“O Day of endless brightness, dawn o’er these darkened skies!
O Land of changeless beauty, break on these weary eyes!
O Home whence no outgoing shall blind us with our tears—
O rest and peace! O life and love! O summer of all years!”
The night of the fourth of July came hot and sultry, without a breath of wind. Isoult Avery had sunk to sleep after a weary day. The very warmth brought languor1, and Walter had been naughty and peevish2, needing all her patience; and Mr Tremayne had had a large party to supper, of which she had been one; and a multitude of little worries had pressed upon her—those worries which seem too insignificant3 to repeat or care about, yet form in the mass a large portion of our troubles. Hardly knowing it herself, her last thought before she slept had been a prayer for rest. But it was not rest that she really needed, and therefore it was not rest she was to have. Our Father giveth us often what we ask, but always what we need.
From a troubled dream Isoult was now aroused, by a sound which at first wove itself into her dream, and made her imagine herself in the great hall of the Palace of Westminster, where carpenters were busy pulling down the throne.
Knock, knock, knock!
Isoult hardly roused herself enough to recognise what the reality was which answered to her imaginary carpenters, and John Avery slept calmly.
The knocking was repeated more loudly.
Again came the knocking, and this time a voice with it. “Mr Avery!”
Isoult, thoroughly7 awake at last, sat up, and succeeded after a minute in bringing John to consciousness. The knocking went on. John sprang up, and threw open the window.
“Who are you, and what do you lack?” he called to the unseen visitant below.
“Let me in, and in haste, for God’s sake!” cried a voice in answer, which both the listeners immediately recognised as Robin8 Tremayne’s.
“There is somewhat gone wrong,” said John, and hurrying down, he unbarred the door, and let in Robin. Isoult followed as quickly as she could.
“Why, Robin, lad, what is the matter?” she cried in dismay. “What can ail10 thee? Is somewhat amiss at Tremayne?”
For Robin’s face was white with terror, and he trembled from head to foot, and his clothes were soiled and torn.
“All that can ail me in this world,” murmured the poor lad, dropping upon the settle. “There is no Tremayne. The enclosure men came thither12 yestereven, and burned every brick of it to the ground.”
“The rascals13!” exclaimed Avery. “And what came of thy father, and mother, and sister, poor Robin?”
The lad looked up with tearless eyes. “I am all of us.”
Isoult was silent. This was a sorrow beyond human comforting. It had been mockery to bid him be of good cheer then.
“My father had enclosed, as you know,” resumed Robin in a low voice. “And these rioters would no enclosures.”
“Would to God he had let it alone!” murmured Avery under his breath.
“God would not, Mr Avery,” quietly answered Robin, “or he had let it alone.”
And dropping his head upon his hands, the poor boy rocked himself to and fro silently. He seemed very faint and weary, yet Isoult doubted if he could eat; but she fetched a jug14 of milk, and set it before him, bidding him drink if he could.
“It would choke me, Mrs Avery,” he answered. “But you are exceeding good unto me.”
“Poor child!” said Avery, pityingly. “Thou wilt15 be safe here at the least. I have not enclosed, I thank God.”
“I thought you would take me in for a few days,” said the lad, “until I may see my way afore me, and win some little heart to pursue it.”
“Thy way shall be my way, Robin,” replied Avery tenderly. “Twenty years and more gone, when I was a stripling about thy years, thy father helped me unto my calling with a gift of twenty pounds, which he never would give me leave to pay him. Under thy leave, I will pay it thee.”
“You are exceeding good,” he said again, not lifting his head.
“And how didst thou get away, poor Robin?” asked Isoult.
“I dropped from the window,” said he. “My chamber16 window was low built; and when I heard the horrid17 shouts and yells at the front of the house, I jumped out at the back, and hid me in the bushes beyond. And there, not daring to creep away till they were gone, lest they should discover me, I heard and saw all.”
“Then the bushes took not fire?” suggested Avery.
“Nay,” said he, “the fish-pond lieth atween them and the house, mind you.”
He was silent a little while. Then he said softly, under his breath—“Mr Avery, when I saw the fiends lay hold upon Mother and Arbel, I thought God must surely strike from Heaven for us. But when, ten minutes later, I saw the flames shooting up to the welkin, I thanked Him in mine heart that He had taken them to His rest ere that.”
“But, Robin, lad! didst thou not strike for them?” cried Avery, who could not bear anything that seemed like cowardice18.
“Should I, think you?” he made answer, in that low, hopeless tone that goes to the heart. “There were seventy or more of the enclosure men. I could but have died with them. Maybe I ought to have done that. I think it had cost less.”
“Forgive me, Robin!” said John, laying his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Poor heart! I meant not to reproach thee. I spake hastily, therefore unadvisedly.”
“Let me have thee abed, poor Robin,” said Isoult. “’Tis but one of the clock. Canst thou sleep, thinkest?”
“Sometime, I count I shall again,” he answered; “but an’ I were to judge by my feeling, I should think I never could any more.”
“Time healeth,” whispered Avery, rather to his wife than Robin; but the lad heard him.
“God doth, Mr Avery,” he said. “And they are with God.”
“Art thou less, Robin?” asked Avery tenderly.
“God is with me; that is the difference,” he replied.
Robin Tremayne had always been a quiet, thoughtful boy; and even when the first gush20 of his agony was over, there remained upon him a gentle, grave pensiveness21 which it appeared as if he would never lose.
The next day proved as uneventful as other days at Bradmond. No rioters came near them.
In the evening Dr Thorpe appeared. When the old man saw Robin, he cast up his hands, and thanked God.
“Lad,” said he, “I thought thou wert dead.”
“I count God hath somewhat for me to do,” answered Robin. “But if He hath not, I would I were.”
“Hush thee, Robin dear!” said Isoult, uneasily.
“What wouldst thou be, Robin?” inquired Kate, her eyes wide open.
“Dead and buried,” answered he.
“Then may I be dead and buried too?” she asked.
“Nay, Kate, not so!” cried Isoult, in dismay.
