a few words he explained what had happened to them.

"There are many who are brought here on false accusations," observed the venerable-looking stranger. "However, you are young, and may, I hope, bear your imprisonment with less suffering than I do. Better far that you should be brought here innocent than guilty; and yet, my young friends, let me ask you—How do you stand before God, innocent or guilty?"

"Very guilty, I am afraid, sir," answered Ernst, looking up.

"If you are judged by your own merits, yes," answered the stranger; "but if by faith you have put on Christ's righteousness, you stand free and guiltless in the sight of the Judge of all things."

"Oh yes, sir! yes!" answered Ernst; "I know that the just shall live by faith."

"Well answered, my boy," replied the stranger. "Trust not to works, not to ordinances, not to forms, not to creeds, but simply to the all-sufficient merit of Christ. You must take Him as your own Saviour, as He offers salvation, and rely on Him, and Him alone through faith. It is an important truth; and happy are you that you have been brought into this prison if you accept it."

"Come, move on, move on!" exclaimed a rough voice. "We cannot let you teach your heresy to these boys, albeit the fire will probably purge you and them of it ere long."

Ernst, looking round, saw the burly form of Master Babbington, the warden of the prison, approaching.

He and A'Dale, respectfully wishing the old man farewell, hurried on, that they might avoid an encounter with the jailer. The stranger was no other than the venerable John Hooper, late Bishop of Worcester and Gloucester. Ernst afterwards learned much about him from one who wrote the lives of many martyrs of the true faith. It was his prayer which they had heard on the second night of their coming to the prison. The room in which he was lodged was foul and damp; and there he was kept for many months suffering from disease, till he was finally led forth and carried to Gloucester, where he was cruelly put to death by fire, holding to the true faith to the last moment of his life.

Ernst and A'Dale, in consequence of their speaking to the good bishop, were deprived of their liberty; but it mattered little, for in two days officers arrived at the prison to carry up numerous persons to be examined before the Bishop of Winchester. Among others, Ernst and A'Dale were summoned. They went willingly, thinking that they could surely with ease free themselves.

Many of the prisoners as they were led forth looked sick and pale, as if they had been kept in unwholesome wards, with scanty food. Some were weeping, not knowing what might be the result of their trial. It was rumoured, not without reason, that the Queen proposed to crush out the Reformed religion with fire and sword; and they remembered that in King Henry's time, that sweet young lady—Anne Askew—had been burned at Smithfield; and it was evident that Queen Mary had much of the nature of her father. The prisoners were led over London Bridge to the Church of Saint Mary Overy—the very place in which the priest declared that Ernst had been seen with other rioters attacking the altar.

The Bishop of Winchester and other bishops, among whom was Bonner, Bishop of London, were seated in great state, when the prisoners were brought up before them. A few were faint-hearted, and when asked their opinions on the supremacy of the Pope, on transubstantiation and other points, declared themselves believers in the doctrine of Rome. Others, however, boldly denied that the Pope had any authority in this realm of England, while they as bravely asserted the Protestant doctrine for which they had been cast into prison. Many of them, of all ranks, some poor and illiterate, did in no wise shrink from the abuse heaped on them by Gardiner and Bonner especially.

And now the priest who had accused Ernst and A'Dale appeared in court. He fixed his eyes sternly on them, as if he would frighten them into submission, and pointing at them a finger of scorn, declared that they were among the worst of those present, having committed sacrilege and robbery, as he could clearly show. In vain the boys looked round for any one to plead their cause.

"Off with them to prison!" shouted Gardiner; "they are fit food for the flames, which ere long they must be given to feed."

The rest of the accused were sent back to their prison, King Philip being still in the country, and the Queen not being, as yet, willing to commence the burning of her loving subjects. It was not till she was left alone, deserted by her husband, that she gave full way to the spirit of bigotry which dwelt in her heart.

"As for these lads," exclaimed the bishop, "let them be put in the foulest dungeon in the Fleet, and that, I wot, is bad enough! In a few days they will have the means of drying their clothes and limbs too, if I mistake not."

The hearts of the two boys, which had hitherto held up bravely, now sunk very low; but just at that moment, as Ernst cast one more imploring glance round the court, a gentleman in a rich suit entered, and at once going up to the lads, led them before Gardiner, the Chancellor. He exchanged a few words with him, and seemed, by his gestures and the expression of his countenance, to be pleading hard in their favour.

"Well, well, Sir John, you must have your way," answered the Bishop. "If I mistake not, they will very soon be again within the power of the court; and another time, remember, they will not escape so easily." The priest, seeing that his victims were about to escape him, addressed the Chancellor, but was quickly silenced; and Sir John De Leigh, in triumph, led the boys out of the building. The priest scowled fiercely at them as they passed.

"I know that Father Overton—he will try to work you mischief," observed Sir John; "but you must keep out of his way. These vultures, when once they fix their talons on their prey, like not to have it torn away from them, and will follow it eagerly, in the hopes of regaining it."

Ernst and A'Dale found a horse in readiness, held by a groom, on which Sir John told them to mount; and together they rode back over London Bridge, between the row of houses which rose up above them on either side.

On their arrival at the house in Lombard Street, the Lady Anne hurried downstairs, cordially welcoming Ernst, while little Richard followed, and threw his arms round his neck in his joy at his recovery.

"I cannot thank you enough, Sir John, for all you have done for us," she said, as the knight saluted her. "My husband desires to see you, and to thank you also. Our young friend here must also come up, though, as he is older than Ernst, we cannot help being angry with him, believing that he may have led his companion into mischief."

"No, no, I led him!" exclaimed Ernst, quickly and boldly. "I am ready to suffer punishment, but blame not him, for I deserve it more than he does."

"We will not talk of punishment," said Sir John, smiling. "Most people would think that you had had enough, with a week's sojourn in the Fleet Prison. I hope that you may never again in the course of your lives see the inside of it. It is difficult in the present time for even honest men to keep outside, if there are any who have a desire to put them in."

These words were spoken as they were proceeding upstairs. Lady Anne opened the door of the usual sitting-room, and there, reclining in a chair, suffering apparently somewhat from sickness, they beheld Master Gresham himself. He rose to welcome Sir John, and to thank him for the favour which he had done him. It was no less, indeed, than having procured his acquittal from the charges which Lord Winchester and others had brought against him. Not only this, but the Queen's Council, finding their affairs in the Netherlands greatly disordered, and it being necessary to raise further loans, had looked about for a fit person to fill the post of Royal agent, and none was found in whom all could confide so completely as in Master Gresham. Instead, therefore, of being committed to the Fleet, and perchance left to die there of disease, he had received this honourable appointment, the notice of which had only just before been sent him by Sir John De Leigh.

Master Gresham received Ernst very kindly, but admonished him to be careful in future, and on no account to allow himself to be led away by his feelings, or to mingle in any popular disturbance. "Patience and forbearance will, in the end, gain more than haste and violence," he observed. "It is seldom that a short road can be found to any great object—at least, if that object is to be secured permanently. I do not say that there are not times and seasons when men must fight for objects they hold dear, but in most cases those objects are most likely to be secured with the sword sheathed—by perseverance and firm language."

