"Thou dear little-soul!" cried Rose.

But Cissy was looking up at Elizabeth, whom she dimly discerned to be the graver and wiser of the two girls. Elizabeth smiled at her in that quiet, sweet way which she usually did.

"Little Cissy," she said, "is not God thy Father, and his likewise? And thinkest thou fathers love to see their children happy and at ease, or no?"

"Father likes us to be happy," said Cissy simply.

"And 'your Father knoweth,'" softly replied Elizabeth, "'that ye have need of all these things.'"

"Oh, then, He'll send in Ursula, or somebody," responded Cissy, in a contented tone. "It'll be all right if I ask Him to see to it."

And Cissy "asked Him to see to it," and then lay down peacefully, her tranquillity restored, by the side of little Will, and all the children were asleep in a few minutes.

"Now, Bessy, we can have our talk."

So saying, Rose drew the stools into a corner, out of the way of the wind, which came puffing in at the skylight in a style rather unpleasant for November, and the girls sat down together for a chat.

"How go matters with you at Master Clere's, Bessy?"

"Oh, middling. I go not about to complain, only that I would Mistress Amy were a bit steadier than she is."

"She's a gadabout, isn't she?"

"Nay, I've said all I need, and maybe more than I should."

"Doth Master Clere go now to mass, Bessy?"

"Oh, ay, as regular as any man in the town, and the mistress belike. The net's drawing closer, Rose. The time will soon come when even you and I, low down as we are, shall have to make choice, with death at the end of one way."

"Ay, I'm afeard so," said Rose gravely. "Bessy, think you that you can stand firm?"

"Firm as a rock, if God hold me up; weak and shifting as water, if He hold me not."

"Ay, thou hast there the right. But we are only weak, ignorant maidens, Bessy."

"Then is He the more likely to hold us up, since He shall see we need it rather. If thou be high up on the rock, out of reach of the waves, what matter whether thou be a stone weight or a crystal vessel? The waters beat upon the rock, not on thee."

"But one sees them coming, Bess."

"Well, what if thou dost? They'll not touch thee."

"Eh, Bess, the fire 'll touch us, be sure!"

"It'll touch our flesh—the outward case of us—that which can drop off and turn to dust. It can never meddle with Rose Allen and Elizabeth Foulkes."

"Bessy, I wish I had thy good courage."

"Why, Rose, art feared of death?"

"Not of what comes after, thank God! But I'm feared of pain, Bessy, and of dying. It seems so shocking, when one looks forward to it."

"Best not look forward. Maybe 'tis more shocking to think of than to feel. That's the way with many things."

"O Bessy! I can't look on it calm, like that. It isn't nature."

"Nay, dear heart, 'tis grace, not nature."

"And thou seest, in one way, 'tis worser for me than for thee. Thou art thyself alone; but there's Father and Mother with me. How could I bear to see them suffer?"

"The Lord will never call thee to anything, Rose, which He will not give thee grace to bear. Be sure of that. Well, I've no father—he's in Heaven, long years ago. But I've a good mother at Stoke Nayland, and I'd sooner hurt my own head than her little finger, any day I live. Dear maid, neither thou nor I know to what the Lord will call us. We do but know that on whatever journey He sendeth us, Himself shall pay the charges. Thou goest not a warfare at thine own cost. How many times in God's Word is it said, 'Fear not?' Would the Lord have so oft repeated it, without He had known that we were very apt to fear?"

"Ah!" said Rose, sighing, "and the 'fearful' be among such as are left without the gate. O Bessy, if that fear should overcome me that I draw back! I cannot but think every moment shall make it more terrible to bear. And if one held not fast, but bought life, as soon as the fire were felt, by denying the truth! I am feared, dear heart! I'm feared."

"It shall do thee no hurt to be feared of thyself, only lose not thine hold on God. 'Hold Thou me up, and I shall be safe.' But that should not be, buying life, Bessy, but selling it."

"I know it should be bartering the life eternal, for the sake of a few years, at most, of this lower life. Yet life is main sweet, Bessy, and we are young. 'All that a man hath will he give for his life.'"

"Think not on the life, Rose, nor on what thou givest, but alone on Him for whom thou givest it. Is He not worth the pain and the loss? Couldst thou bear to lose Him?—Him, who endured the bitter rood [Cross] rather than lose thee. That must never be, dear heart."

"I do trust not, verily; yet—"

"What, not abed yet?" cried the cheery voice of Mrs Wade. "I came up but to see if you had all you lacked. Doll's on her way up. I reckon she shall be here by morning. A good maid, surely, but main slow. What! the little ones be asleep? That's well. But, deary me, what long faces have you two! Are you taking thought for your funeral, or what discourse have you, that you both look like judges?"

"Something like it, Hostess," said Elizabeth, with her grave smile. "Truly, we were considering that which may come, and marvelling if we should hold fast."

The landlady set her arms akimbo, and looked from one of the girls to the other.

"Why, what's a-coming?" said she.

"Nay, we know not what, but—"

"Dear heart, then I'd wait till I did! I'll tell you what it is—I hate to have things wasted, even an old shoe-latchet; why, I pity to cast it aside, lest it should come in for something some day. Now, my good maids, don't waste your courage and resolution. Just you keep them till they're wanted, and then they'll be bright and ready for use. You're not going to be burned to-night; you're going to bed. And screwing up your courage to be burned is an ill preparation for going to bed, I can tell you. You don't know, and I don't, that any one of us will be called to glorify the Lord in the fires. If we are, depend upon it He'll show us how to do it. Now, then, say your prayers, and go to sleep."

"I thank you, Hostess, but I must be going home."

"Good-night, then, Bessy, and don't sing funeral dirges over your own coffin afore it comes from the undertaker. What, Doll, hast really got here? I scarce looked to see thee afore morning. Good-night, maids."

And Mrs Wade bustled away.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. At this time they used the word meat in the sense of food of any kind—not butchers meat only.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A DARK NIGHT'S ERRAND.

"Must you be gone, Bessy?" said Dorothy Denny, sitting down on the side of her bed with a weary air. "Eh, I'm proper tired! Thought this day 'd never come to an end, I did. Couldn't you tarry a bit longer?"

"I don't think I ought, Dorothy. Your mistress looked to see Rose abed by now, 'twas plain; and mine gave me leave but till eight o' the clock. I'd better be on my way."

"Oh, you're one of that sort that's always thinking what they ought, are you? That's all very well in the main; but, dear heart! one wants a bit of what one would like by nows and thens."

"One gets that best by thinking what one ought," said Elizabeth.

"Ay, but it's all to come sometime a long way off; and how do I know it'll come to me? Great folks doesn't take so much note of poor ones, and them above 'll very like do so too."

"There's only One above that has any right to bid aught," answered Elizabeth, "and He takes more note of poor than rich, Doll, as you'll find by the Bible. Good-night, Rose; good-night, Dorothy."

And Elizabeth ran lightly down the stairs, and out so into the street. She had a few minutes left before the hour at which Mrs Clere had enjoined her to be back, so she did not need to hurry, and she went quietly on towards Balcon Lane, carrying her lantern—for there were no street lamps, and nobody could have any light on a winter evening except what he carried with him. Just before she turned the corner of the lane she met two women, both rather heavily laden. Elizabeth was passing on, when her steps were arrested by hearing one of them say,—

"I do believe that's Bess Foulkes; and if it be—"

Elizabeth came to a standstill.

"Yes, I'm Bess Foulkes," she said. "What of that?"

"Why, then, you'll give me a lift, be sure, as far as the North Hill. I've got more than I can carry, and I was casting about for a face I knew."

"I've not much time to spare," said Elizabeth; "but I'll give you a lift as far as Saint Peter's—I can't go further. Margaret Thurston, isn't it? I must be in by eight; I'll go with you till then."

"I've only to go four doors past Saint Peter's, so that'll do well. You were at the preaching, weren't you, this even?"

"Ay, and I thought I saw you."

"Yes, I was there. He talked full bravely. I marvel if he'd stand if it came to it. I don't think many would."

"I misdoubt if any would, without God held them up."

"Margaret says she's sure she would," said the other woman.

"Oh, ay, I don't doubt myself," said Margaret.

"Then I cry you mercy, but I doubt you," replied Elizabeth.

"I'm sure you needn't! I'd never flinch for pope nor priest."

"Maybe not; but you might for rack or stake."

"It'll ne'er come to that here. Queen Mary's not like to forget how Colchester folk all stood with her against Lady Jane."

"She mayn't; but think you the priests shall tarry at that? and she'll do as the priests bid her."

"Ay, they say my Lord of Winchester, when he lived, had but to hold up his finger, and she'd have followed him, if it were over London Bridge into the Thames," said the other woman. "And the like with my Lord Cardinal, that now is."

By "my Lord of Winchester" she meant Bishop Gardiner, who had been dead rather more than a year. The Cardinal was Reginald Pole, the Queen's third cousin, who had lately been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, in the room of the martyred Cranmer, "Why, the Queen and my Lord Cardinal were ever friends, from the time they were little children," answered Margaret.

"Ay, there was talk once of her wedding with him, if he'd not become a priest. But I rather reckon you're right, my maid: a priest's a priest, without he's a Gospeller; and there's few of them will think more of goodness and charity than of their own order and of the Church."

"Goodness and charity? Marry, there's none in 'em!" cried Margaret. "Howbeit, here's the Green Sleeves, where I'm bound, and I'm beholden to you, Bessy, for coming with me. Good even."