“It will not do, Robin,” said Dr Thorpe, smiling. And his face growing grave, he pursued, “Lad, God setteth never too hard a lesson, nor layeth on us more than we are able to bear.”
“Too hard for what?” answered Robin. “There have been that have had lessons set that they might not learn and live. Is that not too hard?”
“Nay, child!” Dr Thorpe answered. “If it be not too hard to learn, and keep hold on eternal life, the lesser23 life of this little world is of no matter.”
“Nor the happiness of it, I suppose?” said Robin, gloomily.
“The plant God careth to grow now in us is holiness,” he answered. “That other fair flower, happiness, He keepeth for us in His own garden above, where it is safer than in our keeping. ’Tis but stray fragments and single leaves thereof that find their way down hither.”
“I think so,” said Robin, bitterly.
“Lad, lad! kick not against the pricks24!” exclaimed Dr Thorpe, more sternly. “God’s will is the best for us. His way is the safe way, and the only way.”
“Easy to say so,” answered Robin, slowly. “And it was easy to think so—yesterday morning.”
Dr Thorpe looked on him and did not reply.
“O Robin!” cried Kate, running to him from the door. “The sun is shining again. It was raining so fast all the morn; and now the sun is come, and all the little drops are so pretty in the sunshine. Come and see! They are so pretty shining on the roses.”
Robin rose to follow her, with the first smile (though a mournful one) that Isoult had seen flit across his face.
“Kate is the better comforter, Dr Thorpe, and hath learned the sweeter lesson,” he said. “At least she hath learned it me. You would have me count the chastening joyous26, even at this present: God’s word pointeth to the joyousness27 to come. ‘Blessed are they that mourn,—for they shall be comforted.’”
And he went after Kate.
For a few days more after Robin’s coming all was quiet. No one came to inquire for him, and they began to hope the worst was over. But late on the Sunday evening, which was the seventh of July, suddenly there came a rapping on the door. And there, to the surprise of all, stood Dr Thorpe.
“Welcome, good friend!” said Avery; “but your occasion should be great to have you forth28 this even.”
“So it is,” said he. “Is it not bed-time, Mrs Avery?”
“In very deed, Doctor,” she answered. “We were going above but now.”
So the maids and Robin departed.
“What is it, Doctor?” asked Avery, when they were gone.
“What it is, Jack,” said Dr Thorpe, who sat in the corner with his hands upon his knees, “is a great burning mountain that is at this moment quiet. What it may be, is a great rushing and overflowing30 of the fiery31 matter, that shall deal death all around. And what it will be—the Lord God knoweth, and He only.”
“The safest matter to speak at this time,” answered he.
“You look for a new riot, an’ I take you rightly.”
“Hardly for a riot,” the other answered. “Is the door fast?”
“I bolted it after you,” said Avery.
Doctor Thorpe drew his chair closer, and spoke33 in a low, earnest voice. “Not a riot,” he said. “Say an uprising—a civil war—a mighty34 rebellion of all that be under, against all that be above. Men that will know no ruler, and bear no curb—little afraid to speak evil of dignities, or to do evil against them. ‘We are, and there is none beside us:’ yea, ‘we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us.’”
“There be such spirits alway,” answered Avery, “but, I thank God, rarely so many come together as shall do a mischief35.”
“There shall be mischief enough done in Cornwall and Devon within the next month or twain,” said Dr Thorpe, gloomily. “I see more than you; and I am come to tell you of somewhat that nearly toucheth both you and me. A year gone or thereabout, I was a-riding from Bodmin on the Truro way, when I was aware of a little ragged36 lad that sat by the roadside, the tears a-rolling down his not over clean face. I drew bridle37, and asked the lad what ailed38 him. He told me his mother did lie at death’s door, not far thence. ‘Hath she any doctor or apothecary39?’ quoth I. ‘Nay,’ saith he, ‘neither the priest nor the apothecary would come without money, and father hath not a penny.’ Well, I ’light from mine horse, and throwing his bridle athwart mine arm, I bade the lad lead me to his mother, for I was a physician, and could maybe do her some good. I found her under an hedge, with nought40 save a ragged rug to cover her, twain other children beside clamouring for bread, and her husband, a rugged41 sullen-faced man, weaving of rushes for baskets. All they were dark-faced folk, and were, I take it, of that Egyptian (gipsy) crew that doth over-run all countries at times. I saw in a moment that though beyond their skill, her disorder42 was not (with God’s blessing) beyond mine; yet it did require speedy remedy to serve her. The physic that I fetched for her quickly gave her ease, and I was something astonied at the blessings43 which the husband did heap upon me when I departed from them. Methought, though he were rugged of face, yet he must be a man that had some power of affection. Well, the woman amended44, and all they left that part. I heard no more of them sithence, until late last night, as I was a-riding home, very nigh the same place, all suddenly an hand was laid upon my bridle. An highwayman, thought I; and I remembered that I had little money upon me. But in the stead of easing me of my purse, mine highwayman put unto me a strange question.—‘What is your name, and where dwell you?’—‘Verily,’ said I, ‘I might ask the same of you. But sithence I am in no wise ashamed neither of my name nor my dwelling-place, know you, that the one is Stephen Thorpe, and the other is Bodmin. What more would you?’—‘Your calling?’—‘A physician.’—‘Enough,’ quoth my strange questioner. ‘I pray you to alight from your horse, and have no fear of me. I will do you no harm; I would not hurt you for a thousand pieces in good red gold. I want neither your money (howsoever much it be) nor your valuables that may be on you. Only, I pray you, let us two whisper together a season.’—‘In good sooth,’ said I, ‘I have nought to whisper unto you.’—‘But I have to you,’ saith he, ‘and what I say must not be spoken aloud. You would trust me if you knew what I would have.’