Ernst expected to be sent back to Saint Paul's School, to which A'Dale had to return; but, by the advice of Sir John De Leigh, Master Gresham agreed to take him back to Antwerp.

"He will be no longer recognised there," observed the knight; "but that priest, whom I know well, and who has accused him, will not rest till he has again got him into trouble. Why he has thus marked him down I know not, but that he has done so I am certain. Till you commence your journey, I would advise that he remains in the house, or only goes forth under your charge, and no one will now dare molest you. Had they not required your services, I fear that my influence would have availed little; but, being fully aware of your value, they are too wise to cut down the tree from which they hope to pluck golden fruit. Now, farewell, my friend; I must hie me back to court, there to attend on my loving sovereign." The knight spoke in a somewhat satirical tone.

"Remember, my good friend, that there are some persons from whom faithful service obtains but a scant recompense," observed Master Gresham. "As a tree, too, is known by its fruit, surely, judging by its produce, the Church of Rome must be of a very bitter nature, and not such as a man like you would desire to support."

"I was brought up a faithful son of the Church of Rome; and as that appears to have the upper hand at present, I see no reason why I should quit it," answered the knight; "and if I did so, I should have little chance of helping myself, much less my friends; so you, at all events, should not advise me to take any such step."

Master Gresham sighed.

"Such principles as these will soon bring ruin on our country," he said to himself; for he could not utter such thoughts aloud. The knight seemed to divine them, however.

"It is well that all people do not think as Bishops Gardiner and Bonner, or, forsooth, as the Queen's majesty herself, or perchance there might be as many burnings and hangings in fair England as there have been in the Netherlands. We cannot stop the tide altogether, but we can help to quell its fury. However, farewell, honest friend; I am glad to have done thee a service."

Saying this, the knight took a cordial farewell of Master Gresham and of Lady Anne, giving Ernst a kind shake of the hand.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A STORM AT SEA.

The shades of evening had settled down over the great City, the only lights being those of the lanterns of the costermongers' stalls scattered up and down in various directions, and the occasional glare of a link, as the citizens went to and fro from each other's houses. Another knock was heard at Master Gresham's door.

"A stranger desires to see you, sir," said the porter. "He declines giving his name, but he says you know him, and will, he is sure, greet him kindly."

"What is he like?" asked Master Gresham. "I cannot admit strangers. Beg him to write his name on this tablet; but do not tell him that I am within till I hear who he is."

This caution, as may be supposed, was not unnecessary in those dangerous times; for though Master Gresham had had the assurance of Sir John Leigh that he need no longer apprehend danger, he yet knew the treachery of which Bishop Gardiner was capable, and that, did he wish to get rid of him, he would not hesitate to do so, in spite of the support he might be receiving from other friends. The tablet was soon brought back.

"Admit him—admit him instantly," said Master Gresham, as soon as he saw the name; and, rising from his seat as the stranger entered, he stretched forth both his hands.

"My dear friend, Master John Foxe, I greet you heartily," he said, leading him to a chair. "My wife, here is one whom I have known from my youth upwards—a true and bold champion of the faith. And what is your pleasure, Master Foxe? it would be mine to aid you if I had the power."

"In troth, Master Gresham, it is to advise me how I can best leave this fair kingdom of England, and to help me in so doing," answered the visitor. "I had hoped that a humble man like me might have escaped persecution, but I have received notice that if I remain my life will have to pay the penalty; so I am about to put the seas between myself and our sovereign Lady and her fire-loving Bishop; for although I am ready to burn, if called on to witness to the faith, yet I see no reason why I should not fly from danger, if by so doing I may live to bear a faithful testimony in after years."

"You speak wisely, Master Foxe," said Master Gresham. "Even now I am about to start for the Netherlands; and we will bear each other company. The wind holds from the north, and I propose therefore taking ship from Ipswich. We may thus speedily reach a port in Flanders, whence we can travel on to Antwerp. You may there for a time as a foreigner be safe from persecution under my protection, unless you take to public teaching and preaching. In that case I should be unable to protect you."

"Thank thee, my friend," answered Master Foxe. "I look to One for protection from man's malice more powerful than man himself; but while I am in your company I will follow your wishes, albeit it is hard when occasion offers not to speak to our fellow-men of God's love and mercy to man as shown in His Gospel. I would ask you to afford your protection, not only to me, but to my wife and children; for I would not leave them behind, lest they also become exposed to the malice of those who hate the truth."

Master Foxe had wisely sent his family on a day's stage beyond London, having been greatly assisted by his friend the Duke of Norfolk. He had rendered him all the aid in his power, and supplied all the articles for his voyage.

Master Gresham and his company set forth the next morning at an early hour. They journeyed as usual on horseback, without making more show than needful, each man, however, being well-armed with sword and arquebuse, so that, should they be attacked by robbers, they might defend themselves. No robbers appeared, but soon after they left London two persons, on sleek, well-fed steeds, were seen riding at a distance behind them. They wore long cloaks; their features concealed greatly by their wide-topped hats and the coifs they wore beneath. When the travellers stopped these men stopped also, and when they reached a hostel the strangers took up their abode in the same, keeping at the farther end of the table, where they, however, might hear what was spoken by the guests. At other times no notice might have been taken of them, but after the warning Master Foxe had received, he naturally began to suspect that they had some object in view which might interfere with his liberty. He therefore, like a wise man, kept his tongue mostly silent when they were within hearing. The matter might have remained in doubt, but Ernst, on one occasion slipping round where they sat talking, so it seemed, earnestly to one another, had the means of observing the countenance of one of them. Coming back, he whispered into the ear of the Lady Anne, "I thought so from the first: it is Father Overton, the very priest who brought the accusation against me and A'Dale. He is one of Bishop Bonner's runners, that is clear. His presence bodes us no good. It is well to know our enemies, to escape their malice, though we should wish to do them no harm."

"You have acted wisely, Ernst; keep silence, and do not stray from us, though I suspect that the object of the priest in following us is to try and lay hold of Master Foxe. He would prove more valuable game than you are, my boy."

Ernst said he would warn Master Foxe, and did so. The preacher thanked him.

"I thought as much," he said; "but One mighty to save watches over us. We will go on fearlessly, trusting to Him."

Ernst trembled at the thought of again getting into the power of the priest, and kept carefully with his friends, lest by any chance he might be carried off.

The next day the priest and his companion were seen following as before, not knowing, perchance, that their character had been discovered. Master Gresham showed no little discomfort at seeing them; still, to avoid them was impossible. He and his companions therefore travelled on steadily, trying to heed them as little as possible, and saying nothing which might give them an excuse for arresting any of the party.

Master Gresham had already sent on to secure a vessel, which was in readiness for their reception on their arrival. They were not alone, however, for several other persons who had become conspicuous for their Protestant principles during the reign of King Edward had either received warning that their lives were in danger, or, knowing themselves to have acted often in opposition to the principles of the new Queen, had thought it wise to escape from her anger. Thus, a very large number were collected on board the galley. Ere the sails were hoisted, Master Foxe summoned them together, and entreated them to join him in prayer to God that they might escape from the malice of their enemies, and find a home whither they were going, where they could worship Him in spirit and in truth. They failed not also to speak of their gratitude at having escaped from the danger which threatened them.