Elizabeth returned the greeting, and set off to walk back at a quick pace to Balcon Lane. She had not gone many steps when she was once more stopped, this time by a young man, named Robert Purcas, a fuller, who lived in the neighbouring village of Booking.

"Bessy," said he. "It is thou, I know well, for I heard thee bid Margaret Thurston good den, and I should know thy voice among a thousand."

"I cannot 'bide, Robin. I'm late, even now."

"Tarry but one minute, Bessy. Trust me, thou wouldst if—"

"Well, then, make haste," said Elizabeth, pausing.

"Thou art friends with Alice Mount, of Bentley, and she knows Mistress Ewring, the miller's wife."

"Ay; well, what so?"

"Bid Alice Mount tell Master Ewring there's like to be a writ out against him for heresy and contumaciousness toward the Church. Never mind how I got to know; I know it, and that's enough. He, and Mistress Silverside, and Johnson, of Thorpe, be like enough to come into court. Bessy, take heed to thy ways, I pray thee, that thou be not suspect."

No thought of herself had caused Elizabeth Foulkes to lay her hand suddenly on the buttress of Saint Peter's, beside her. The father who was so dear to little Cissy was in imminent danger; and Cissy had just been asking God to send somebody to see after him. Elizabeth's voice was changed when she spoke again.

"They must be warned," she said. "Robin, thou and I must needs do this errand to-night. I shall be chidden, but that does not matter. Canst thou walk ten miles for the love of God?"

"I'd do that for the love of thee, never name God."

Elizabeth did not answer the words. There was too much at stake to lose time.

"Then go thou to Thorpe, and bid Johnson get away ere they take him. Mistress Wade has the children, and she'll see to them, or Alice Mount will. I must—"

"Thou'd best not put too much on Alice Mount, for Will Mount's as like as not to be in the next batch."

"Lord, have mercy on us! I'll go warn them—they are with Mistress Ewring at the mill; and then I'll go on to Mistress Silverside. Make haste, Robin, for mercy's sake!"

And, without waiting for anything more, Elizabeth turned and ran up the street as fast as she dared in the comparative darkness. Streets were very rough in those days, and lanterns would not light far.

Old Mistress Silverside lived in Tenant's Lane, which was further off than the mill. Elizabeth ran across from the North Hill to Boucher's Street, and up that, towards the gate, beyond which the mill stood on the bank of the Colne. Mr Ewring, the miller, was a man who kept early hours; and, as Elizabeth ran up to the gate, she saw that the lights were already out in the windows of the mill. The gate was closed. Elizabeth rapped sharply on the window, and the shutter was opened, but, all being dark inside, she could not see by whom.

"Prithee, let me through the gate. I've a message of import for Master Ewring, at the mill."

"Gate's shut," said the gruff voice of the gatekeeper. "Can't let any through while morning."

"Darnell, you'll let me through!" pleaded Elizabeth. "I'm servant to Master Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane, and I'm sent with a message of grave import to the mill."

"Tell Master Clere, if he wants his corn ground, he must send by daylight."

And the wooden shutter was flung to. Elizabeth stood for an instant as if dazed.

"I can't get to them," she said to herself. "There's no chance that way. I must go to Tenant's Lane."

She turned away from the gate, and went round by the wall to the top of Tenant's Lane.

"Pray God I be in time to warn somebody! We are all in danger, we who were at the preaching to-night, and Mistress Wade most of all, for it was in her house. I'll go to the King's Head ere I go home."

Thus thinking, Elizabeth reached Mrs Silverside's, and rapped at the door. Once—twice—thrice—four times. Not a sound came from inside, and she was at last sorrowfully compelled to conclude that nobody was at home. Down the lane she went, and came out into High Street at the bottom.

"Then I can only warn Mistress Wade. I dare be bound she'll let the others know, as soon as morning breaks. I do trust that will be time enough."

She picked her way across High Street, and had just reached the opposite side, when her arm was caught as if in an iron vice, and she felt herself held fast by greater strength than her own.

"Hussy, what goest thou about?" said the stern voice of her master, Nicholas Clere.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

STOPPED ON THE WAY.

Nicholas Clere was a man of one idea at once; and people of that sort do a great deal of good when they get hold of the right idea, and a great deal of harm when a wrong idea gets hold of them. Once let notion get into the head of Nicholas, and no reasoning nor persuasion would drive it out. He made no allowances and permitted no excuses. If a thing looked wrong, then wrong it must be, and it was of no use to talk to him about it. That he should have found Elizabeth, who had been ordered to come home at eight o'clock, running in the opposite direction at half-past eight, was in his eyes an enormity which admitted of no explanations. That she either had been in mischief, or was then on her way to it, were the only two alternatives possible to the mind of her master.

And circumstances were especially awkward for Elizabeth, since she could not give any explanation of her proceedings which would clear her in the eyes of her employers. Nicholas Clere, like many other people of prejudiced minds and fixed opinions, had a mind totally unfixed in the one matter of religion. His religion was whatever he found it to his worldly advantage to be. During King Edward's reign, it was polite and fashionable to be a Protestant; now, under Queen Mary, the only way to make a man's fortune was to be a Roman Catholic. And though Nicholas did not say even to himself that it was better to have plenty of money than to go to Heaven when he died, yet he lived exactly as if he thought so. During the last few years, therefore, Nicholas had gradually been growing more and more of a Papist, and especially during the last few weeks. First, he left off attending the Protestant meetings at the King's Head; then he dropped family prayer. Papists, whether they be the genuine article or only the imitation, always dislike family prayer. They say that a church is the proper place to pray in, though our Lord's bidding is, "When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret." The third step which Nicholas took was to go to mass, and command all his household to follow him. This had Elizabeth hitherto, but quite respectfully, declined to do. She was ready to obey all orders of her earthly master which did not interfere with her higher duty to God Almighty. But His holy Word—not her fancy, nor the traditions of men— forbade her to bow down to graven images; or to give His glory to any person or thing but Himself.

And Elizabeth knew that she could not attend mass without doing that. A piece of consecrated bread would be held up, and she would be required to worship it as God. And it was not God: it could neither see, nor hear, nor speak; it was not even as like God as a man is. To worship a bit of bread because Christ likened His body to bread, would be as silly as to worship a stone because the Bible says, "That Rock was Christ." It was evident that He was speaking figuratively, just as He spoke when He said, "I am the door of the sheep," and "I am the Morning Star." Who in his senses would suppose that Christ meant to say that He was a wooden door? It is important that we should have true ideas about this, because there are just now plenty of foolish people who will try to persuade us to believe that that poor, powerless piece of bread is God Himself. It is insulting the Lord God Almighty to say such a thing. Look at the 115th Psalm, from the fifth verse to the eight, and you will see how God describes an idol, which He forbids to be worshipped: and then look at the 26th and 27th verses of the 24th chapter of Saint Matthew, and you will see that the Lord Jesus distinctly says that you are not to believe anybody who tells you that He is come before you see Him. When He really does come, nobody will want any telling; we shall all see Him for ourselves. So we find from His own words in every way that the bread and wine in the Sacrament are just bread and wine, and nothing more, which we eat and drink "in remembrance of Him," just as you might keep and value your mother's photograph in remembrance of her. But I am sure you never would be so silly as to think that the photograph was her own real self!

This was the reason why Elizabeth Foulkes would not go to mass. Every Sunday morning Mrs Clere ordered her to go, and Elizabeth quietly, respectfully, but firmly, told her that she could not do so. Elizabeth had God's Word to uphold her; God forbade her to worship idols. It was not simply that she did not like it, nor that somebody else had told her not to do it. Nothing can excuse us if we break the laws of our country, unless the law of our country has broken God's law; and Elizabeth would have done very wrong to disobey her mistress, except when her mistress told her to disobey God. What God said must be her rule; not what she thought.

Generally speaking, Mrs Clere called Elizabeth some ugly names, and then let her do as she liked. Up to this time her master had not interfered with her, but she was constantly expecting that he would. She was not afraid of answering for herself; but she was terribly afraid for her poor friends. To tell him that she was on her way to warn them of danger, and beg them to escape, would be the very means of preventing their escape, for what he was likely to do was to go at once and tell the priests, in order to win their favour for himself.

"Hussy, what goest thou about?" came sternly from Nicholas Clere, as he held her fast.

"Master, I cry you mercy. I was on my way home, and I was turned out of it by one that prayed me to take a word of grave import to a friend."

Elizabeth thought she might safely say so much as that.

"I believe thee not," answered Nicholas. "All young maids be idle gadabouts, if they be not looked to sharply, and thou art no better than the rest. Whither wert thou going?"

"I have told all I may, Master, and I pray you ask no further. The secret is not mine, but theirs that sent me and should have received my message."

In those days, nothing was more usual than for secret messages to be sent from one person to another. It was not safe then, as it is now, for people to speak openly. Freedom always goes hand in hand with Protestantism. If England should ever again become a Roman Catholic country—which many people are trying hard to make her—Englishmen will be no longer free.

Nicholas Clere hesitated a moment. Elizabeth's defence was not at all unlikely to be true. But he had made up his mind that she was in fault, and probabilities must not be allowed to interfere with it.

"Rubbish!" said he. "What man, having his eyes in his head, should trust a silly maid with any matter of import? Women can never keep a secret, much less a young jade like to thee. Tell no more lies, prithee."