—‘Well, friend,’ quoth I, ‘for a friend metrusteth you be, I will do as you bid me. All the money I have upon me is but some few shillings, and to them, if you lack, you are welcome. For valuable matter, I carry none; and I myself am an old man, no longer of much service unto any. If you desire me to ply25 my trade of healing, I am content; but I warn you that by murdering of me you should gain little beside an evil conscience.’—So with that I ’lighted down.—‘Throw the bridle on your arm,’ saith he, ‘and follow me.’—So, linking his arm in mine, he drew me (for it was pitch dark, and how he found his way I know not) aside from the road, unto a small forsaken45 and ruinated hut that stood on the common.—‘Stand where you be a moment,’ quoth he; and striking the tinder, he lit a rush candle. ‘Now, know you me?’ saith he. ‘Not a whit11 better than afore,’ quoth I.—He blew out the candle.—‘You have forgot my face,’ he saith. ‘Mind you a year gone, ministering unto a dying woman (as was thought), in this place, under an hedge, whereby you did recover her of her malady46?’—‘I know you now,’ said I; ‘you are that woman’s husband.’ ‘Then you are aware,’ answereth he, ‘that I would do you no hurt.’—‘Say on,’ quoth I.—‘Suffer me,’ saith he, ‘to ask you certain questions.’—‘So be it,’ said I.—Then he,—‘Is your house in Bodmin your own?’—‘It is so,’ answered I, marvelling47 if he were about to ask me for mine house.—‘Sell it,’ quoth he, ‘and quickly.’—‘Wherefore?’ answered I.—‘I passed no word touching48 your questions,’ quoth he, grimly.—‘In good sooth,’ said I, ‘this is a strange matter, for a man to be bidden to sell his house, and not told wherefore.’—‘You shall see stranger things than that,’ he answered, ‘ere your head be hoarier by twain s’ennight from now.’—‘Well! say on,’ quoth I.—‘Have you,’ pursueth he, ‘any money lent unto any friend, or set out at usury49? You were best to call it in, if you would see it at all.’—‘Friend,’ said I, ‘my money floweth not in so fast that my back lacketh it not so soon as it entereth my purse.’—‘The better,’ quo’ he.—‘Good lack!’ said I, ‘I alway thought it the worse.’—‘The worse afore, the better now,’ he answered. ‘But once more—have you any friend you would save from peril50?’—And I,—‘Why, I would save any from peril that I saw like to fall therein.’—‘Then,’ quoth he, ‘give them privily51 the counsel that I now give you. If the sun find you at Bodmin,—yea, any whither in Cornwall or Devon—twain s’ennights hence, he shall not set on you alive. Speak not another word. Mount your horse, and go.’—I strave, however, to say another word unto him, but not one more would he hearken. ‘Go!’ he crieth again, so resolute52 and determinedly53 that I did go. Now, I fear greatly that this man did tell me but truth, and that some fearful rising of the commons is a-brewing. I shall surely take his counsel, and go hence. What say you, Jack? Shall we go together?”
There was dead silence for a minute. Isoult’s head was in a whirl.
At last her husband said slowly, “What sayest thou, Isoult?”
“Jack,” she replied, “whither thou art will I be.”
“And that shall be—whither?” asked Dr Thorpe. “It must be no whither within Cornwall or Devon.”
“But we have not enclosed,” objected Avery, answering rather his thoughts than his words.
“I doubt,” he answered, “whether they shall wait to ask that.”
“For me,” Avery resumed, “I have friends in London, and Isoult likewise; and if I thought it should be long ere we may turn again, thither should I look to go rather than otherwhere. But an’ it be for a few weeks, it should be unworth so long a journey.”
“Weeks!” cried Dr Thorpe. “Say months, Jack, or years. For my part, I look not to see Bodmin again. But there be thirty years betwixt thee and me.”
“In that case,” said he, “and methinks you have the right—I say, London, if Isoult agree therewith. There should be room in that great city, I account, for both you and me to ply our several callings.”
“Whither thou wilt, be it, Jack,” said his wife, softly. “But Mother, and Hugh, and Bessy! And Frances at Potheridge, and Mrs Philippa at Crowe—what is to come of them, and who shall warn them?”
Dr Thorpe shook his head.
“Little time for all that, Mrs Avery,” answered he. “Send, an’ you will, to the two places—Potheridge and Crowe; but leave Potheridge to warn Wynscote, and Wynscote to warn Matcott and Bindon.”
“Let Robin take the brown horse,” suggested Avery, “and ride post with a letter from thee to Mrs Philippa; and Tom the white nag55, and I will send him likewise to Mr Monke. I might have gone myself to one of the twain, but—”
“Well said,” answered Dr Thorpe.
“Well!” Avery replied, “there seemeth little time to choose or bowne (prepare) us; but as the Italians have it, ‘Che sarà, sarà.’ (‘What will be, will be.’) When set we forth, Doctor?”
“Now, if we could,” answered Dr Thorpe, significantly.
Preparations for the journey were made in haste, and without waiting for daylight. Robin and Tom were sent on horseback to Crowe and Potheridge, starting with the earliest gleam of dawn. Isoult summoned Jennifer, Barbara, and Ursula the cook, and asked whether they would cast in their lot with hers or remain in Cornwall. Jennifer answered that she feared the journey more than the commons, and the fourth of July was a very unlucky day on which to commence any undertaking57: she would stay where she was. Ursula and Barbara, both of whom had been with their mistress ever since her marriage, replied that they would go with her now.
“Nor have I any of mine own that I may well go unto,” Ursula added. “Mine only brother dwelleth in Somerset, and he is but an husbandman, with little wages and a great sort of childre; and beside him I have no kin4.”
“My mother is wed9 again,” Barbara explained, “and my father that now is should grudge58 to be troubled with me; and my sister, that is newly wedded59, hath but one chamber in a poor man’s house. I will hie after you, Mistress, an’ you will have me.”
This question being settled, another arose. Who should be left at Bradmond? Tom was too necessary for the journey; besides which, he was ignorant of the arts of reading and writing, and would not be able to send word how matters went on after their departure. In this emergency, while Isoult and John were talking over the subject, Barbara presented herself with a deprecatory courtesy, or rather lout61.