Then the seamen came on board, the heavy anchor was hove up, and the vessel stood away from the shore. The weather, however, was threatening; dark clouds flew rapidly across the sky. The wind, blowing strong, was increasing. The danger to be found at sea was great; yet the passengers entreated the captain to continue the voyage—they dreaded having again to land. Already some of their friends had been seized and cast into prison; they knew that such might be their fate should they remain on shore.

The arrival of the priest at Ipswich, even though he was disguised, had become known, and it was suspected that his object was no good one. The shores of England were rapidly fading from view, but the wind continued to increase. The waves rose high on either side of the vessel, tipped with foam, and threatening every moment to break down over her deck; still she struggled on. The seamen made all secure, and prayed the passengers to go below. Ernst, however, continued on deck, holding firmly to the shrouds. There was another person near him who stood up, securing himself in the same way: it was Master Foxe. Although the wind howled in the rigging, the waves roared round on either side, and the spray came dashing in thick showers over them; although the sky was dark, and the waters around were troubled, the countenance of the preacher was calm and undismayed. He gazed on the shores of England; it was his native land, and he loved it well. Now he looked up at the threatening sky, and along over the dark, foam-topped seas. He was going forth an exile, perchance never to return, and yet he felt that rather would he trust the threatening ocean than the tender mercies of those who now had sway in England.

The captain came to him at length.

"You seem, good sir, a leading man among my passengers," he observed. "I fear me much, that if we attempt to continue the voyage, my stout ship may be overwhelmed, and we may together go with her to the bottom of the ocean. I fear me, therefore, that we must return, and wait till the gale has subsided."

"I would pray you to continue on the voyage," answered Master Foxe. "Let us trust to Him who rules the waves and winds. He will not allow us to perish."

"But we must trust to our own right judgment, sir," answered the captain. "Now, as a seaman, I know that the peril of proceeding is very fearful indeed, and therefore I opine that we should not tempt God by exposing ourselves to it."

"You speak justly, captain," answered Master Foxe. "As a good seaman, knowing the danger, you are right not to expose those under your charge to it. Still, I for one would rather trust myself into the hands of God, during such a gale as this, than run back and put ourselves into the power of such persons as now rule our fair land of England."

"You speak too truly," answered the captain. "We will hold on yet a little longer; but should the gale continue, we must, to save the vessel and our lives, put back to shore; as an honest man I cannot act otherwise."

Not many minutes had passed, when a furious blast struck the vessel. Over she heeled, the waters rushing in on one side, and seeming about to overwhelm her.

"Hold on for your lives!" shouted the captain. "Put up the helm! ease away the after sheets!"

Slowly the vessel came round, and ran before the blast. Before she had been struggling with the seas, but now she fled before them, though even then they hissed and bubbled up on either side, as if eager to hold her in their grasp. On, on she flew, faster and faster. Once more the shores of England appeared in sight. Anxiously the captain and his mate looked out to try and distinguish the landmarks, that they might steer the vessel so as to arrive at the entrance of the port of Harwich. The shades of evening were, however, coming on, a mist hung over the land, so as to render objects scarcely discernible. The passengers had begun to gather on deck; for, feeling the movement of the vessel more easy, they believed that the storm had abated, and that they were again in safety. Various were their exclamations when they found the sea raging as furiously as ever, and the dark clouds hanging over their heads.

Among those who had come on deck was Master Gresham. He held little Richard by the hand. Too often had he crossed the Channel to be surprised at what he saw, and yet perhaps he, more than any one else besides the captain, knew the dangerous position of the vessel.

Calmly he consulted with him as to the best course to pursue. Another person also stood calm and collected as Master Gresham: it was the minister, Master Foxe. Ernst watched him with admiration, as even amidst the roughest tossings of the ship a smile of confidence played over his features. And yet as the vessel rose on the summit of a sea, and then rushed down again into the hollow, the waters hissing and foaming high above her bulwarks, it seemed indeed as if she would never rise again, but must sink down, down, till she reached the depths of the ocean. At this time many gave way, unable to refrain from showing their fear by loud cries. Yet then the voice and look of Master Foxe would reassure them. "Fear not, my friends," he exclaimed; "if ye are Christ's, if ye have not only turned away from the idolatries of Rome, but have given your hearts to Him, you are safe in His keeping. Dread nothing therefore: He will, if He thinks fit, take you safely to land, or if not, will call you to Himself, to be with Him where He is. Now is the time to show your trust in the loving Saviour, all-powerful to save you from temporal death as from death eternal."

Thus the faithful minister continued speaking, till all who heard him felt their faith and courage revive, and no longer did any give way to expressions of fear. Still the danger continued to increase. In vain the captain endeavoured to pierce the thick gloom. No land could he discern; no beacon-fire burst forth to show of a friendly harbour. Lady Anne remained below, and thither Master Gresham conveyed little Richard.

"Should there be danger of the vessel striking, I will come for you," he said: "wife, I will save you or perish with you. Ernst, to your charge we commend our boy; you are a brave swimmer, and may be able to rescue him."

"Oh! my dear lord, do rather try and save our boy; leave me to my fate, if the fearful danger you speak of arrives!" exclaimed Lady Anne.

To this Master Gresham would not consent.

"No," he said, "I cannot let you, my wife, perish; and our boy is as safe in the keeping of Ernst as he would be in mine. I know that he will save the boy, or lose his own life in the attempt."

Ernst felt very proud on hearing these remarks, and gladly promised to watch over his friend Richard.

Onward rushed the vessel. At length it seemed to those who stood on deck that the wind did not blow so furiously as before. A short time passed, and it became evident that the gale was abating. Still, those who were acquainted with the dangers of the sea knew full well that, should the vessel be cast on the beach, how great would be the peril of their lives. The hardy seamen were at their posts. The captain ordered all to keep silence. One of the mates went forward, looking out for the land. The captain stood near the helmsman. In a clear voice he issued his orders. The sea as well as the wind had decreased. Now the sails were taken in one by one.

"Stand by with the anchor," cried the captain. "Let go!"

A plunge was heard, and the hempen cable flew quickly out. The vessel rode head to wind with her stern to the shore, not perceived by any but the seamen, so hardly could a landsman's eye pierce the thick gloom around. Still she plunged heavily into the seas which rolled towards it. Now and then the captain shouted to his mates—"Does she hold?"

The answer was satisfactory. Yet it seemed scarcely possible that iron anchor and hempen cable could prevent a ship forced by those furious billows from driving onward to the shore. Thus the night passed away. No stars were seen; no moon to cheer the voyagers. Anxiously they waited for the dawn. It came at last. Then, for the first time, they saw the shore stretching out for some distance in the west—a long line, on which the raging breakers burst furiously without a break. Once more the anchor was lifted, the sails were set, and the vessel stood closer in.