And he began to walk towards Balcon Lane, still firmly holding Elizabeth by the arm.

"Master, I beseech you, let me go on my way!" she pleaded earnestly. "I will tarry up all night, if it be your pleasure, to make up for one half-hour now. Truly as I am an honest maid, I have told you the truth, and I am about nothing ill."

"Tush, jade! Hold thy tongue. Thou goest with me, and if not peaceably, then by force."

"Will you, of your grace, Master, let me leave my message with some other to take instead of me? May I have leave to speak, but one moment, with Mistress Wade, of the King's Head? She would find a trusty messenger to go forward."

"Tell me thy message, and if it be truly of any weight, then shall it be sent," answered Nicholas, still coldly, but less angrily than before.

Could she tell him the message? Would it not go straight to the priest, and all hope of escape be thus cut off? Like Nehemiah, Elizabeth cried for wisdom.

"Master, I cry you mercy yet again, but I may not tell the message."

"Yet thou wouldst fain tell Mistress Wade! Thou wicked hussy, thou canst be after no good. What message is this, which thou canst tell Mistress Wade, but mayest not tell me? I crede thee not a word. Have forward, and thy mistress shall deal with thee."



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

SILENCE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Elizabeth Foulkes was almost in despair. Her master held her arm tight, and he was a strong man—to break away from him was simply impossible— and to persuade him to release her seemed about as unlikely. Still she cried, "Master, let me go!" in tones that might have melted any softer heart than that of Nicholas Clere.

"Step out!" was all he said, as he compelled Elizabeth to keep pace with him till they reached Balcon Lane. Mrs Clere was busy in the kitchen. She stopped short as they entered, with a gridiron in her hand which she had cleaned and was about to hang up.

"Well, this is a proper time of night to come home, mistress! Marched in, too, with thy master holding of thee, as if the constable had thee in custody! This is our pious maid, that can talk nought but Bible, and says her prayers once a day oftener nor other folks! I always do think that sort no better than hypocrites. What hath she been about, Nicholas? what saith she?"

"A pack o' lies!" said Nicholas, harshly. "Whined out a tale of some message of dread import that somebody, that must not be named, hath sent her on. I found her hasting with all speed across the High Street, the contrary way from what it should have been. You'd best give her the strap, wife. She deserves it, or will ere long."

Nicholas sat down in the chimney-corner, leaving Mistress Clere to deal with the offender. Elizabeth well knew that the strap was no figure of speech, and that Mistress Clere when angry had no light hand. Girls were beaten cruelly in those days, and grown women too, when their mothers or mistresses chose to punish them for real or supposed offences. But Elizabeth Foulkes thought very little of the pain she might suffer, and very much of the needed warning which had not been given. And then, suddenly, the words flashed across her, "Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven." Then the warning was better let alone, if it were God's will. She rose with a calmer face, and followed Mistress Clere to the next room to receive her penalty.

"There!" said that lady, when her arm began to ache with beating Elizabeth. "That'll do for a bit, I hope. Perhaps thou'lt not be so headstrong next time. I vow, she looks as sweet as if I'd given her a box of sugar plums! I'm feared thou'd have done with a bit more, but I'm proper tired. Now, speak the truth: who sent thee on this wild-goose chase?"

"Mistress, I was trusted with a secret. Pray you, ask me not."

"Secret me no secrets! I'll have it forth."

"Not of me," said Elizabeth, quietly, but firmly.

"Highty-tighty! and who art thou, my lady?"

"I am your servant, mistress, and will do your bidding in everything that toucheth not my duty to God Almighty. But this I cannot."

"I'll tell thee what, hussy! it was never good world since folks set up to think for themselves what was right and wrong, instead of hearkening to the priest, and doing as they were bid, Thou'rt too proud, Bess Foulkes, that's where it is, with thy pretty face and thy dainty ways. Go thou up and get thee abed—it's on the stroke of nine: and I'll come and lock thee in. Dear heart, to see the masterfulness of these maids!"

"Mistress," said Elizabeth, pausing, "I pray you reckon me not disobedient, for in very deed I have ever obeyed you, and yet will, touching all concerns of yours: but under your good leave, this matter concerns you not, and I have no freedom to speak thereof."

"In very deed, my lady," said Mistress Clere, dropping a mock courtesy, "I desire not to meddle with your ladyship's high matters of state, and do intreat you of pardon that I took upon me so weighty a matter. Go get thee abed, hussy, and hold thine idle tongue!"

Elizabeth turned and went upstairs in silence. Words were of no use. Mistress Clere followed her. In the bedroom where they both slept, which was a loft with a skylight, was Amy, half undressed, and employed in her customary but very unnecessary luxury of admiring herself in the glass.

"Amy, I'm going to turn the key. Here's an ill maid that I've had to take the strap to: see thou fall not in her ways. I'll let you out in the morning."

So saying, Mistress Clere locked the door, and left the two girls together.

Like most idle folks. Amy Clere was gifted with her full share of curiosity. The people who do the world's work, or who go about doing good, are not usually the people who want you to tell them how much Miss Smith gave for her new bonnet, or whom Mr Robinson had yesterday to dinner. They are a great deal too busy, and generally too happy, to give themselves the least trouble about the bonnet, or to feel the slightest interest in the dinner-party. But idle people—poor pitiable things!—who do not know what to do with themselves, are often very ready to discuss anything of that sort which considerately puts itself in their way. To have something to talk about is both a surprise and a delight to them.

No sooner had Mrs Clere shut the door than Amy dropped her edifying occupation and came up to Elizabeth, who had sat wearily down on the side of the bed.

"Why, Bess, what ails Mother? and what hast thou been doing? Thou mayest tell me; I'll not make no mischief, and I'd love dearly to hear all about it."

If experience had assured Elizabeth Foulkes of anything, it was that she might as safely repeat a narrative to the town-crier as tell it to Amy Clere.

"I have offenced Mistress," said she, "and I am sorry thereat: yet I did but what I thought was my duty. I can say no more thereanent, Mistress Amy."

"But what didst thou, Bessy? Do tell me."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Best not, Mistress Amy. Leave it rest, I pray you, and me likewise, for of a truth I am sore wearied."

"Come, Bessy, don't be grumpy! let's know what it was. Life's monstrous tiresome, and never a bit of play nor show. I want to know all about it."

"Maybe there'll be shows ere long for you, Mistress Amy," answered Elizabeth gravely, as a cold shiver ran through her to think of what might be the consequence of her untold message. Well! Cissy's father at any rate would be safe: thank God for that!

"Why will there? Hast been at one to-night?"

"No." Elizabeth checked herself from saying more. What a difference there was between Amy's fancies and the stern realities she knew!

"There's no lugging nought out of thee!" said Amy with a pout. "Thou'rt as close shut as an oyster shell."

And she went back to the mirror, and began to plait her hair, the more conveniently to tuck it under her night-cap. Oh, how Elizabeth longed for a safe confidant that night! Sometimes she felt as though she must pour out her knowledge and her fears—to Amy, if she could get no one else. But she knew too well that, without any evil intention, Amy would be certain to make mischief from sheer love of gossip, the moment she met with any one who would listen to her.

"Mistress Amy, I'm right weary. Pray you, leave me be."

"Hold thy tongue if thou wilt. I want nought with thee, not I," replied Amy, with equal crossness and untruth, since, as she would herself have expressed it, she was dying to know what Elizabeth could have done to make her mother so angry. But Amy was angry herself now. "Get thee abed, Mistress Glum-face; I'll pay thee out some day: see if I don't!"

Elizabeth's reply was to kneel down for prayer. There was one safe Confidant, who could be relied upon for sympathy and secrecy: and He might be spoken to without words. It was well; for the words refused to come. Only one thing would present itself to Elizabeth's weary heart and brain: and that was the speech of little Cissy, that, "it would be all right if she asked God to see to it." A sob broke from her, as she sent up to Heaven the one petition of which alone she felt capable just then—"Lord, help me!" He would know how and when to help. Elizabeth dropped her trouble into the Almighty hands, and left it there. Then she rose, undressed, and lay down beside Amy, who was already in bed.

Amy Clere was not an ill-natured girl, and her anger never lasted long. When she heard Elizabeth's sob, her heart smote her a little: but she said to herself, that she was "not going to humble herself to that crusty Bess," so she turned round and went to sleep.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE STORM BREAKS.

When the morning came, Amy's good temper was restored by her night's rest, and she was inclined to look on her locking-in as a piece of amusement.

"I vow, Bess, this is fun!" said she, "I've twenty minds to get out on the roof, and see if I can reach the next window. It would be right jolly to wake up Ellen Mallory—she's always lies abed while seven; and I do think I could. Wilt aid me?"

Ellen Mallory was the next neighbour's daughter, a girl of about Amy's age; and seven o'clock was considered a shocking late hour for rising in 1556.

"Mistress Amy, I do pray you never think of such a thing," cried Elizabeth, in horror. "You'll be killed!"

"Well, I'm not wishful to be killed," answered Amy lightly: "I only want some fun while we are shut up here. I marvel when Mother shall come to let us out. She'll have to light the fire herself if she does not; that's one good thing!"