“Mistress,” said she, “if you and our master bethink not yourselves readily of any that should serve for to dwell here in your absence, I would you would think on Marian my sister, and her husband (fictitious62 persons). They should, I do know, be right willing to be set in charge; and Simon Pendexter (that is my brother) can right well read and write, for he hath been a schoolmaster; and is (though I say it) a sad and sober honest man, such as I do know you should be willing to use in this matter.”
This information settled the question. Barbara was despatched to ask Simon and Marian if they would be willing to come, and she returned with a reply that they were not only willing, but thankful for the offer, and had no fear of the rioters.
In such arrangements time passed on until the Friday evening, when Robin reached home from Crowe, bringing Philippa Basset with him. She expressed her gratitude63 for the warning sent, and said that she was ready to go to London.
“As for Crowe,” she said, “’tis Arthur his house, not mine; and to me all places be nigh alike. I set some seeds that I looked to see come up this next spring; but that is all I have to lose, save an old gown or twain, and the like. And,” added she, turning away her head, “they will not harm what alone I care for—my dead.”
On the Sunday morning came Dickon, Dr Thorpe’s man, with a message from his master, desiring that all should be ready to set out by five o’clock on the following morning. “Bodmin,” said he, “was plainly ill at ease: men gathered together in knots in the streets, and the like, with all manner of rumours65 and whisperings about; and if they were to go, go they must.”
“But Tom is not yet back,” said Isoult.
It was settled, however, that it would not do to wait for him; but to their relief, two or three hours before the time fixed67 for starting, Tom came. He brought letters from Mr Monke to John, and from Lady Frances to Isoult; but he arrived alone. Mr Monke thanked them heartily68 for their loving care, and would readily undertake to warn Wynscote and Combe; but he declined to join them. Potheridge was well fortified69 with walls and moat; and he had seven able-bodied men-servants, and double the number of tenants70, who could be called within at a few minutes’ notice: the house was well provisioned, and his armoury equipped: and he ended his letter by saying,—“My trust is in God. You do well to go; yet methinks I do as well to abide71.”
“Metrusteth all shall be well,” said Isoult, with a sigh; “yet if I might have known how it should be with them, I had gone with an heart the lighter72.”
Lady Frances said in her letter, “Dear heart, God is not gone from Devon. Fear not for us, only pray; and wheresoever we be, and howsoever, let us abide in Him.”
At last the preparations were completed. Simon and Marian Pendexter had been installed in office, with orders to write in a month: three sumpter mules74 were laden75 with the family luggage: and the last farewells were taken. The party mounted their horses. First rode John Avery on Bayard, with his wife behind him on the pillion; then, on Blanche, a white mare76, came Ursula, with Kate strapped77 before her; on the black farm mare, which had no particular name, rode Tom, with Barbara behind, and Walter before him; and lastly, on a wiry white nag, came Robin, with Philippa on the pillion. So they moved slowly away from the home which, for aught they knew, they might never see again.
It was a trial which cost Isoult Avery many tears. Barbara, too, wept; but no one else, only when Philippa spoke, it was in that short, constrained78 manner with which some people hide sorrow. Little Kate was in high glee, until she saw her mother weep; and then she looked grave and thoughtful—for about ten minutes.
When they reached the end of the lane which led into the high road from Bradmond, they found Dr Thorpe seated on his bay horse, awaiting them. Behind, on a brown nag, was Dickon, with a bundle strapped at his back.
“Come, friends mine!” cried Dr Thorpe. “If you urge on your horses no faster, we shall sleep on the common to-night.” Then as Bayard came up with him, he added in a lower tone, “It was too true, Jack. Fourteen houses were sacked in Bodmin last night.”
“Of them that had enclosed?”
“Mostly, but not all,” he answered. “They opened the cellars, and set the conduits a-flowing with wine; then, having well drunken, marched to the church, where they cast the new service-book into a bonfire (Note 1); and at after surrounded Father Prideaux (a fictitious person) his house, shouting and singing in uproarious wise, calling upon him to come forth and set himself at their head. (A fair body to be head of!) By God’s providence79, he was not within; but it was full two hours ere they would depart, for all the handmaid’s telling of them that her master was from home. At long last they did go thence, and down the streets, shrieking80 and yelling like fiends.”
“And is it over, think you?” suggested Avery.
“Is it begun?” answered Dr Thorpe. “Tidings came yestre’en of riots in Somerset; and, Jack, the commons have taken Exeter.”
“Taken Exeter!” cried John and Isoult in a breath.
“Taken Exeter!” repeated he. “What think you now?”
“Lord, have mercy upon us!” said Isoult under her breath.
“A letter is come from the King,” pursued Dr Thorpe, “exhorting the commons to obedience81 and patience, and they shall receive redress82 of their griefs.”
“But what profess85 the commons to be their griefs?” said Isoult; “for I did never yet rightly understand.”
“Firstly,” said Dr Thorpe, “they do allege86 the young age of the King, and the having a Protector over them.”
“What foolishness!” exclaimed Avery. “Would they have the King grow unto manhood in a day? or think they that he abideth a child of set purpose?”
“Then,” pursueth Dr Thorpe, “their second matter is, the ’stablishing of Lutheranism within the realm. They would fain see the mass set up again, and have the Six Articles back.”
“And the third matter is the enclosures,” added he.
“Methinks men are not over weighted with religion, that be so ready to pull it down,” remarked Philippa.
“That hangeth on whether it be truth or error,” replied he.
“Nay,” said she, “you draw lines too fine for me. What I learnt in my youth is truth enough for me.”
“So do many think,” said Avery. “But there is yet an other question, Mrs Basset, which they shall some day have to front, though they will not now; and that is, whether it be truth enough for God?”
But to that she made no answer.
The fugitives89 journeyed as quietly as possible, yet as quickly as was safe, until the Saturday. And then, about four o’clock, as they gained the ridge54 of a hill, Dr Thorpe, who rode first, suddenly drew bridle.