A small creek appeared, into which the captain thought the boat could run. Only a few, however, could be carried at a time. The boat was lowered into the water, but not without difficulty could the passengers be placed within it. The women and children were first lowered, and all entreated that Master Foxe would accompany them. He was unwilling, however, to quit the vessel; and not till warmly pressed by all round him would he consent, believing that it might be for the common good.

Ernst remained with his patron. Anxiously they watched the boat which contained the Lady Anne and little Richard. Away it went, urged on by the sturdy arms of the bold seamen. One of the mates, an experienced mariner, steered the boat. Now she sank into the hollow of the sea, now she was seen rising to the summit of the wave, the foam dancing round her. Once more she was hid from sight. Now she rose again. Thus she proceeded onward. As may be supposed, Master Foxe employed all his powers to cheer and comfort those with him, for often it seemed to them, as they saw the dark seas rushing after them, that their frail boat would be overwhelmed; or when they looked towards the shore, and beheld the white curling waves, they thought it impossible she could ever pass through them in safety. Thus the boat rushed on. Now she rose on the summit of a sea. The sturdy mate stood up to gaze around him. Firmly he grasped the tiller. Sinking down again, the boat glided into the very mouth of the little river, and arriving at a steep bank the mate urged his passengers to land speedily, that he might return to bring their companions to the shore. He had to make two other trips. Master Gresham and Ernst were the last to leave the ship, the captain promising, should he be able to weather out the gale, to return for them. They also safely reached the shore. Not far from where they landed a bridle road passed by, leading from the south. Master Gresham instantly set forth with Ernst and others to seek for some farmhouse where the party might be accommodated. They had not gone far when two horsemen were perceived coming along the road. As they drew near, they and the voyagers exchanged looks, and knew each other, even before they had time to utter greetings, had they so desired. In an instant Master Gresham recognised Father Overton, the priest, and his companion, who had followed them to Ipswich.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE ABDICATION OF CHARLES THE FIFTH.

Bishop Gardiner was not a person to allow his prey to escape him if he could help it. Notice was brought to him that John Foxe was proceeding to Ipswich, to embark thence for the Continent; he therefore had despatched Father Overton and another priest on his track, hoping by some means to entrap him.

Great was the disappointment, therefore, of Father Overton, when he found that Foxe was in the company of Master Gresham, whom he knew well to be a prudent man; and still greater when, after all the trouble he had taken, the whole party got safely on board and proceeded to sea.

His satisfaction may be supposed when he found that they had again landed. He now felt confident that by some means or other he should be able to get them into his power.

The only farmhouse in the neighbourhood where the voyagers could obtain shelter was inhabited by Romanists. Indeed, a large number of the country people were of that faith. Father Overton, guessing that they would go there, rode off as fast at his steed could carry him, and arrived first at the farmhouse.

Farmer Hadden and his wife were at home.

He speedily explained the object of his visit.

"They are fearful heretics," he remarked, "endeavouring to escape the vengeance of our just laws against such people, and it would be a holy and pious work in you, my friends, if you will follow my directions and endeavour to deliver them into my hands. Feed them well, and treat them well, and afterwards profess that you are followers of the Church of Rome; but express your desire to be informed of the Protestant tenets, and show an inclination to leave your present Church. Inform me of all that is said; or, better still, is there not some place in the house where you can conceal me, so that I may overhear their words? Thus, without doubt, we shall get these people into our power, and you will have performed a meritorious act."

Farmer Hadden and his dame listened to what was said. Now, although they had not left the ancient faith, this was owing possibly to their never having heard the Gospel preached. The proposal of the priest was not, at all events, to their taste, and their hearts revolted at the thought of the treachery they were required to undertake.

Still, they were timid people, and dreaded to offend the priest. A third person, however, was present. It was their daughter Margery. She had on several occasions heard the preachers, in King Edward's time, telling in simple language the truths of the Gospel. She had also, with her savings, purchased a Bible, which she carefully treasured up, and kept in her own room, bringing it down at times to read to her father and mother. Thus they, too, also had a knowledge of God's Word. Father Overton, finding that they did not willingly enter into his views, began to threaten them, telling them how many people had already been cast into prison, to be given ere long to the flames, and that unless they showed their love to the mother Church they too might suffer the same fate. Margery said nothing, but, with her eyes cast on the ground, kept spinning away as if scarcely heeding the words which were spoken.

At length the dame, fearing that the Father would put his threats into execution, agreed to follow his wishes. Father Overton, therefore, telling his companion to lead away their horses to a farm at some distance, desired Farmer Hadden to place him in a cupboard whence he could overhear all that was said by their guests. Margery well knew that though he might hear he could not see. As soon, therefore, as he was shut in, she, placing her spinning-wheel aside, threw her kerchief over her head and hurried out to meet the voyagers.

She speedily encountered Master Gresham with John Foxe and Ernst. Her voice trembled with agitation as she told them what had occurred; "But do not blame my parents," she exclaimed; "they are forced to act as they are about to do, and they themselves hate the very notion of betraying you, their guests. Only be cautious, therefore, and remember that whatever is said will be heard by hostile ears."

"Thank you, maiden; we will be cautious; but nevertheless we will speak freely from God's Word. The fear of what man can do unto us should not make us hold our tongues," replied Foxe.

Margery having given her warning, hurried back to the farm.

In a short time Master Gresham, with the preacher and Ernst, arrived, and made arrangements with the farmer and his wife for the accommodation of the whole party. Dame Hadden might have suspected that Margery had warned her guests, but she said nothing, busily employing herself in preparing provisions for them, aided by her daughter and serving-maid. The fire was made up, pots put on to boil, and meat placed to roast, while the farmer drew some flagons of his best beer. He resolved not to show any lack of hospitality to those persecuted men, albeit they differed from the Church to which he belonged. A blessing had been asked by Master Foxe ere the feast began, and at its conclusion he rose also to return thanks. He then from his pocket produced a copy of God's Word, and spoke to all present of the love of God to perishing sinners. "Could we but remember that 'not a sparrow falls to the ground' but God knoweth it, while 'all the hairs of our heads are numbered,' surely we should trust Him in all things, and understand how He is our loving Father and Friend, and thus go to Him, trusting in the complete salvation which Christ has wrought for us. We should go to Him on all occasions direct for what we need, without any other mediator. Oh! remember these words: 'God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' Remember also these words, which Christ Himself spoke: 'Verily, verily, I say unto you, he that heareth My word, and believeth on Him that sent Me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life. Verily, verily, I say unto you, the hour is coming, and now is, when the dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and they that hear shall live.' Yes, my dear friends, many who are now dead in trespasses and sin, who have never yet been born again, shall listen to the simple truth of the Gospel, and gladly accept its life-giving offers."

Thus in the same strain he continued for some time, showing forth God's love to man, man's need of a Saviour, the perfect and complete salvation wrought by that Saviour for all who accept it, even though, like the thief on the cross, they are deeply sunk in sin, and have not, till the last hour of their lives, heard the sound of the Gospel. Even Margery was surprised to hear Master Foxe speak thus, knowing that he was aware who was listening to his words.

The day closed, and the visitors were shown to such sleeping chambers as the house afforded. When all was quiet the farmer went to the cupboard and released the priest. He came forth.