Elizabeth thought it a very undutiful idea; but she was silent. If she had but had wings like a dove, how gladly would she have flown to warn her friends! She well knew that Mrs Clere was not likely to be in the mood to grant a favour and let her go, after what had happened the night before. To go without leave was a thing which Elizabeth never contemplated. That would be putting herself in the wrong. But her poor friends, would they escape? How if Robert Purcas had been stopped, as she had? I was strange, but her imagination did not dwell nearly so much upon her own friend, Rose, as on little Cissy. If Johnson were taken, if he were martyred, what would become of little Cissy? The child had crept into Elizabeth's heart, before she was aware. Suddenly Amy's voice broke in upon her thoughts.

"Come, Bess, art in a better mood this morrow? I'll forgive thee thy miss-words last night, if thou'lt tell me now."

All the cross words there had been the night before had come from Amy herself; but Elizabeth let that pass.

"Mistress Amy," said she, "this matter is not one whereof I may speak to you or any other. I was charged with a secret, and bidden not to disclose the same. Think you I can break my word?"

"Dear heart! I break mine many a time in the week," cried Amy, with a laugh. "I'm not nigh so peevish as thou."

"But, Mistress Amy, it is not right," returned Elizabeth earnestly.

Before Amy could answer, Mrs Clere's heavy step was heard approaching the door, and the key turned in the lock. Amy, who sat on the side of the bed swinging her feet to and fro for amusement, jumped down.

"Mother, you'll get nought from her. I've essayed both last night and this morrow, and I might as well have held my tongue."

"Go and light the fire," said Mrs Clere sternly to Elizabeth. "I'll have some talk with thee at after."

Elizabeth obeyed in silence. She lighted the fire and buttered the eggs, and swept the house, and baked the bread, and washed the clothes, and churned the butter—all with a passionate longing to be free, hidden in her heart, and constant ejaculatory prayers—silent ones, of course— for the safely of her poor friends. Mrs Clere seemed to expect Elizabeth to run away if she could, and she did not let her go out of her sight the whole day. The promised scolding, however, did not come.

Supper was over, and the short winter day was drawing to its close, when Nicholas Clere came into the kitchen.

"Here's brave news, Wife!" said he, "What thinkest? Here be an half-dozen in the town arrest of heresy—and some without, too."

"Mercy on us! Who?" demanded Mrs Clere.

"Why, Master Benold, chandler, and Master Bongeor, glazier, and old Mistress Silverside, and Mistress Ewring at the mill—these did I hear. I know not who else." And suddenly turning to Elizabeth, he said, "Hussy, was this thine errand, or had it ought to do therewith?"

All the passionate pain and the earnest longing died out of the heart of Elizabeth Foulkes. She stood looking as calm as a marble statue, and almost as white.

"Master," she said, quietly enough, "mine errand was to warn these my friends. God may yet save them, if it be His will. And may He not lay to your charge the blood that will otherwise be shed!"

"Mercy on us!" cried Mrs Clere again, dropping her duster. "Why, the jade's never a bit better than these precious friends of hers!"

"I'm sore afeared we have been nourishing a serpent in our bosoms," said Nicholas, in his sternest manner. "I had best see to this."

"Well, I wouldn't hurt the maid," said his wife, in an uneasy tone; "but, dear heart! we must see to ourselves a bit. We shall get into trouble if such things be tracked to our house."

"So we shall," answered her husband. "I shall go, speak with the priest, and see what he saith. Without"—and he turned to Elizabeth—"thou wilt be penitent, and go to mass, and do penance for thy fault."

"I am willing enough to do penance for my faults, Master," said Elizabeth, "but not for the warning that I would have given; for no fault is in it."

"Then must we need save ourselves," replied Nicholas: "for the innocent must not suffer for the guilty. Wife, thou wert best lock up this hussy in some safe place; and, daughter, go thou not nigh her. This manner of heresy is infectious, and I would not have thee defiled therewith."

"Nay, I'll have nought to do with what might get me into trouble," said Amy, flippantly. "Bessy may swallow the Bible if she likes; I shan't."

Elizabeth was silent, quietly standing to hear her doom pronounced. She knew it was equivalent to a sentence of death. No priest, consulted on such a subject would dare to leave the heretic undenounced. And she had no friends save that widowed mother at Stoke Nayland—a poor woman, without money or influence; and that other Friend who would be sure to stand by her,—who, that He might save others, had not saved Himself.

Nicholas took up his hat and marched out, and Mrs Clere ordered Elizabeth off to a little room over the porch, generally used as a lumber room, where she locked her up.

"Now then, think on thy ways!" said she. "It'll mayhap do thee good. Bread and water's all thou'lt get, I promise thee, and better than thy demerits. Dear heart! to turn a tidy house upside-down like this, and all for a silly maid's fancies, forsooth! I hope thou feels ashamed of thyself; for I do for thee."

"Mistress, I can never be ashamed of God's truth. To that will I stand, if He grant me grace."

"Have done with thy cant! I've no patience with it."

And Mistress Clere banged the door behind her, locked it, and left Elizabeth alone till dinner-time, when she carried up a slice of bread— only one, and that the coarsest rye-bread—and a mug of water.

"There!" said she. "Thou shouldst be thankful, when I've every bit of work on my hands in all this house, owing to thy perversity!"

"I do thank you, Mistress," said Elizabeth, meekly. "Would you suffer me to ask you one favour? I have served you well hitherto, and I never disobeyed you till now."

It was true, and Mrs Clere knew it.

"Well, the brazen-facedness of some hussies!" cried she. "Prithee, what's your pleasure, mistress? Would you a new satin gown for your trial, and a pearl-necklace? or do you desire an hundred pounds given to the judges to set you free? or would you a petition to the Queen's Majesty, headed by Mr Mayor and my Lord of Oxenford?"

Elizabeth let the taunts go by her like a summer breeze. She felt them keenly enough. Nobody enjoys being laughed at; but he is hardly worth calling a man who allows a laugh to turn him out of the path of duty.

"Mistress," she said, quietly, "should you hear of any being arrested for heresy, would you do me so much grace as to let me know the name? and the like if you hear of any that have escaped?"

Mrs Clere looked down into the eyes that were lifted to her, as Elizabeth stood before her. Quiet, meek, tranquil eyes, without a look of reproach in them, with no anxiety save that aroused for the fate of her friends. She was touched in spite of herself.

"Thou foolish maid!" said she. "Why couldst thou not have done as other folks, and run no risks? I vow I'm well-nigh sorry for thee, for all thy perversity. Well, we'll see. Mayhap I will, if I think on't."

"Thank you, Mistress!" said Elizabeth gratefully, as Mistress Clere took the mug from her, and left the little porch-chamber as before, locking her prisoner in the prison.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

ROSE HEARS THE NEWS.

While Elizabeth Foulkes was passing through these experiences, the Mounts, Rose Allen, and the children, had gone back to Much Bentley as soon as morning broke. Rose took the little ones home to Thorpe, and they met Johnson just at the door of his own cottage.

"Truly, friend, I am much beholden to you," said he to Rose, "for your kindly care of my little ones. But, I pray you, is it true what I heard, that Mistress Silverside is arrest for heresy?"

Rose looked up in horrified astonishment.

"Why, we left them right well," she said, "but five hours gone. I brought the children o'er to you so soon as they had had their dinner. Is it true, think you?"

"Nay, that would I fain know of you, that were in town twelve hours later than I," answered Johnson.

"Then, in very deed, we heard nought," said Rose. "I do trust it shall prove but an ill rumour."

"May it be so! yet I cannot but fear it be true. Robin Purcas came to me last night, and I could not but think he should have told me somewhat an' he might: but he found Father Tye in mine house, and might not speak. They both tarried so long," added Johnson, with a laugh, "that I was fain to marvel if each were essaying to outsit the other; but if so, Father Tye won, for Love of the Heath came for Robin and took him away ere the priest were wearied out. If any straitness do arise against the Gospellers, Love had best look out."

"Ay, they know him too well to leave him slip through their fingers again," replied Rose.

"That do they, verily. Well, dear hearts, and have ye been good children?"

"We've tried," said Cissy.

"They've been as good as could be," answered Rose.

"Father, did anybody come and see to you? I asked the Lord to see to it, because I knew you'd miss me sore," said Cissy anxiously, "and I want to know if He did."

"Ay, my dear heart," replied Johnson, smiling as he looked down on her. "Ursula Felstede came in and dressed dinner for me, and Margaret Thurston looked in after, and she washed some matters and did a bit of mending; and at after I had company—Father Tye, and Robin Purcas, and Jack Love. So thou seest I was not right lonesome."

"He took good care of you. Father," said Cissy, looking happy. It was evident that Cissy lived for and in her father. Whatever he was, for good or evil, that she was likewise.

"Well, I've got to look in on Margaret Thurston," said Rose, "for I did a bit of marketing for her this morrow in the town, and I have a fardel to leave. She was not at home when we passed, coming. But now, I think I'd better be on my way, so I'll wish you good den, Johnson. God bless you, little ones!"

"Good den, Rose!" said Cissy. "And you'll learn me to weave lace with those pretty bobbins?"

"That will I, with a very good will, sweet heart," said Rose, stooping to kiss Cissy.

"Weave lace!" commented her father. "What, what is the child thinking, that she would fain learn to weave lace?"

"Oh, Father, please, you won't say nay!" pleaded Cissy, embracing her father's arm with both her own. "I want to bring you in some money." Cissy spoke with a most important air. "You know, of an even, I alway have a bit of time, after Will and Baby be abed, and at times too in the day, when Will's out with George Felstede, and I'm minding Baby; I can rock her with my feet while I make lace with my hands. And you know, Father, Will and Baby 'll be growing big by and bye, and you won't have enough for us all without we do something. And Rose says she'll learn me how, and that if I have a lace pillow—and it won't cost very much, Father!—I can alway take it up for a few minutes by nows and thens, when I have a bit of time, and then, don't you see, Father? I can make a little money for you. Please, please don't say I mustn't!" cried Cissy, growing quite talkative in her eagerness.