“Back, all of you!” cried he. “Hide you behind the rocks yonder. An immense crowd of men is in the valley, advancing this way. If these be the commons, God be our help, for we can have none other.”
“We can sell our lives dearly, at least,” said Avery, looking to his matchlock.
“We that be men were best to light off our horses,” pursued Dr Thorpe, “and leave the women thereon, that they may fly the faster if need be. Set them and the childre behind, and thou, Jack, with me and Tom and Dickon, stand out afore.”
“They shall fly cruel slow on yon old black jade,” said Tom, grinning.
“Master,” inquired Dickon (who was a Somerset man), “if they catch I, what shall they do to I?”
“Hold your idle tongues!” answered Dr Thorpe sternly, “and see that your arms are in good order. Robin, shall we count thee a man, or as one of the childre?”
“Well said,” replied Dr Thorpe.
“Truly, good Doctor, on my word,” interposed Philippa, “but you shall not count me as a sely woman. I have handled a matchlock afore now, and I can knock down a man an’ I have hold of a poker92. I stand to the front, an’ it like you.”
“Well said, brave heart!” answered he. “So do.”
So set, they awaited the death that might be at hand, and prayed to God to guard them. All were brave enough but Dickon, and he shivered like an aspen leaf.
“Thou white-livered (our ancestors believed literally93 that cowards had white livers) dolt94!” cried Dr Thorpe sharply, and took the matchlock out of his hands. “Go behind for a child as thou art.”
“And give me his matchlock,” said Philippa.
“Take it,” he answered. “You are ten times over the man that he is.”
Slowly they heard the tramp of feet advancing nearer and nearer. All were silent now. The feet gained the ridge of the hill—they crossed it—they came forward on the road. All at once Avery, who was next that side, threw down his matchlock with a shout.
“Forward, friends!” cried he triumphantly95. “These are no rebels—these are the King’s Majesty’s troops. See you not the royal lions flying at the van? God be with the armies of England!”
The revulsion was great from such terror to comfort, joy, and thankfulness. All came forward. The leader of the army looked at the group, stayed his horse, and lifted his visor. A cry of joy broke from Philippa and Isoult, for they saw beneath his helm a face that they had known well in the old Calais days.
“Mrs Philippa Basset!” exclaimed he in amazement96; “at the least if mine eyes bewray me not. And Mrs Barry! God keep you both! How come you here? and do you lack aid?”
“Your eyes be true men, my Lord Grey de Wilton,” (Note 2) said Philippa, “and right glad are mine to light on no unfriendlier face. Truly at the first we took you for rebels, and had it not been for your coats and your standard, I had picked you off with my matchlock ere I wist who it were.”
Lord Grey laughed merrily.
“Nay,” said he, “we are marching against the rebels, by the King’s gracious commission. What may I do for you, my mistresses? Whither go you?”
“We be on our way to London,” answered Philippa, “if it like the saints to have us there.”
“It may like the troops, maybe, the better,” said Lord Grey. “Well, I will then send with you certain picked soldiers, good men and true, to see you safe on your way, if God permit.”
“We thank you heartily, and will accept of your goodness with a very good will,” she replied. “And what news, now?”
“Very ill news,” answered he. “The rebels be up all through Somerset, and Kent, and Essex, and Lincoln, and Norfolk, and Suffolk.”
“Thanks be to our Lady!” cried she; “none of those lie in our way to London.”
“Laud be to God therefor!” answered Lord Grey, gravely; “yet be wary97. How soon may Dorset and Wilts98 be up likewise? My Lord of Northampton layeth siege to Norwich, and ere this, I trust, is my Lord Russell and his troops around Exeter. But our work is not yet done by many a day’s labour.”
“I pray you, noble sir,” asked Dr Thorpe, “if I may aventure myself to speak unto your Lordship, what think you of this rebellion? Shall it be a thing easily crushed, or a more graver matter?”
“I know not,” said Lord Grey, turning his head to the speaker. “It should seem a very grave matter—another Jack Cade’s rebellion. Yet it may be subdued99 readily. I know not. This only I know—that ‘unless the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.’”
Lord Grey, turning, called to him one of his officers, and spoke quietly with him a moment. Then turning again to Philippa, he said, “Look you here, Mrs Basset, an’t like you. I will send with you twelve picked men, that shall be a guard unto you, and shall not leave you until (by God’s allowing), they have you safe in London. And there come,” pursued he to the captain of the men, “report yourself unto Sir Francis Jobson, and await his order. Stay—take with you a token.”
Lord Grey drew a ring from his finger, and gave it to that officer who seemed to be in authority as captain over the twelve men forming the guard. Then bowing low, he bade God keep them; and the troops marched forward at his giving the word.
The little group journeyed on towards Dorset, their guard marching before with their halberds in their hands. The captain (a fictitious person) had some talk with Dr Thorpe and Avery; he told them he was a London man, and that his mother—a widow—dwelt in the Minories; and both were Gospellers. So in due time they reached Dorchester; and thence Salisbury, both which they found quiet. And at Windsor they heard a rumour66 that Norwich had yielded; which on coming to London they found true. They heard further that Exeter was taken by Lord Russell; and that Lord Grey de Wilton had reached Cornwall.
The captain of their guard took them to his mother, Mistress Brent, (fictitious persons) whom they found a pleasant and pious100 woman. The next day they began looking for a house; and being inclined to settle in the Minories (Note 3), Mrs Brent told them of a comfortable house which was empty next door to her own. John and Isoult went to see it, liked it, and took it. Philippa went to her sister, Lady Elizabeth Jobson, in the Tower; and Dr Thorpe agreed to remain with the Averys until he should make up his mind what to do. Perhaps it was difficult to make up; for without any regular agreement on the subject, yet to everybody’s satisfaction, they formed one family thereafter.
Meantime there was sad work at Exeter.