"I pray you, sir, that you will not betray these good people. Surely nothing that was said deserves death or punishment of any sort. But hie thee away from hence, and let me entreat you to forget what thou hast heard," whispered Farmer Hadden, in an imploring tone.

"No, no," answered the priest; "I would not for much forget those words spoken by Master Foxe. I knew not that such words were to be found in the Scriptures. That they are there I am sure, or so learned a man as he is would not have spoken them. Christ tells us that if we believe in Him we have eternal life, and that is, I opine, glory and happiness unspeakable. Not that we shall have, but that we have it; that we have passed from death unto life. Christ Himself spoke those words. He does not say that we have any works to do, any penances to perform, but simply that we are to put faith in Him. The Church, I know, says differently; but there is a sweet and gracious meaning in those words which struck deep into my heart. I will stay and have more conversation with Master Foxe."

"I will summon him then," said the farmer; "I too would fain hear more of these things from his lips."

Most willingly the preacher rose from his couch, and sat himself down with the farmer and Father Overton. The lamps were lighted, so that God's Word might be read; and thus they sat till the grey light of morning broke into the room: the minister explaining the simple plan of salvation, drawing all his words from the fountain source. The sun rose in a clear sky, and scarcely was the morning meal concluded, before one of the shipmen came up to announce that the wind was fair, the sea calm, and that they might all return quickly on board. Another passenger was added to them. Father Overton desired to accompany the party abroad. "My house, and all I possess, I will leave behind me," he observed; "and no small amount of wealth, to gather which I was imperilling my soul. If I went back, the fate I was designing for others would assuredly be mine; and I would rather learn more of God's Word, and have my faith increased, than go back yet ignorant, and perchance relapse again into the fearful errors of Rome."

In God's good providence the vessel arrived in two days at Newport in Flanders, whence the party travelled to Antwerp. There, among the Protestants of that city, most of the voyagers found refuge; Master Foxe and his family being entertained by Master Gresham. After some time, the preacher, finding that he had many enemies in Antwerp who might deliver him up to the secular power as a heretic, proceeded with his family to Frankfort. Thence he continued on up the Rhine till he reached Basle in Switzerland, where were found great numbers of Englishmen who had been driven from their homes by persecution. That city was already famous for printing, and here Foxe began his inestimable work, giving an account of the martyrs who had suffered for the faith from the earliest times; but these matters Ernst Verner did not hear for some time afterwards.

With much sorrow Ernst Verner saw that true and faithful servant of Christ take his departure from Master Gresham's house. He won the hearts of all who knew him, and no one esteemed him more than did Master Gresham and Lady Anne. Yet the lessons of wisdom he had given were greatly interrupted by the life which the young lad was now called on to live. A great and important ceremony was about to be performed at Brussels; and Master Gresham, desiring to go there in proper state, took Ernst with him to attend on him as his page. The sober citizen's gown which the merchant generally wore was now exchanged for one of richer materials, and cut according to the Spanish fashion of the times. Ernst too was habited in a richer dress than he had ever before worn.

All arrangements being made, Ernst and several servants set off in attendance on Master Gresham for the capital city of the Netherlands. It had been for some time known that the Emperor—Charles the Fifth— purposed to abdicate the throne in favour of his son Philip the Second, now titular King of England, as well as of several small kingdoms and provinces. The day fixed was the 25th of October of the year 1555. In the magnificent hall of the residence of the Dukes of Brabant, the great ceremony was to take place. At one end a spacious platform had been erected, below which was a range of benches for the deputies of the seventeen provinces, while upon the stage were rows of seats covered with tapestry for the knights and guests of high distinction. In the centre of the stage was a splendid canopy, decorated with the arms of Burgundy, beneath which were placed three gilded armchairs.

At an early hour the larger portion of the hall was filled with persons whose magnificent dresses and general bearing showed that they belonged to the upper orders. Vast as was the hall, only such as they could find room.

As the clock struck three, the Emperor entered—a decrepit man who, although numbering only thirty-five years, looked much older. With one arm he leaned on the shoulder of a tall and graceful youth, while his other rested on a crutch. His hair was white, close-cropped, and bristly, his beard grey and shaggy, his eye dark blue, his forehead spacious, and his nose aquiline, but crooked; while his under lip was heavy and hanging, the lower jaw projecting so far beyond the upper, that he could with difficulty bring his shattered teeth together, so as to speak with clearness. Behind him came his son Philip, and Queen Mary of Hungary, the Archduke Maximilian, and other great personages following, accompanied by a glittering throng of warriors, councillors, lords and Knights of the Fleece. There was no lack of priests. The Bishop of Arras was among them, serene and smiling, whatever might have been passing in his heart. There, too, Ernst recognised one whom he had seen in London—the Count of Egmont. His tall figure, delicate features, and dark flowing hair, were not easily forgotten. His costume was magnificent, unsurpassed by any. Near him stood the Count of Horn, a brave admiral, but bold and quarrelsome—an unpopular man. Little did they think that ere long they were to be betrayed by pretended friends, and doomed to death by the sovereign whom they had faithfully served. On the same platform were two other gallant men, the Marquis Berghen and the Lord of Montigny—also doomed to suffer a cruel fate by their treacherous master. Near Philip stood his favourite companion—a man with a pallid face, coal-black hair, a slender and handsome figure—the famous Ruy Gomez. Such were some of the many noted characters who had assembled at the call of the Emperor.

As that man of hideous countenance and tottering steps entered the hall, all present rose to their feet. At a sign from him they again took their seats. He then seated himself in the centre of three chairs—one occupied by Queen Mary of Hungary, the other by his son. A long oration was now delivered by Philibert de Bruxelles, setting forth the Emperor's reasons for abdicating the throne, his boundless love for his subjects, and the imperative necessity he felt of maintaining the Catholic religion in its purity. The deed of cession was then read, by which Philip received all the Emperor's Burgundian property, including the seventeen Netherlands.

Cries of admiration burst from the assembly as the address was concluded. The Emperor then rose, and beckoning the Prince of Orange, he leant as before on his shoulder, resting his other hand on his crutch. The Prince had but recently returned from the camp on the frontier, where, notwithstanding his youth, he had been appointed by the Emperor to command his army against Admiral Coligny and the Duc de Nevers. The Emperor spoke of his numerous expeditions and campaigns, as also of eleven voyages by sea, his plans for the security of the Roman Catholic religion, and his desire that his magnificent empire should be governed by his son in a worthy manner, entreating the nation to render obedience to their new sovereign, and above all things to preserve the Catholic faith. Humbly he begged them also to pardon him for all errors and offences he might have committed during his reign. The great Emperor, sinking into his chair, wept like a child, while sobs were heard throughout every portion of the hall.

Even Philip appeared touched. Dropping on his knee, he kissed his father's hand. Charles, placing his hands on his son's head, then blessed him, and raising him, embraced him affectionately, while Philip uttered a few words expressive of his duty to his father, and his affection for his people. He expressed his regret that he could not address them in either French or Flemish, deputing the Bishop of Arras to act as his interpreter. This duty was performed by the prelate in smooth, fluent, and well-turned common-places, being replied to by Jacob Mass, member of the Council of Brabant, much in the same style. Queen Mary of Hungary, who had long been acting as Regent of the Netherlands, imitating her brother in language, also rose and resigned her office.