Johnson and Rose looked at each other, and Rose laughed; but though Cissy's father smiled too, he soon grew grave, and laid his hand on his little girl's head, as she stood looking up earnestly.

"Nay, my little maid, I'll never say nought of the sort. If Rose here will be so good as to learn thee aught that is good, whether for body or soul, I will be truly thankful to her, and bid thee do the like and be diligent to learn. Good little maid! God bless thee!"

Then, as Cissy trotted into the cottage, well pleased, Johnson added, "Bless the little maid's heart! she grows more like her mother in Heaven every day. I'll never stay the little fingers from doing what they can. It'll not bring much in, I reckon, but it'll be a pleasure to the child, and good for her to be ever busy at something, that she mayn't fall into idle ways. Think you not so, Rose?"

"Indeed, and it so will, Johnson," answered Rose; "not that I think Cissy and idle ways 'll ever have much to do one with the other. She's not one of that sort. But I shouldn't wonder if lace-weaving brings in more than you think. I've made a pretty penny of it, and I wasn't so young as Cissy when I learned the work, and it's like everything else— them that begin young have the best chance to make good workers. She'll be a rare comfort to you, Cissy, if she goes on as she's begun."

Johnson did not reply for a moment. When he did, it was to say, "Well, God keep us all! I'm right thankful to you, Rose, for all your goodness to my little maid. Good den!"

When she had returned the "good evening," Rose set off home, and walked rather fast till she came to Margaret Thurston's cottage. After the little business was transacted between her and Margaret, Rose inquired if they had heard of Mistress Silverside's arrest. Both Margaret and her husband seemed thunderstruck.

"Nay, we know nought thereof," answered Thurston, "Pray God it be not true! There'll be more an' it so be."

"I fear so much," said Rose.

She did not tell her mother, for Alice had not been well lately, and Rose wished to spare her an apprehension which might turn out to be quite unfounded, or at least exaggerated. But she told her step-father, and old Mount looked very grave.

"God grant it be not so!" said he. "But if it be, Rose, thou wist they have our names in their black list of heretics."

"Ay, Father, I know they have."

"God keep us all!" said William Mount, looking earnestly into the fire. And Rose knew that while he might intend to include being kept safe, yet he meant, far more than that, being kept true.

When John Love called at Johnson's cottage to fetch Robert Purcas, the two walked about a hundred yards on the way to Bentley without either speaking a word. Then Robert suddenly stopped. "Look you, Love! what would you with me? I cannot go far from Thorpe to-night. I was sent with a message to Johnson, and I have not found a chance to deliver it yet."

"Must it be to-night? and what chance look you for?"

"Ay, it must!" answered Robert earnestly. "What I look for is yon black snake coming out of his hole, and then slip I in and deliver my message."

Love nodded. He knew well enough who the black snake was. "Then maybe you came with the like word I did. Was it to warn Johnson to 'scape ere the Bailiff should be on him?"

"Ay, it was. And you?"

"I came to the same end, but not alone for Johnson. Robin, thou hadst best see to thyself. Dost know thou art on the black list."

"I've looked for that, this many a day. But so art thou, Love; and thou hast a wife to care for, and I've none."

"I'm in danger anyway, Rob, but there's a chance for thee. Think of thy old father, and haste thee, lad."

Robert shook his head. "I promised to warn Johnson," he said; "and I gave my word for it to one that I love right dearly. I'll not break my word. No, Love; I tarry here till I've seen him. The Lord must have a care of my old father if they take me."

Love found it impossible to move Robert from his resolution. He bade him good-night and turned away.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

WHAT BEFELL SOME OF THEM.

For half-an-hour, safely hidden behind a hedge, Robert Purcas watched the door of Johnson's cottage, until at last he saw the priest come out, and go up the lane for a short distance. Then he stopped, looked round, and gave a low, peculiar whistle. A man jumped down from the bank on the other side of the lane, with whom the priest held a long, low-toned conversation. Robert knew he could not safely move before they were out of the way. At length they parted, and he just caught the priest's final words.

"Good: we shall have them all afore the even."

"That you shall not, if God speed me!" said Robert to himself.

The priest went up the lane towards Bentley, and the man who had been talking with him took the opposite way to Thorpe. When his footsteps had died away, Robert crept out from the shelter of the hedge, and made his way in the dark to Johnson's cottage. A rap on the door brought Cissy.

"Who is it, please?" she said, "because I can't see."

"It is Robin Purcas, Cis. I want a word with thy father."

"Come in, Robin!" called Johnson's voice from within. "I could see thou wert bursting with some news not to be spoken in the presence but just gone. What ails thee, man?"

"Ay, I was, and I promised to tell you. Jack, thou must win away ere daylight, or the Bailiff shall be on thee. Set these little ones in safe guard, and hie thee away with all the speed thou mayest."

"Is it come so near?" said Johnson, gravely.

"Father, you're not going nowhere without me!" said Cissy, creeping up to him, and slipping her hand in his. "You can leave Will and Baby with Neighbour Ursula: but I'll not be left unless you bid me—and you won't Father? You can never do without me? I must go where you go."

"She's safe, I reckon," said Robert, answering Johnson's look: "they'd never do no mischief to much as she. Only maybe she'd be more out of reach if I took her with me. They'll seek to breed her up in a convent, most like."

Cissy felt her father's hand tighten upon hers.

"I'm not going with you, nor nobody!" said she. "I'll go with Father. Nobody'll get me nowhere else, without they carry me."

Johnson seemed to wake up, as if till then he had scarcely understood what it all meant.

"God bless thee for the warning, lad!" he said. "Now hie thee quick, and get out of reach thyself Cis, go up and fetch a warm wrap for Baby, and all her clothes; I'll take her next door. I reckon Will must tarry there too. It'd be better for thee, Cis: but I'll not compel thee, if thy little heart's set on going with me. Thoul't have to rough it, little maid."

"I'll not stop nowhere!" was Cissy's determination.

Robert bade them good-bye with a smile, closed the door, and set off down the lane as fast as the darkness made it prudent. He did not think it wise to go through the village, so he made a detour by some fields, and came into the road again on the other side of Thorpe. He had not gone many yards, when he became aware that a number of lights were approaching, accompanied by a noise of voices. Robert turned straight round. If he could get back to the stile which led into the fields, he would be safer: and if not, still it would be better to be overtaken than to meet a possible enemy face to face. He would be less likely to be noticed in the former case than in the latter—at least so he thought.

There must be a good number of people coming behind him, judging from the voices. At length they came up with him.

"Pray you, young man, how far be we from Thorpe?"

"You are very nigh, straight on," was Robert's answer.

"Do you belong there?"

"No, I'm nigh a stranger to these parts: I'm from the eastern side of the county. I can't tell you much about folks, if that be your meaning."

"And what do you here, if you be a stranger?"

"I've a job o' work at Saint Osyth, at this present."

"What manner of work?"

"I'm a fuller by trade."

Robert had already recognised that he was talking to the Bailiff's searching party. Every minute that he could keep them was a minute more for Johnson and the little ones.

"Know you a man named Johnson?"

"What, here?"

"Ay, at Thorpe."

Robert pretended to consider. "Well, let's see—there's Will Johnson the miller, and Luke Johnson the weaver, and—eh, there's ever so many Johnsons! I couldn't say to one or another, without I knew more."

"John Johnson; he's a labouring man."

"Well, there is Johnsons that lives up by the wood, but I'm none so sure of the man's name. I think it's Andrew, but I'll not say, certain. It may be John; I couldn't speak, not to be sure."

"Let him be, Gregory; he knows nought," said the Bailiff.

Robert touched his cap, and fell behind. The Bailiff suddenly turned round.

"What's your own name?"

It was a terrible temptation! If he gave a false name, the strong probability was that they would pass on, and he would very likely get safe away. It was Johnson of whom they were thinking, not himself. But that would enable them to reach Johnson's cottage a minute sooner, and it would be a cowardly lie. No! Robert Purcas had not so learned Christ. He gave his name honestly.

"Robert Purcas! If that's not on my list—" said the Bailiff, feeling in his pocket. "Ay, here it is—stay! William, Purcas, of Booking, fuller, aged twenty, single; is that you?"

"My name is Robert, not William," said the young man.

"But thou art a fuller? and single? and aged twenty?"

"Ay, all that is so."

"Dost thou believe the bread of the sacred host to be transmuted after consecration into the body of Christ, so that no substance of bread is left there at all?"

"I do not. I cannot, for I see the bread."

"He's a heretic!" cried Simnel. "Robert or William, it is all one. Take the heretic!"

And so Robert Purcas was seized, and carried to the Moot Hall in Colchester—a fate from which one word of falsehood would have freed him, but it would have cost him his Father's smile.

The Moot Hall of Colchester was probably the oldest municipal building in England. It was erected soon after the Conquest, and its low circular arches and piers ornamented the High Street until 1843, when the town Vandals were pleased to destroy it because it impeded the traffic. Robert was taken into the dungeon, and the great door slammed to behind him. He could not see for a few minutes, coming fresh from the light of day: and before he was able to make anything out clearly, an old lady's voice accosted him.