The Lord Privy102 Seal (John Russell, afterwards first Earl of Bedford), who was sent there with his troops, finding his own forces fewer than the rebels, stayed at Honiton, while the rebels besieged103 Exeter: and right valiantly104 the men of Exeter kept their town. (King Edward, from whose Diary these details are taken, spells these names Honington and Outrie.) The rebels burnt the gates, but those within “kept them off by hot fire, till they had made a rampart; and when they were undermined, they drowned the mine and the powder with water.” The Lord Privy Seal, hearing of their bravery, endeavoured to go round a bye-way to reinforce them; but the rebels, having spies, discovered his movements, and cut down all the trees between Saint Mary Ottery and Exeter. Lord Russell then burnt the town, intending to return home. But the rebels held a bridge against him, forcing him with his small band to fall upon them; when he gained a great victory, killing105 some hundreds of them, and retreating homeward without any loss of his own men. Then Lord Grey came to his help, and together they raised the siege of Exeter.
At Bodmin, Sir Anthony Kingston, who was sent there, hanged the Mayor, a fervent106 Papist: and Father Prideaux would have fared ill at his hands, had not all the Lutherans and Gospellers in the town risen in his favour, and testified that he had not joined with other priests in the rising (for the priests urged and fomented107 all these risings), but was a good Protestant and faithful subject.
The fugitives were at first too busy to have much time for lamentation108. But when the pressure of constant occupation was relaxed, and the furnishing and arranging of matters ended, they began to feel a little like ship-wrecked men, thrown upon a strange coast. Isoult Avery was astonished to find what a stranger she felt in London, where she had lived some years with Anne Basset and the Duchess of Suffolk. One afternoon in September she was peculiarly oppressed by this sense of solitude109 in a crowd—the most painful solitude of any—but was trying to bear up bravely. She sat at her work, with Kate at her hornbook beside her, when the door was unlatched, and Isoult heard her husband’s well-known voice say,—“Come in,—you shall see her now.”
Isoult rose to receive her unknown visitor.
He was a man of some fifty years or upwards110, neither stout91 nor spare, but tall, and of an especially stately and majestic111 carriage. His face was bronzed as if with exposure to a southern sun; his hair and eyes were dark, and he had a long dark beard. Grave and deliberate in all his actions, his smile was exquisitely112 sweet, and his expression thoughtfully gentle.
“Isoult,” said her husband, “this is Mr Rose, an ancient friend of mine, and now parson of West Ham, nigh unto Richmond. He would be acquaint with thee, and so would his wife and daughter.”
Isoult rose and louted to the visitor, and gave him her hand; and to her surprise, Kate, who was commonly very shy with strangers, went up at once to Mr Rose, and suffered him to lift her upon his knee and kiss her.
“I knew not you were a man so much to childre’s liking,” said Avery; “methinks I never saw my little maid so friendly unto a stranger afore.”
“I love them dearly,” answered Mr Rose. “And I pray you, Mrs Avery, if it will please you to take the pain to visit my wife, that you bring this little maid withal.”
This was Isoult’s first introduction to one of the most remarkable113 men of the sixteenth century. Not so, perhaps, as the world sees eminence114; but as God and His angels see it. Thomas Rose was a Devonshire man, and had begun to preach about the same time as Latimer. He was one of the earliest converts of the Reformation, and was constantly and consistently persecuted115 by the Papal party. Much of his life had been spent: abroad to escape their machinations. The entire history of this man was full of marvellous providences and hairbreadth escapes; and it was to be fuller yet. Weary of dealing116 in this manner, Rome had at length tried upon him those poisoned shafts117 which she launched at many a Gospeller—suborning false witnesses to accuse him of uncommitted crimes. Mr Rose stood the trial, and came unscathed out of it.
Isoult readily promised to visit Mrs Rose, though she was slightly dismayed on afterwards hearing from John that Mr Rose had married a foreigner.
“A Protestant, I trust?” she asked doubtfully, for she knew little of foreigners, and with the exception of a handful of Lutherans and Huguenots, thought they were all Papists—with a margin118, of course, for Jews, Turks, heretics, and infidels.
John laughed as if the question amused him exceedingly. “Were it possible,” he responded, “that Thomas Rose’s wife should be any thing else?”
The train of visitors was only just beginning. When Isoult came in from the market, feeling very tired and overworked, on the following morning, she found Philippa Basset in her large chair, looking very much at home, while Kate, on her knee, was chattering119 away to her with the utmost freedom.
“Well, Isoult!” was Philippa’s greeting. “Thou dost well to go a-cheapening of carrots, and leave thy friends that come to visit thee to find none in the house that they know save this,” pointing to Kate. “How dost thou, dear heart?”
“The better to see you, Mrs Philippa,” said she. “I will not ask how you do, for you look rarely well. Verily, I left more in the house than Kate, or I had taken her withal.”
“Isoult, dost thou mean to call me mistress all the days of thy life?” she asked in answer.
“I mean to call you what it list you,” said Isoult, “but truly you never gave me leave to do other.”
“And truly you never asked for it,” replied she. “Howbeit, take it now, prithee, for ever henceforward.”
Isoult thanked her, and asked her “if any news were abroad.”
“Any news, quotha?” she answered. “But a yard or twain. Hast heard that my Lord Protector is not in very good case?”
“Nay!” cried Isoult. “My Lord Protector! what mean you, Mrs Philippa?”
“This, Mrs Avery,” answered she. “My Lord Protector, being no Lutheran, but a Gospeller, is not over well liked of some that be Lutherans, and no Gospellers: and as for us poor Catholics, we never (you know) held him for a saint. So this being the case (this in thine ear, Isoult—’tis under benedicite (under the seal of confession)), certain, if not all of the King’s Council, be resolved to be rid of my high and mighty Lord. And ere thou be ten days older, I count thou shalt hear somewhat thereof. I have so much from a good hand, that can be trusted; the name I utter not.”
“Then,” said Isoult, “be the Catholics and Lutherans conspiring120 together for this?”
“Truth,” answered she; “they that be least Christians122 of both.”
“You say well, Mrs Philippa,” replied Isoult.
“Do I so, Mrs Avery?” she answered.
“I cry you mercy!” said Isoult; “Philippa, then, if you will have it so.”