After a few more orations the ceremony terminated, and the Emperor slowly left the hall as he had entered. A stranger might have supposed from what he had heard that the country had ever been happily and well governed, and that there was every prospect of peace and prosperity for the subjects of the new monarch. Alas! how different was the truth. Ernst Verner, in spite of all that was said, could not forget the number of innocent persons who had already been sacrificed on the altar of bigotry and tyranny. Young as he then was, he knew full well the meaning of those exhortations of the Emperor as to the necessity of maintaining the Catholic religion in all its purity. It meant burn, slay, destroy, or drive out of the realm, all who oppose the religion of the priests of Rome—crush out with an iron heel every spark of liberty of conscience, of freedom of thought, of Protestant principles. Ernst found afterwards that Master Gresham's thoughts had agreed with his, and that he anticipated fearful evils for the people of the Netherlands.



CHAPTER TEN.

ERNST VERNER BEGINS HIS JOURNAL.

I, Ernst Verner, had by this time sufficiently mastered the art of penmanship to enter the events of the day in my journal with facility, which I seldom failed to do. My notes are, however, far too numerous to be copied. I therefore write out only such as I deem most likely to be interesting to my friends.

On our return to Antwerp; Master Gresham busied himself greatly in the business which had brought him to that city. We were all busily employed from morning till night writing and making up accounts. Not only were monetary transactions to a vast amount carried on, but large purchases were made of arms and ammunitions of war. Bullion to a considerable amount also was required in England; of this Master Gresham possessed himself for the advantage of the Queen.

We were also employed in purchasing gunpowder, military stores, and other necessary tackle for the Queen's ships of war, which at that time were greatly deficient in these articles. I consider that it was greatly owing to this forethought of my kind patron that England was afterwards in a condition to defeat the efforts of Spain to bring her under subjection; but I am now referring to events which did not take place for some time after the period of which I am speaking.

It was with considerable regret that I heard that my kind patron was directed once more to return to England, and that he purposed taking Lady Anne and his family with him.

On our arrival in London I was sent back to Saint Paul's School to finish my education. I was received kindly by the masters, who had not been changed, although they were compelled to be circumspect in their conduct, lest they should be accused of heresy, of which they knew themselves to be guilty, according to the ideas entertained by those of the Romish Church. The times were very sad. On my first holiday I went out in search of my old friend A'Dale, for he had left school. I found that he had been apprenticed to a mercer in Cheapside. He had grown into a big lad. As he had been somewhat daring and fond of excitement as a boy, he was, as may be supposed, not unwilling to find himself in a turmoil, where a pair of stout fists or a thick cudgel would serve him in good stead. I had somewhat lost my taste for such things during the courtly life I had lately led. He laughed at my effeminacy, and urged me to arouse myself, and to practise the old English sports, which would fit me for the rough life I might be destined to go through. He promised to call for me whenever he could, and, as he had a good deal of liberty, his visits were not unfrequent.

A'Dale entertained as strong a dislike to the mass as I did, and we had agreed that, in spite of the risk we ran of being accused of heresy, nothing should compel us to attend it. One evening we were proceeding through the streets, when we found ourselves pressed in by a crowd, which was hurrying up to see a procession of priests pass along. There walked Bishop Bonner under a golden canopy supported on poles by four priests, all richly arrayed. A vast crucifix was carried before him, and other priests bore banners with various devices. There came also a priest, under another canopy, bearing the host, before which numbers fell down, and worshipped as if it were some idol. Those who did not so were frowned at by the priests. Some were buffeted and told that they were heretics, and fit only for the fires of Smithfield. There were also bands of men in various disguises, and there were figures of saints and other devices, before which the people were made to bow, albeit the saints, being badly carved, some of them looking most unsaintly and unbeautiful, were jeered at, and laughed at by those at a distance, those near being compelled to bow down as they did to the host. And then followed bands of waits playing all sorts of instruments. On either side marched men with burning torches, lighting up the streets as if it were day.

"Alas! there is no true worship here. The souls of these people, even if they desire to be fed, are sent away empty," I said to myself. A'Dale and I, who had been forced in with the crowd, now attempted to make our escape. As we were doing so, I found a hand placed on my shoulder.

"What, my young friend, have you become a follower of the true faith? I thought you had been a heretic," said a person, whose voice was that of a stranger.

I looked up. A friar, so it seemed by his dress, was standing near me. For some moments I was at a loss to recollect who he was, till I recognised him as the companion of Father Overton. I had the presence of mind, however, to be silent till I could frame a wise answer.

"Perchance you mistake me for some one else," I answered. "I am a young man still under instruction; but, young as I am, I desire to follow the true faith."

"You are cautious in your speech," said the friar; "but go on—I find I am not mistaken. I wish to have a word with you in private. I mean you no harm. You can tell me of one in whom I am interested."

Keeping hold of A'Dale's arm, I at length found myself again in the street. We went down the hill towards Ludgate, and then turning along the bank of the Fleet, soon found ourselves in a quiet spot, free from observation. The friar had kept us in sight, and soon again joined us.

"I thank you for this confidence, young sir," he said. "These are dangerous times, and those who trust others may fare ill; but of you I have no fear. I want to learn from you news of one whom you knew as Father Overton. I have received several epistles from him, and by their means I have been brought to hold very different doctrines to those I had before believed were true; yet hitherto I have not dared to express them, but I feel that I can keep silence no longer. My great desire is to go forth and preach the great doctrine of justification by faith, held by Luther and those true and pious bishops who have lately been committed to the flames. Their deaths, testifying as they did to the truth, were, with the exhortations of my friend Overton, the means of turning me from the Church of Rome. I trust that you have not fallen back into the errors of that Church."

"No, indeed, I have not," I answered. "I rejoice to find that you, as well as Father Overton, have deserted them. With regard to him, I saw him several times at Antwerp, where he was supported by my patron, Master Gresham, but suddenly he disappeared, and no one could tell what had become of him. The fears were that he had been carried off by the Inquisition."

"We shall ere long meet again," said the friar, after we had exchanged a few more words. "However tempted, my young friends, hold fast to the faith. I never knew happiness till I embraced it. I am very sure that bitter regret and misery will be the lot of those who have once known and then deserted it."

Thus saying, he pressed our hands, and hurried away along the banks of the river. We slowly returned homewards, afraid of exchanging our thoughts, lest we should be overheard.

The next day was a holiday, for it was the festival of some saint in the Romish Calendar. A'Dale and I were on foot early. Finding a large concourse of people going in the direction of the northern part of the City outside the gates, known as Smithfield, we followed them. On one side were some high and ancient houses, but on the other the ground was entirely open, with meadows and woods beyond.

"It is to be the grandest burning we have had yet," I heard a person remark. "There is a priest to be burnt, and two women, besides a knight and two other laymen."