"Robert Purcas, if I err not?" she said. "I am sorry to behold thee here, friend."

"Truly, Mistress, more than I am, that am come hither in Christ's cause."

"Ay? Then thou art well come."

"Methinks it is Mistress Silverside?"

"Thou sayest well. I shall have company now," said the old lady with a smile. "Methought some of my brethren and sisters should be like to have after."

"I reckon," responded Purcas, "we be sure at the least of our Father's company."

The great door just then rolled back, and they heard the gaoler's voice outside.

"Gramercy, but this is tidy work!" cried he. "Never had no such prisoners here afore. I don't know what to do with 'em. There, get you in! you aren't the first there."

There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs Silverside and Robert, who were looking to see what uncommon sort of prisoners could be at hand, found that their eyes had to come down considerably nearer the floor, as the gaoler let in, hand in hand, Cissy and Will Johnson, followed by their father.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

"FATHER'S COME TOO!"

"Why, my dear hearts!" cried old Mrs Silverside, as the children came in. "How won ye hither?"

"Please, we haven't been naughty," said Will, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

"Father's come too, so it's all right," added Cissy in a satisfied tone.

Mrs Silverside turned to Robert Purcas. "Is not here a lesson for thee and me, my brother? Our Father is come too: God is with us, and thus it is all right."

"Marry, these heretics beareth a good brag!" said Wastborowe the gaoler to his man.

It is bad grammar now to use a singular verb with a plural noun; but in 1556 it was correct English over the whole south of England, and the use of the singular with the singular, or the plural with the plural, was a peculiarity of the northern dialect.

"They always doth," answered the under-gaoler.

"Will ye be of as good courage, think you," asked Wastborowe, "the day ye stand up by Colne Water?"

"God knoweth," was the reverent answer of Mrs Silverside. "If He holds us up, then shall we stand."

"They be safe kept whom He keepeth," said Johnson.

"Please, Mr Wastborowe," said Cissy in a businesslike manner, "would you mind telling me when we shall be burned?"

The gaoler turned round and stared at his questioner.

"Thou aren't like to be burned, I reckon," said he with a laugh.

"I must, if Father is," was Cissy's calm response. "It'll hurt a bit, I suppose; but you see when we get to Heaven afterwards, every thing will be so good and pleasant, I don't think we need care much. Do you, please, Mr Wastborowe?"

"Marry come up, thou scrap of a chirping canary!" answered the gaoler, half roughly and half amused. "If babes like this be in such minds, 'tis no marvel their fathers and mothers stand to it."

"But I'm not a baby, Mr Wastborowe!" said Cissy, rather affronted. "Will and Baby are both younger than me. I'm going in ten, and I takes care of Father."

Mr Wastborowe, who was drinking ale out of a huge tankard, removed it from his lips to laugh.

"Mighty good care thou'lt take, I'll be bound!"

"Yes, I do, Mr Wastborowe," replied Cissy, quite gravely; "I dress Father's meat and mend his clothes, and love him. That's taking care of him, isn't it?"

The gaoler's men, who were accustomed to see every body in the prison appear afraid of him, were evidently much amused by the perfect fearlessness of Cissy. Wastborowe himself seemed to think it a very good joke.

"And who takes care of thee?" asked he.

Cissy gave her usual answer. "God takes care of me."

"And not of thy father?" said Wastborowe with a sneer.

The sneer passed by Cissy quite harmlessly.

"God takes care of all of us," she said. "He helps Father to take care of me, and He helps me to take care of Father."

"He'll be taken goodly care of when he's burned," said the gaoler coarsely, taking another draught out of the tankard.

Cissy considered that point.

"Please, Mr Wastborowe, we mustn't expect to be taken better care of than the Lord Jesus; and He had to suffer, you know. But it won't signify when we get to Heaven, I suppose."

"Heretics don't go to Heaven!" replied Wastborowe.

"I don't know what heretics are," said Cissy; "but every body who loves the Lord Jesus is sure to get there. Satan would not want them, you know; and Jesus will want them, for He died for them. He'll look after us, I expect. Don't you think so, Mr Wastborowe?"

"Hold thy noise!" said the gaoler, rising, with the empty jug in his hand. He wanted some more ale, and he was tired of amusing himself with Cissy.

"Hush thee, my little maid!" said her father, laying his hand on her head.

"Is he angry, Father?" asked Cissy, looking up. "I said nothing wrong, did I?"

"There's somewhat wrong," responded he, "but it's not thee, child."

Meanwhile Wastborowe was crossing the court to his own house, jug in hand. Opening the door, he set down the jug on the table, with the short command, "Fill that."

"You may tarry till I've done," answered Audrey, calmly ironing on. She was the only person in the place who was not afraid of her husband. In fact, he was afraid of her when, as he expressed it, she "was wrong side up."

"Come, wife! I can't wait," replied Wastborowe in a tone which he never used to any living creature but Audrey or a priest.

Audrey coolly set down the iron on its stand, folded up the shirt which she had just finished, and laid another on the board.

"You can, wait uncommon well, John Wastborowe," said she; "you've had as much as is good for you already, and maybe a bit to spare. I can't leave my ironing."

"Am I to get it myself, then?" asked the gaoler, sulkily.

"Just as you please," was the calm response. "I'm not going."

Wastborowe took up his jug, went to the cellar, and drew the ale for himself, in a meek, subdued style, very different indeed from the aspect which he wore to his prisoners. He had scarcely left the door when a shrill voice summoned him to—

"Come back and shut the door, thou blundering dizzard! When will men ever have a bit of sense?"

The gaoler came back to shut the door, and then, returning to the dungeon, showed himself so excessively surly and overbearing, that his men whispered to one another that "he'd been having it out with his mistress." Before he recovered his equanimity, the Bailiff returned and called him into the courtyard.

"Hearken, Wastborowe: how many of these have you now in ward? Well-nigh all, methinks." And he read over the list. "Elizabeth Wood, Christian Hare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, Margaret Simson, Robert Purcas, Agnes Silverside, John Johnson, Elizabeth Foulkes."

"Got 'em all save that last," said Wastborowe, "Who is she? I know not the name. By the same token, what didst with the babe? There were three of Johnson's children, and one in arms."

"Left it wi' Jane Hiltoft," said the gaoler, gruffly. "I didn't want it screeching here."

The Bailiff nodded. "Maybe she can tell us who this woman is," said he; and stepping a little nearer the porter's lodge, he summoned the porter's wife.

Mrs Hiltoft came to the door with little Helen Johnson in her arms. "Well, I don't know," said she. "I'll tell you what: you'd best ask Audrey Wastborowe; she's a bit of a gossip, and I reckon she knows everybody in Colchester, by name and face, if no more. She'll tell you if anybody can."

The Bailiff stepped across the court, and rapped at the gaoler's door. He was desired by a rather shrill voice to come in. He just opened the door about an inch, and spoke through it.

"Audrey, do you know aught of one Elizabeth Foulkes?"

"Liz'beth What-did-you-say?" inquired Mrs Wastborowe, hastily drying her arms on her apron, and coming forward.

"Elizabeth Foulkes," repeated the Bailiff.

"What, yon lass o' Clere's the clothier? Oh, ay, you'll find her in Balcon Lane, at the Magpie. A tall, well-favoured young maid she is— might be a princess, to look at her. What's she been doing, now?"

"Heresy," said the Bailiff, shortly.

"Heresy! dear, dear, to think of it! Well, now, who could have thought it? But Master Clere's a bit unsteady in that way, his self, ain't he?"

"Oh nay, he's reconciled."

"Oh!" The tone was significant.

"Why, was you wanting yon maid o' Mistress Clere's?" said the porter's wife. "You'll have her safe enough, for I met Amy Clere this even, and she said her mother was downright vexed with their Bess, and had turned the key on her. I did not know it was her you meant. I've never heard her called nought but Bess, you see."

"Then that's all well," said Maynard. "I'll tarry for her till the morrow, for I'm well wearied to-night."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

LED TO THE SLAUGHTER.

The long hours of that day wore on, and nobody came again to Elizabeth in the porch-chamber. The dusk fell, and she heard the sounds of locking up the house and going to bed, and began to understand that neither supper nor bed awaited her that night. Elizabeth quietly cleared a space on the floor in the moonlight, heaping boxes and baskets on one another, till she had room to lie down, and then, after kneeling to pray, she slept more peacefully than Queen Mary did in her Palace. She was awoke suddenly at last. It was broad daylight, and somebody was rapping at the street door.

"Amy!" she heard Mistress Clere call from her bedchamber, "look out and see who is there."

Amy slept at the front of the house, in the room next to the porch-chamber. Elizabeth rose to her feet, giving her garments a shake down as the only form of dressing just then in her power, and looked out of the window.

The moment she did so she knew that one of the supreme moments of her life had come. Before the door stood Mr Maynard, the Bailiff of Colchester—the man who had marched off the twenty-three prisoners to London in the previous August. Everybody who knew him knew that he was a "stout Papist," to whom it was dear delight to bring a Protestant to punishment. Elizabeth did not doubt for an instant that she was the one chosen for his next victim.

Just as Amy Clere put her head out of the window. Mr Maynard, who did not reckon patience among his chief virtues, and who was tired of waiting, signed to one of his men to give another sharp rap, accompanied by a shout of—"Open, in the Queen's name!"