“Ay, I will have it so,” said she, laughing.
“But,” answered Isoult, “what saith the King’s Highness thereto?”
“The King!” exclaimed she. “The King marketh but his twelfth birthday this month, dear heart. What can he know? or an’ he spake, who would heed123 him?”
“But,” said Isoult, “we hear for ever of his Highness’ sageness124 and wisdom, such as ’tis said never had Prince afore him.”
“Did we not so of his father?” asked she, with a short laugh. “There be alway that will sing loud hymns125 to the rising or risen sun. Sageness and wisdom, forsooth! of a lad of twelve years! He may be as sage64 as he will, but he will not match Dr Stephen Gardiner yet awhile.”
A shudder126 ran through Isoult Avery at the name of the deviser of the Bloody Statute. But the danger of the Protector was too serious a question to every Gospeller not to be recurred127 to and prayed against.
“It doth seem to me, Jack,” said Isoult that evening, when the story had been told, “as though the cause of the Gospel should stand or fall with my Lord Protector. What thinkest thou?”
“Sweet wife,” he answered, “if my Lord Protector were the only prop128 of the Gospel, it had fallen long ago. The prop of the Gospel is not my Lord or thy Lord, but the Lord of the whole earth. His strength is enough to bear it up.”
“I know that, Jack,” she said. “Yet God worketh by means; and my Lord Protector gone, who else is there?”
“Nay, child!” answered Dr Thorpe. “Is God so lately become unable of these stones to raise up children unto Abraham? Shall He, by whose word a nation shall be born in a day, be too weak to strengthen the King, in despite of his tender years, or to raise up another man that shall follow in the wake of my Lord Protector?”
“I know God can do miracles,” said Isoult, somewhat despondingly.
“‘For all but me’—is that thy thought, sweeting?” asked Avery, smiling.
“But where is there a man?” cried Isoult.
“How know I?” said Dr Thorpe. “Some whither in the Indies, it may be. But the Lord shall surely fetch him thence when the time cometh. Prithee, Jack, bid thy friend the Hot Gospeller to dinner, and leave us see if he (that I gather from thy talk to be mighty busy in public matters) can find us a man for the time.”
Avery smiled, and said he would ask Mr Underhill to dinner. But Isoult shook her head, averring129 that neither Dr Thorpe nor even the Hot Gospeller could find a man for the time.
For some days, at her husband’s desire, Isoult had been on the look-out for a bower-woman to replace Jennifer. She inquired from Mrs Brent and other neighbours, but could nowhere hear of a satisfactory person. On the Sunday evening following Philippa’s visit, as they were coming home from Saint Botolph’s, the church which stood at the top of the Minories, Isoult heard her name softly called from the crowd of dispersing130 worshippers. She looked up into a pair of black, pensive22 eyes, which she knew to belong to an old friend—a converted Jewess, who had been one of her bridesmaids, but whom she had never met since that time. The friends halted and clasped hands.
“I knew not you were in this vicinage,” said Esther in her grave manner, “but methought that face could belong to none other.”
“We dwell at this present in the Minories,” said Isoult, “and are but now come hither, by reason of certain riots in the western parts. And where dwell you?”
“I am now abiding,” she replied, “with a friend, one Mistress Little, until I may find conveniency to meet with a service: for I have left the one, and am not yet fallen in with the other.”
“And I am but now looking for a bower-woman,” said Isoult.
“Have you covenanted131 with any?” asked she quickly.
“Mrs Avery, will you take me?” she said, earnestly.
“Nay,” answered Isoult, “but will you come to me? I had thought you should look for a much better service than mine.”
“I could not have a better, methinks,” she responded, with a rather sorrowful smile. “I would right fain come to you, if that might be.”
“Then it may be, dear heart!” said Isoult, much moved by her urgency. “I would fainer have you than any which I do know, unless it were Annis Holland, that I have known from the cradle. But should it like you to follow me into Devon? for we do look to return thither when the troubles are past.”
“I will follow you any whither,” answered she. “I care nothing where I am, only this,—that I would liefer be out of London than in it.”
So Esther came, and took up her quarters at the sign of the Lamb. Every house in London had then its sign, which served the purpose of a number.
Meanwhile the clouds gathered more darkly over the only man in power (excepting the boy-King himself), who really cared more for the welfare of England than for his own personal aggrandisement. And it was not England which forsook133 and destroyed Somerset. It was the so-called Lutheran faction101, to the majority of whom Lutheranism was only the cloak which hid their selfish political intrigues134. There had been a time when Somerset was one of them, and had sought his own advancement135 as they now did theirs. And the deserted136 regiment137 never pardons the deserter. The faction complained that Somerset was proud and self-willed: he worked alone; he acted on his own responsibility; he did not consult his friends. This of course meant in the case of each member of the faction (as such complaints usually do), “He did not consult me.” Somerset might truthfully have pleaded in reply that he had not a friend to consult. The Court held no friend to him; and, worst of all, his own home held none. He had, unquestionably, a number of acquaintances, of that class which has been well and wittily138 defined as consisting of “intimate enemies;” and he had a wife, who loved dearly the high title he had given her, and the splendid fortune with which she kept it up. But neither she nor any one else loved him—except One, who was sitting above the Water-floods, watching His tried child’s life, and ready, when his extremity139 should have come, to whisper to that weary and sorrowful heart, “Come and rest with Me.”
But that time was not yet. The battle must be fought before the rest could come.
On Friday, the 5th of October, a private gathering140 of nineteen of the Council was held at Lord Warwick’s house in Holborn—that Lord Warwick of whom I have already spoken as John Dudley, the half-brother of Lady Frances Monke. No man on earth hated Somerset more heartily than Warwick, and perhaps only one other man hated him quite as much. While they were yet debating how to ruin Somerset, a letter came in the King’s name from Secretary Petre, inquiring for what cause they thus gathered together: if they wished to speak with the Protector they must come peaceably. This letter sealed the fate of the conference—and of Somerset. The victim, it was evident, was awake and watching. Ruin might have served the original purpose: now only one end would serve it—death. But Warwick was one of the few who know how to wait.