My heart sickened when I heard this, for I had no wish to see the burning, but A'Dale urged me on. "He liked to be in a crowd," he said, "and we might come away before the fire was set to the piles." We found that none of the prisoners had as yet passed. At length we saw them coming along from Newgate, the Fleet, and other prisons. They walked on with their hands bound, and a few guards only, and priests on either side. I wondered that none of the crowd attempted to rescue them. It might have been done with great ease, though, perchance, to escape afterwards might have been more difficult.

Occasionally the friends of the prisoners came up and spoke to them, and received their farewells. Some, indeed, kept by their side the whole way, the guards not interfering. Among them, nearly the last, walked a lady. Her figure was tall and graceful, though she stooped somewhat, bowed down by sickness or sorrow. Her features were deadly pale, their whiteness increased by the black dress she wore, her raven hair flowing over her shoulders, for her head was bare. People looked on her with a pitying eye, but no one came up to her. She alone of all the victims appeared to have no friends in that vast crowd. Yet every now and then she lifted up her eyes, and glanced round as if in search of some one. As she passed near where A'Dale and I were standing, it struck me she looked earnestly at me. Fearless of consequences, I darted forward, and took my place by her side.

"Can I be of any service to you?" I said.

She looked at me with an inquiring glance. Her lips opened. "Who are you?" she asked.

"My parents died for the truth at Antwerp, as you are about to die, lady," I replied. "I would thankfully render you the aid which it was denied me to offer them."

"I will trust you," she said. "You will not deceive a dying woman."

As she spoke, she hastily took a parchment from her bosom, and handed it to me.

"There! conceal it," she said, "ere it is perceived by others. It contains the certificate of my marriage to my husband, now in foreign lands, and the title-deed of an estate which should be my child's. I have but one—a young girl. I know not to a certainty where she is; for when I was seized I urged her to fly and to put herself under the protection of some Protestant family, who, for the love of the faith, would support her till the return of her father from abroad. I dared not trust this paper into the hands of my cruel jailers; but I feel sure I may confide it to you, and that you will, to the best of your power, do as I desire."

I promised the lady that I would faithfully obey her wishes; and so interested did I feel in her fate, that I offered to continue by her side to the last.

"No, no! you will be watched, perchance, if you do, and bring the same doom I suffer on your own head."

Still I entreated her to allow me to remain; but she insisted upon my quitting her, not only for my own sake, but lest I might run the risk of losing the important document she had given me.

While I was thus speaking to her as we moved slowly on through the crowded streets, another person came up, whom I at once recognised as the friar I had met on the previous day. He took no notice of me, however, but at once addressed himself to the lady. At first, with somewhat of a look of scorn, she desired him to depart; but after he had whispered a few words in her ear her manner changed, and as they walked along he continued addressing her. I guessed the purport of his conversation. Her countenance even brightened as he spoke. Now and then the priests with the other prisoners cast suspicious glances towards him; but he continued to walk on, speaking so low that no one else but the unhappy lady could hear him; and thus the band of prisoners arrived at Smithfield. Here they were saluted by the ribald shouts of the populace, who seemed to delight in hurling all sorts of abusive epithets on their heads. A'Dale wanted to remain, but I kept to my purpose. My chief interest was with the unhappy lady. I rejoiced, however, to see that her countenance was calm and unmoved; indeed, a serene joy seemed occasionally to play over it. I suspect, indeed, that some of those who stood by thought that the friar had brought her an offer of freedom, but it was not so; the only freedom she desired was to be liberated from this state of care and pain, and to mount upwards to be with her risen Lord. Onward marched the sad procession; but of all those I saw, none appeared to tremble or to desire to escape the dreadful fate awaiting them.

A'Dale, taking me by the arm, endeavoured to drag me into the front rank. "I want to judge how these people behave themselves at the stake," he said. "You and I perhaps, Ernst, may one day have to go through the same, and it may be well to take a lesson, so as to know how to comport ourselves."

I did not like his tone; it appeared more mocking than serious. It was not so, however. His heart was really as grieved as mine, but more indignant: such was his temper. Yet he really wished to see the burning.

"No, no," I answered. "Spare me, A'Dale, I cannot. I would be ready, if called on, to burn, myself, but to see others suffer, willingly I cannot. That poor lady, too, with a young child and a husband loving her, thus to be separated from them. How glorious and firm must be her faith to support her under such a trial; or rather, I should say, how gracious is the Holy Spirit who gives her strength for her need! It is that which supports her."

Still A'Dale would have me accompany him; and, though I was unwilling, he dragged me forward. I felt faint and sick and confused. The recollections of the past crowded on me with such force that they almost shut out, as it were, the scene before my eyes. I remember being in the midst of a vast crowd, and seeing on a high platform the sheriffs and a number of great officers in rich dresses, and below huge posts with chains secured to them, and a number of guards and priests below the platform, while other persons with their hands bound were in their midst, and rude rough men carrying faggots to and fro and piling them up near the posts; and then other persons were brought forward and secured to the posts, and more words were spoken, and priests seemed to be exhorting their prisoners, but none were released. And then the faggots were thrown round them, and the flames ascended, but no exclamation of fear burst from their breasts. I could gaze no more. Sick unto death, I uttered a cry and fled from the spot, scarcely knowing where I went.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A MEETING WITH MASTER OVERTON.

I left Smithfield far behind me, and found myself again amidst the streets of the City, when, overcome by my feelings, I sank on one side of the road, just within an archway. How long I remained there I know not, when I heard a voice addressing me by name:

"Rise, my boy; rise, Ernst Verner; I will conduct you to your home."

I looked up and saw the friar whom I had met in the morning.

"I am thankful I found you," he said, "or in your fainting state you might have suffered injury from some of the thieves and cut-purses who infest this City. What has happened to you?"

I told him that I had fled from the burnings at Smithfield.

"I do not wonder at that," he answered; "it was a fearful sight."

"And the poor lady with whom I saw you on her way thither, has she escaped?" I asked.

"No; she was among those who suffered death. She witnessed a good confession, and died, I believe, rejoicing, without feeling one pang of pain."

While the friar was speaking I gradually recovered.

"We will now set forward," he said, "for I must leave this City, and continue my search for my friend, who has, I believe, returned to England. I did not say this to you before, but I do so now I know that I may trust you. Should you by chance meet him, let him know that he who was once Friar Roger is so no longer, and earnestly desires to see him."

I assured him that I should be ready to help him, as well as Master Overton, and that I believed nothing would induce me to betray them.

"Yes, I know that I can trust you," he said. "And now I have to ask you, did not the lady give you a packet, desiring you to carry out the wishes which are therein expressed?"

"Yes," I answered, feeling in the bosom of my frock, in which I placed it. "I have it here safe, and hope to do as she desired."

"It might, however, be better if you were to give it to me," he observed. "You are but a youth, and might lose it, or may be unable to fulfil her request."

I could not help looking at the speaker suspiciously as he said this. Was his object to deprive me of the packet, that he might make use of it for his own purposes? If such was the case, he might have done so while I lay in a swoon.