"Saints, love us and help us!" ejaculated Amy, taking her head in again. "Mother, it's the Queen's men!"

"Go down and open to 'em," was Mrs Clere's next order.

"Eh, I durstn't if it was ever so!" screamed Amy in reply. "May I unlock the door and send Bessy?"

"Thee do as thou art bid!" came in the gruff tones of her father.

"Come, I'll go with thee," said her mother. "Tell Master Bailiff we're at hand, or they'll mayhap break the door in."

A third violent rap enforced Mrs Clere's command.

"Have a bit of patience, Master Bailiff!" cried Amy from her window. "We're a-coming as quick as may be. Let a body get some clothes on, do!"

Somebody under the window was heard to laugh.

Then Mrs Clere went downstairs, her heavy tread followed by the light run of her daughter's steps; and then Elizabeth heard the bolts drawn back, and the Bailiff and his men march into the kitchen of the Magpie.

"Good-morrow, Mistress Clere. I am verily sorry to come to the house of a good Catholic on so ill an errand. But I am in search of a maid of yours, by name Elizabeth Foulkes, whose name hath been presented a afore the Queen's Grace's Commission for heresy. Is this the maid?"

Mr Maynard, as he spoke, laid his hand not very gently on Amy's shoulder.

"Eh, bless me, no!" cried Amy, in terror. "I'm as good a Catholic as you or any. I'll say aught you want me, and I don't care what it is— that the moon's made o' green cheese, if you will, and I'd a shive last night for supper. Don't take me, for mercy's sake!"

"I'm not like," said Mr Maynard, laughing, and giving Amy a rough pat on the back. "You aren't the sort I want."

"You're after Bess Foulkes, aren't you?" said Mrs Clere. "Amy, there's the key. Go fetch her down. I locked her up, you see, that she should be safe when wanted, I'm a true woman to Queen and Church, I am, Master Bailiff. You'll find no heresy here, outside yon jade of a Bessy."

Mrs Clere knew well that suspicion had attached to her husband's name in time past, which made her more desirous to free herself from all complicity with what the authorities were pleased to call heresy.

Amy ran upstairs and unlocked the door of the porch-chamber.

"Bessy, the Bailiff's come for thee!"

A faint flush rose to Elizabeth's face as she stood up.

"Now do be discreet, Bessy, and say as he says. Bless you, it's only words! I told him I'd say the moon was made o' green cheese if he wanted. Why shouldn't you?"

"Mistress Amy, it would be dishonour to my Lord, and I am ready for anything but that."

"Good lack! couldst not do a bit o' penance at after? Bess, it's thy life that's in danger. Do be wise in time, lass."

"It is only this life," said Elizabeth quietly, "and 'he that saveth his life shall lose it.' They that be faithful to the end shall have the crown of life.—Master Bailiff, I am ready."

The Bailiff looked up at the fair, tall, queenly maiden who stood before him.

"I trust thou art ready to submit to the Church," he said. "It were sore pity thou shouldst lose life and all things."

"Nay, I desire to win them," answered Elizabeth. "I am right ready to submit to all which it were good for me to submit to."

"Come, well said!" replied the Bailiff; and he tied the cord round her hands, and led her away to the Moot Hall.

Just stop and think a moment, what it would be to be led in this way through the streets of a town where nearly everybody knew you, as if you had been a thief or a murderer!—led by a cord like an animal about to be sold—nay, as our Master, Christ, was led, like a sheep to the slaughter! Fancy what it would be, to a girl who had always been respectable and well-behaved to be used in this way: to hear the rough, coarse jokes of the bystanders and of the men who were leading her, and not to have one friend with her—not one living creature that cared what became of her, except that Lord who had once died for her, and for whom she was now, for aught she knew, upon her way to die! And even He seemed as if He did not care. Men did these things, and He kept silence. Don't you think it was hard to bear?

When Elizabeth reached the Moot Hall and was taken to the prison, for an instant she felt as if she had reached home and friends. Mrs Silverside bade her welcome with a kindly smile, and Robert Purcas came up and kissed her—people kissed each other then instead of shaking hands as we do now,—and Elizabeth felt their sympathy a true comfort. But she was calm under her suffering until she caught sight of Cissy. Then an exclamation of pain broke from her.

"O Cissy, Cissy; I am so sorry for thee!"

"O Bessy, but I'm so glad! Don't say you're sorry."

"Why, Cissy, how canst thou be glad? Dost know what it all signifieth?"

"I know they've taken Father, and I'm sorry enough for that; but then Father always said they would some day. But don't you see why I'm glad? They've got me too. I was always proper 'feared they'd take Father and leave me all alone with the children; and he'd have missed us dreadful! Now, you see, I can tend on him, and do everything for him; and that's why I'm glad. If it had to be, you know."

Elizabeth looked up at Cissy's father, and he said in a husky voice,—

"'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.'"



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

BEFORE THE COMMISSIONERS.

"Bessy," said Cissy in a whisper, "do you think they'll burn us all to-day?"

"I reckon, sweet heart, they be scarce like to burn thee."

"But they'll have to do to me whatever they do to Father!" cried Cissy, earnestly.

"Dear child, thou wist not what burning is."

"Oh, but I've burnt my fingers before now," said Cissy, with an air of extensive experience which would have suited an old woman. "It's not proper pleasant: but the worst's afterwards, and there wouldn't be any afterwards, would there? It would be Heaven afterwards, wouldn't it? I don't see that there's so much to be 'feared of in being burnt. If they didn't burn me, and did Will and Baby, and—and Father"—and Cissy's voice faltered, and she began to sob—"that would be dreadful—dreadful! O Bessy, won't you ask God not to give them leave? They couldn't, could they, unless He did?"

"Nay, dear heart, not unless He did," answered Elizabeth, feeling her own courage strengthened by the child's faith.

"Then if you and I both ask Him very hard,—O Bessy! don't you think He will?"

Before Elizabeth could answer, Johnson said—"I wouldn't, Cis."

"You wouldn't, Father! Please why?"

"Because, dear heart, He knoweth better than we what is good for us. Sometimes, when folk ask God too earnestly for that they desire, He lets them have it, but in punishment, not in mercy. It would have been a sight better for the Israelites if they hadn't had those quails. Dost thou mind how David saith, 'He gave them their desire, but sent leanness withall into their souls?' I'd rather be burnt, Cis, than live with a lean soul, and my Father in Heaven turning away His face from me."

Cissy considered. "Father, I could never get along a bit, if you were so angry you wouldn't look at me!"

"Truly, dear heart, and I would not have my Father so. Ask the Lord what thou wilt, Cis, if it be His will; only remember that His will is best for us—the happiest as well as the most profitable."

"Wilt shut up o' thy preachment?" shouted Wastborowe, with a severe blow to Johnson. "Thou wilt make the child as ill an heretic as thyself, and we mean to bring her up a good Catholic Christian!"

Johnson made no answer to the gaoler's insolent command. A look of great pain came into his face, and he lifted his head up towards the sky, as if he were holding communion with his Father in Heaven. Elizabeth guessed his thoughts. If he were to be martyred, and his little helpless children to be handed over to the keeping of priests who would teach them to commit idolatry, and forbid them to read the Bible— that seemed a far worse prospect in his eyes than even the agony of seeing them suffer. That, at the worst, would be an hour's anguish, to be followed by an eternity of happy rest: but the other might mean the loss of all things—body and soul alike. Little Will did not enter into the matter. He might have understood something if he had been paying attention, but he was not attending, and therefore he did not. But Cissy, to whom her father was the centre of the world, and who knew his voice by heart, understood his looks as readily as his words.

"Father!" she said, looking at him, "don't be troubled about us. I'll never believe nobody that says different from what you've learned us, and I'll tell Will and Baby they mustn't mind them neither."

And Elizabeth added softly—"'I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee.' 'Leave thy fatherless children; I will preserve them alive.'"

"God bless you both!" said Johnson, and he could say no more.

The next day the twelve prisoners accused of heresy were had up for examination before the Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, Mr Roper, and Mr Boswell, the Bishop's scribe. Six of them—Elizabeth Wood, Christian Hare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, and Margaret Simson—were soon disposed of. They had been in prison for a fortnight or more, they were terribly frightened, and they were not strong in the faith. They easily consented to be reconciled to the Church—to say whatever the priests bade them, and to believe—or pretend to believe— all that they were desired.

Robert Purcas was the next put on trial. The Bishop's scribe called him (in the account he wrote to his master) "obstinate, and a glorious prating heretic." What this really meant was that his arguments were too powerful to answer. He must have had considerable ability, for though only twenty years of age, and a village tradesman, he was set down in the charge-sheet as "lettered," namely, a well-educated man, which in those days was most extraordinary for a man of that description.

"When confessed you last?" asked the Commissioners of Purcas.

"I have not confessed of long time," was the answer, "nor will I; for priests have no power to remit sin."

"Come you to church, to hear the holy mass?"

"I do not, nor will I; for all that is idolatry."

"Have you never, then, received the blessed Sacrament of the altar?"

"I did receive the Supper of the Lord in King Edward's time, but not since: nor will I, except it be ministered to me as it was then."

"Do you not worship the sacred host?"

That is, the consecrated bread in the Lord's Supper.

"Those who worship it are idolaters!" said Robert Purcas, without the least hesitation: "that which there is used is bread and wine only."

"Have him away!" cried Sir John Kingston. "What need to question further so obstinate a man?"