In this emergency—for he manifestly feared for his life—Somerset appealed to the only friends he had, the people of England. And England responded to the appeal. Hour after hour thickened the crowd which watched round Hampton Court, where the King and Protector were; and in the middle of Sunday night, when he thought it safe, Somerset hastened to take refuge with his royal nephew in the strong-hold of Windsor (Note 4), the crowd acting141 as guards and journeying with them.
It was a false move. The populace were with Somerset, but the army was with Warwick. The crowd melted away; the Lords held London; and on every gate of the city a list of the charges against the Protector was posted up. The bird, struggling vainly in the toils142 of the serpent, was only exhausting its own life.
These were the charges (in substance), which Isoult Avery found Dr Thorpe carefully reading when she came home from the market on Monday morning. The old man was making comments as he proceeded, not very complimentary143 to my Lord of Warwick and his colleagues.
“One. That he hath made inward divisions.
“Two. That he hath lost his Majesty’s pieces beyond the sea.
“Three. That he did enrich himself in the war, and left the King’s poor soldiers unpaid144 of their wages.
“Four. That he hath laboured to make himself strong in all countries.
“Five. That he hath subverted145 all law, justice, and good order, whereby he hath fearfully shaken the chair of the King’s seat.
“Seven. That he hath little regarded the order appointed by King Henry, for the government of his son.
“Eight. That he hath laboured to sow dissension in the kingdom among the nobles, gentlemen, and commoners.
“Nine. That the King and kingdom hath suffered great loss by his wilful negligence147.”
“‘Shaken the chair of the King’s seat!’” cried he. “If the men be not rebels that writ60 this paper, I have little wit to know what a rebel is. How dare they speak or think of shaking the King’s seat, which is in the hands of God, and is accountable unto none save Him?—‘Little esteemed the advice of the King’s faithful councillors’—to wit, the runagates that writ this paper. ‘Laboured to sow dissension betwixt the gentry148 and the commoners!’ ’Tis the enclosures they point at, I reckon. What! was he the only man that allowed them? and who could have thought the commons had been such dolts149? Now let us see the names of these wise, good, and faithful councillors. ‘R. Rich, W. Saint John, W. Northampton, J. Warwick,’” (Note 5) and he paused a minute. “Isoult,” said he again, “methinks that Earl of Warwick is a knave150.”
“I never thought him otherwise, Dr Thorpe,” said Isoult quietly.
Sir Anthony Wingfield was sent by the Lords of the Council to Windsor on the following Friday. He parted the Lord Protector from the King, and set a strong guard to watch him until the coming of the Lords. On the Saturday the Lord Chancellor151 and the Council rode to Windsor, and that night the Protector was set in ward19 in the Beauchamp Tower of Windsor Castle. And on the Monday afternoon was the Duke of Somerset (no longer Lord Protector) brought to the Tower of London, riding between the Earls of Southampton and Huntingdon, accompanied by many gentlemen, and three hundred horse. At his own desire, he came into London by way of Saint Giles in the Fields; and opposite Soper Lane were knights152 sitting on horseback, and all the officers with halberds. And so they led him from Holborn Bridge to Cheapside; where, with a loud voice, he cried to the bystanders, “Good people, I am as true a man to the King as any here.” In all the streets were Aldermen or their deputies, on horseback; and the householders, each man at his door, all standing153 with bills in their hands, as he passed. And so he was conducted to the Tower, where he remained.
“As true a man to the King!” Poor little Edward, bewildered and deceived! He did not know there was none other half so true.
Note 1. The enclosure riots had a more religious aspect in the West than in the East or the Midland Counties.
Note 2. William Lord Grey de Wilton was an eminent154 General, and a staunch Gospeller. He had been a member of the Council at Calais during the persecution155, and his close friendship with Lord and Lady Lisle is shown by the fact that of his three children, two bore their names. Lord Grey died at Cheston, near Waltham, December 25, 1562.
Note 3. The Minories was then to all intents in the country. A single street, Whitechapel Bars, lay between it and the Spital Field on the north; in front (west) was the city wall, with its gardens; on the east lay Goodman’s Fields, and an open space to the south, bounded by the Tower enclosure and the Thames. It must have been a very pleasant suburb.
Note 4. Most historians say that the removal was against Edward’s will. The account given by himself shows no trace of any such feeling.
Note 5. At this era, peers did not use their titles only in signature, but added at least the initial of the Christian121 name.
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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44
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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46
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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47
marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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48
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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49
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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50
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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51
privily
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| adv.暗中，秘密地 | |
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52
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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53
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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54
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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55
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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56
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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58
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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59
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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61
lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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62
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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63
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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64
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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65
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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66
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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67
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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68
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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69
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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70
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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71
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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72
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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73
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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74
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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75
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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76
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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77
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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78
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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79
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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80
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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81
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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82
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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83
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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84
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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85
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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86
allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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87
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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88
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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89
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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90
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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92
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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93
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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94
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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95
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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96
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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97
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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98
wilts
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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100
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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101
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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102
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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103
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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105
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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106
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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107
fomented
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| v.激起，煽动（麻烦等）( foment的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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109
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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110
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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111
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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112
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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113
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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114
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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115
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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116
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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117
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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118
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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119
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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120
conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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121
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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122
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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123
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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124
sageness
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| n.贤明；明智 | |
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125
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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126
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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127
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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128
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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129
averring
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| v.断言( aver的现在分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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130
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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131
covenanted
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的过去分词 ) | |
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132
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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133
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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134
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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135
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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136
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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137
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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138
wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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139
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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140
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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141
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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142
toils
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| 网 | |
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143
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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144
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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145
subverted
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| v.颠覆，破坏（政治制度、宗教信仰等）( subvert的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某人）道德败坏或不忠 | |
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146
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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147
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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148
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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149
dolts
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| n.笨蛋，傻瓜( dolt的名词复数 ) | |
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150
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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151
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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152
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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153
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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154
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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155
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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