"You will pardon me, my friend," I answered, after a minute's consideration; "that poor lady confided the packet to me, almost with her dying breath, and I purpose, if I have the power, to carry out her wishes."

Friar Roger looked at me and smiled.

"You act wisely," he answered. "You have not yet proved my fidelity, and are right not to trust me; and, besides, I think you have a greater prospect of remaining in this life than I have, for assuredly if my heresy were discovered I should speedily be brought into the same state as the poor people you saw this morning."

We had not gone far when A'Dale came hurrying after me. He had not at first missed me when I fled from Smithfield, but hearing some one remark with a laugh that a lad had been frightened by the fires, and had taken to flight, he concluded that I was the person spoken of. Friar Roger expressed his satisfaction at the appearance of A'Dale, and, confiding me to his charge, wished us farewell.

At length I reached Master Gresham's house in Lombard Street. The Lady Anne remarked upon my pale face and haggard features, and inquired what had occurred. Knowing her kind disposition, I told her the occurrences of the morning.

"Alas! alas!" she answered. "We must commiserate their fate, though I believe firmly that all of them are tasting the joys of heaven. But for that poor lady you speak of I feel more particularly. Can you tell me her name?"

I bethought me of the packet, for to the Lady Anne I knew that I could confide it properly.

"That will tell us," I observed.

We carefully opened the packet, which I drew from my bosom. Lady Anne read it.

"Alas! alas!" she said; "even while you were describing the poor lady I had an idea that she might be one I knew well in my early days, and for whom I had a warm affection. Even at that time I thought her opinions dangerous. And, my sweet Barbara, has such been indeed your fate? I would that I had the means of discovering her daughter; this document gives but a slight clue, saying little more than she told you. She believes that her child will be found among certain Flemish artisans settled at Norwich. There are many in that city, and thus among them it will be difficult to discover her. Still it must be done, and I will consult my husband on his return."

"Could I not go down to Norwich and search among the artisans there?" I asked. "I have indeed a fellow-feeling for the poor young lady, and I would thankfully be employed on such a service."

"I will think about it," answered Lady Anne; "but Norwich is a long way off, and you are young to undertake such a journey alone. If James Brocktrop can be spared I will send him, though he might not undertake the task with the zeal I should desire."

"But could not I accompany him?" I asked. "The holidays will soon begin, and if Master Gresham does not return, I shall be at liberty."

"Have patience, my boy; I will consider it," repeated Lady Anne.

When I told A'Dale, he was eager to accompany me. I knew I could trust him. It wanted but two weeks to the holidays; and we agreed that if Lady Anne could not then send Brocktrop, we ourselves, with her permission and that of my patron, would set forth together.

At length term time was over, and I was at liberty.

"I have consulted my lord's factor, Master John Elliot, and he will send James Brocktrop, for the purpose of inquiring into the trade and produce of Norwich, where he is given to understand a considerable amount of manufactures has been produced by the Flemish refugees settled in that city," said Lady Anne. "You can accompany him, and you will thus have a favourable opportunity of inquiring for the young girl."

I was greatly pleased at this arrangement; it was so exactly what I wished. A'Dale likewise obtained leave to make holiday and to accompany us. Horses were provided for our journey, and with a change of clothes and other necessaries packed in our valises and strapped before us, with thick cloaks to guard us from the inclemency of the weather, our equipment was complete.

To enable us to defend ourselves, we each of us also had a brace of pistolets, and an arquebus, which hung at the saddlebow. Thus well provided, we set forth to the North. I found the roads very different to those I had been accustomed to in the Low Countries. Instead of affording a broad level way, they were full of ruts and inequalities. Sometimes we had to pass through a wide extent of mud, and at other times to pick our way amidst the boulders, rocks, and stones which lay before us. This prevented us from proceeding as rapidly as we should have desired. We could talk, however, as we rode along, and had many subjects of conversation.

At length we reached the ancient town of Norwich, standing on its ten hills. In the late reign numerous Flemish families, driven out of the Netherlands by dread of the Edicts and the Inquisition, had settled here.

Brocktrop had been supplied with a sufficient excuse for his visit, being sent thither by the well-known mercer, Master Gresham, to examine into the state of trade and make purchases accordingly, assisted by me; while A'Dale had a similar commission from his employer. We were thus able to go about through the town and to visit the houses of the settlers for the purpose of examining the produce of their looms. Some we found employed in the manufacture of lutestrings, brocades, paduasoys, tabinets, and velvets, while a considerable number were engaged in making cutlery, knives, daggers, swords, lancets and other articles for the use of surgeons, as also clocks and watches. Lace-making we also found carried on extensively.

Still during our search we had not discovered the child of the martyred lady. At last one day we entered a humble cottage where a man was seated at a loom. His back was turned towards us. Even to my eye he did not appear to be as expert as others we had visited. Still he worked on diligently; the material he was producing being of a somewhat rough character, Brocktrop turned away, seeing that the stuff would not suit his purpose, when I apologised to the workman for intruding: on him. He turned round as I did so, and I saw a countenance with the features of which I was acquainted. Brocktrop and A'Dale had just gone out of the door. The workman rose.

"I would speak with you," he said. "Are those to be trusted?"

"Yes, sir, I am sure they are," I answered; and I at once saw that the person speaking to me was he whom I had first known as Father Overton.

He greeted me cordially, and so I ran out and begged Brocktrop and A'Dale to wait for me for a few minutes.

"I have been anxious to hear of you since we parted at Antwerp," I said. "John Foxe, too, in his letters has inquired of you, and we feared that you had fallen into evil plight."

"I left Antwerp secretly," he answered, "for I was in danger. Besides, I had a longing to return to England, first to minister to these poor refugees who had been driven by persecution from their native land, and also to spread the truth among my own countrymen. Having learned the art of weaving, I have remained here for some time in disguise; though I believe I am already suspected, and perhaps may again have to seek for safety in flight—though ready, if needs be, to suffer as a martyr for the truth."

I replied that I hoped he would yet escape till better times, which might come, seeing that there was no prospect of the Queen's Majesty having a son to succeed her. I then told him of the happy conversion of Friar Roger, by means of the letters he had written from Antwerp, and that he desired once more to meet with him.

A gleam of satisfaction passed over the countenance of Overton.

"I trust it is so," he answered; "and yet it may be prudent in me not to place myself in his power until I am sure of his fidelity." He then inquired what had brought me to Norwich. I at once told him the secret object of our visit, mentioning the name of the unhappy lady who had been put to death.

"Barbara Radford, did you say? Alas! alas! has she been murdered by these bloodthirsty bigots? Tell me how she looked; what she said. My sister, my dear sister, you were ever true and faithful! It would have rejoiced your heart to know that the brother you ever treated so affectionately had been brought to a knowledge of the truth. But oh! Ernst Verner, think what are my feelings when I tell you that it was I, in my blindness and bigotry, who first brought the family of the Radfords before the notice of the cruel Bonner as firm and uncompromising Protestants. Yet I loved my sister as much as any priest of Rome, imbued with its principles, can entertain love; but I thought it right to crush all such feelings, for the sake of advancing the cause I advocated. In what a different light do I now view such conduct!"