So they had him away—not being able to answer him—and Agnes Silverside was called in his stead.

She was very calm, but as determined as Purcas.

"Come hither, Mistress!" said Boswell, roughly. "Why, what have we here in the charge-sheet? 'Agnes Silverside, alias Smith, alias Downes, alias May!' Hast thou had four husbands, old witch, or how comest by so many names?"

"Sir," was the quiet answer, "my name is Smith from my father, and I have been thrice wed."

The Commissioners, having first amused themselves by a little rough joking at the prisoner's expense, inquired which of her husbands was the last.

"My present name is Silverside," she replied.

"And what was he, this Silverside?—a tanner or a chimney-sweep?"

"Sir, he was a priest."

The Commissioners—who knew it all beforehand—professed themselves exceedingly shocked. God never forbade priests to marry under the Old Testament, nor did He ever command Christian ministers to be unmarried men: but the Church of Rome has forbidden her priests to have any wives, as Saint Paul told Timothy would be done by those who departed from the faith: [see One Timothy four 3.] thus "teaching for doctrines the commandments of men." [See Matthew fifteen verse 9.]



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

GENTLY HANDLED.

When the Commissioners had tormented the priest's widow as long as they thought proper, they called on her to answer the charges brought against her.

"Dost thou believe that in the blessed Sacrament of the altar the bread and wine becometh the very body and blood of Christ, so soon as the word of consecration be pronounced?"

"Nay: it is but bread and wine before it is received; and when it is received in faith and ministered by a worthy minister, then it is Christ flesh and blood spiritually, and not otherwise."

"Dost though worship the blessed Sacrament?"

"Truly, nay: for ye make the Sacrament an idol. It ought not to be worshipped with knocking, kneeling or holding up of hands."

"Wilt thou come to church and hear mass?"

"That will I not, so long as ye do worship to other than God Almighty. Nothing that is made can be the same thing as he that made it. They must needs be idolators, and of the meanest sort, that worship the works of their own hands."

"Aroint thee, old witch! Wilt thou go to confession?"

"Neither will I that, for no priest hath power to remit sin that is against God. To Him surely will I confess: and having so done, I have no need to make confession to men."

"Take the witch away!" cried the chief Commissioner. "She's a froward, obstinate heretic, only fit to make firewood."

The gaoler led her out of the court, and John Johnson was summoned next.

"What is thy name, and how old art thou?"

"My name is John Johnson; I am a labouring man, of the age of four and thirty years."

"Canst read?"

"But a little."

"Then how darest thou set thee up against the holy doctors of the Church, that can read Latin?"

"Cannot a man be saved without he read Latin?"

"Hold thine impudent tongue! It is our business to question, and thine to answer. Where didst learn thy pestilent doctrine?"

"I learned the Gospel of Christ Jesus, if that be what you mean by pestilent doctrine, from Master Trudgeon at the first. He learned me that the Sacrament, as ye minister it, is an idol, and that no priest hath power to remit sin."

"Dost thou account of this Trudgeon as a true prophet?"

"Ay, I do."

"What then sayest thou to our Saviour Christ's word to His Apostles, 'Whosesoever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them'?"

"Marry, I say nought, without you desire it."

"What meanest by that?"

"Why, you are not apostles, nor yet the priests that be now alive. He said not, 'Whosesoever sins Sir Thomas Tye shall remit, they are remitted unto them.'"

"Thou foolish man, Sir Thomas Tye is successor of the apostles."

"Well, but it sayeth not neither, 'Whosesoever sins ye and your successors do remit.' I'll take the words as they stand, by your leave. To apostles were they said, and to apostles will I leave them."

"The man hath no reason in him!" said Kingston. "Have him away likewise."

"Please your Worships," said the gaoler, "here be all that are indicted. There is but one left, and she was presented only for not attending at mass nor confession."

"Bring her up!"

And Elizabeth Foulkes stepped up to the table, and courtesied to the representatives of the Queen.

"What is thy name?"

"Elizabeth Foulkes."

"How old art thou?"

"Twenty years."

"Art thou a wife?"

Girls commonly married then younger than they do now. The usual length of human life was shorter: people who reached sixty were looked upon as we now regard those of eighty, and a man of seventy was considered much as one of ninety or more would be at the present time.

"Nay, I am a maid," said Elizabeth.

The word maid was only just beginning to be used instead of servant; it generally meant an unmarried woman.

"What is thy calling?"

"I am servant to Master Nicholas Clere, clothier, of Balcon Lane."

"Art Colchester-born?"

"I was born at Stoke Nayland, in Suffolk."

"And wherefore dost thou not come to mass?"

"Because I hold the Sacrament of the altar to be but bread and wine, which may not be worshipped under peril of idolatry."

"Well, and why comest not to confession?"

"Because no priest hath power to remit sins."

"Hang 'em! they are all in a story!" said the chief Commissioner, wrathfully. "But she's a well-favoured maid, this: it were verily pity to burn her, if we could win her to recant."

What a poor, weak, mean thing human nature is! The men who had no pity for the white hair of Agnes Silverside, or the calm courage of John Johnson, or even the helpless innocence of little Cissy: such things as these did not touch them at all—these very men were anxious to save Elizabeth Foulkes, not because she was good, but because she was beautiful.

It is a sad, sad blunder, which people often make, to set beauty above goodness. Some very wicked things have been done in this world, simply by thinking too much of beauty. Admiration is a good thing in its proper place; but a great deal of mischief comes when it gets into the wrong one. Whenever you admire a bad man because he is clever, or a foolish woman because she is pretty, you are letting admiration get out of his place. If we had lived when the Lord Jesus was upon earth, we should not have found people admiring Him. He was not beautiful. "His face was marred more than any man, and His form more than the sons of men." And would it not have been dreadful if we had admired Pontius Pilate and Judas Iscariot, and had seen no beauty in Him who is "altogether lovely" to the hearts of those whom the Holy Ghost has taught to love Him? So take care what sort of beauty you admire, and make sure that goodness goes along with it. We may be quite certain that however much men thought of Elizabeth's beautiful face, God thought very little of it. The beauty which He saw in her was her love to the Lord Jesus, and her firm stand against what would dishonour Him. This sort of beauty all of us can have. Oh, do ask God to make you beautiful in His eyes!

No sooner had the chief Commissioner spoken than a voice in the Court called out,—

"Pray you, Worshipful Sirs, save this young maid! I am her mother's brother, Thomas Holt of Colchester, and I do you to wit she is of a right good inclination, and no wise perverse. I do entreat you, grant her yet another chance."

Then a gentleman stepped forward from the crowd of listeners.

"Worshipful Sirs," said he, "may I have leave to take charge of this young maiden, to the end that she may be reconciled to the Church, and obtain remission of her errors? Truly, as Master Commissioner saith, it were pity so fair a creature were made food for the fire."

"Who are you?—and what surety give you?" asked Sir John.

Sir Thomas Tye rose from his seat on the Bench.

"Please it, your Worships, that is Master Ashby of this town, a good Catholic man, and well to be trusted. If your Worships be pleased to show mercy to the maid, as indeed I would humbly entreat you to do, there were no better man than he to serve you in this matter."

The priest having spoken in favour of Mr Ashby the Commissioners required no further surety.

"Art thou willing to be reformed?" they asked Elizabeth.

"Sirs," she answered cautiously, "I am willing to be shown God's true way, if so be I err from it."

This was enough for the Commissioners. They wanted to get her free, and they therefore accepted from her words which would probably have been used in vain by the rest. Mr Ashby was charged to keep and "reconcile" her, which he promised to do, or to feed her on barley bread if she proved obstinate.

As Elizabeth turned to follow him she passed close by Robert Purcas, whom the gaoler was just about to take back to prison.

"'Thou hast set them in slippery places,'" whispered Purcas as she passed him. "Keep thou true to Christ. O Elizabeth, mine own love, keep true!"

The tears rose to Elizabeth's eyes. "Pray for me, Robin," she said. And then each was led away.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

RESPITE.

The Commissioners who tried these prisoners were thoroughly worldly men, who really cared nothing about the doctrines which they burned people for not believing. Had it been otherwise, when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, less than two years afterwards, these men would have shown themselves willing to suffer in their turn. But most of them did not do this—seldom even to the extent of losing promotion, scarcely ever to that of losing life. They simply wheeled round again to what they had been in the reign of Edward the Sixth.

It is possible to respect men who are willing to lose their lives for the sake of what they believe to be true, even though you may think them quite mistaken. But how can you respect a man who will not run the risk of losing a situation or a few pounds in defence of the truth? It is not possible.

After the trial of the Colchester prisoners, the Commissioners passed on to other places, and the town was quiet for a time. Mrs Silverside, Johnson and the children, and Purcas, remained in prison in the Moot Hall, and Elizabeth Foulkes was as truly a prisoner in the house of Henry Ashby. At first she was very kindly treated, in the hope of inducing her to recant. But as time went on, things were altered. Mr Ashby found that what Elizabeth understood by "being shown God's true way," was not being argued with by a priest, nor being commanded to obey the Church, but being pointed to some passage in the Bible which agreed with what he said; and since what he said was not in accordance with the Bible, of course he could not show her any texts which agreed with it.

The Church of Rome herself admits that people who read the Bible for themselves generally become Protestants. Does not common sense show that in that case the Protestant doctrines must be the doctrines of the Bible? Why should Rome be so anxious to shut up the Bible if her own doctrines are to be found there?