And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the world’s great altar-stairs
That slope through darkness up to God,
Tennyson.
Twenty-two hours of the year 1555 had passed away. John Avery, Robin3, and Esther had gone to the service held in Mr Sheerson’s house. The children had been put to bed before they went; Thekla was up-stairs with her mother, who had begged her to remain at home. Mrs Rose could give no reason for her request, except that she felt low and nervous, and had a fancy or a foreboding, which it might be, that it would be better for Thekla to absent herself. Dr Thorpe and Isoult sat alone in the little chamber4 of the Lamb. It was past ten o’clock—in the middle of the night, to their apprehension—but there could be no going to bed until they knew of the safety of the absent ones. At last, half-an-hour at least after they had expected it, John Avery’s hand was heard on the latch5. He came in alone.
John, who had turned his back as soon as he came in, was very busy hanging up his cloak, which Isoult thought took longer than his wont7. At last John came forward to the fire, and then his wife saw the look on his face, and knew that some terrible thing had happened.
“Dear heart,” he said, huskily, “the Lord doth all things well.”
“A sure sign,” murmured Dr Thorpe, “that something hath gone ill, when a man shall say that at his first home-coming. What is it, Jack? Hath Robin brake his leg in the frost?”
“O Jack, Jack! is Mr Rose taken?” she cried in terror.
“Mr Rose, and all his hearers saving two.”
“The good Lord have mercy upon them!”
So Dr Thorpe; but Isoult was silent. Tears would not come yet. “Who were the two, Jack? Is it Robin or Esther they have taken?” pursued Dr Thorpe, with his brows knit. “Both,” said he, shortly.
It was strange: but for the first moment Isoult had not remembered either Esther or Robin. Two thoughts alone were present to her; that Mr Rose was taken, and that John was safe. Now the full sorrow broke on her.
“O Jack, Jack! our Robin!—and Esther, too!”
“Beloved,” said he, his voice trembling, “both are safe with Him who having died for His own that are in the world, loveth them unto the end. There shall not an hair of their heads perish. ‘Of them that thou gavest Me have I lost none.’”
“Who was the other that ’scaped them?”
“A man whose name I knew not,” said John. “Both we stood close to a great closet in the wall, and slid therein noiselessly on the Sheriff’s entering; and by the good providence13 of God, it never came in their heads to open that door. So when they all were gone, and the street quiet, we could go softly down the stairs, and win thence.”
“And where were Robin and Esther?”
“Esther was on the further side of the chamber, by Mistress Sheerson, and Robin stood near Rose at the other end thereof.”
“Was the service over?”
“No. Rose was in the act of giving the bread of the Lord’s Supper.”
Dr Thorpe asked all these questions, and more; Isoult could ask only one. “How shall I tell them?”
The troubles of that night were so many that she could scarcely feel each to the full. She would have sorrowed more for Esther had there not been Robin; and perchance even more for Robin had Mrs Rose’s anguish14 and Thekla’s weighed less upon her.
“Thank God, Thekla was not there!” said John.
The last word had not fallen from his lips when, with no sound to herald15 her coming, Thekla herself stood before them. The light died away from her eyes like the sun under a cloud, and the colour left her lips; yet her voice was calm.
“Then they have taken my father?”
John bowed his head. Her sudden appearing choked his voice, and he could find no words to answer her.
“And Robin?” He bowed his head again.
“Perchance, had I been there, Mr Avery, I had thanked God rather.”
As she said this, one great sob16 escaped her and she, turned round and went back up the stairs without another word. No one made any motion to follow. Her voice would break the tidings best, and this was an agony which none could spare her. In dead silence they sat for nearly half an hour. No sound came from the chamber above, save the soft murmur8 of Thekla’s voice, which could just be heard when they listened for it. Her mother’s voice they did not hear at all.
At last Isoult rose, lighted a candle, and went gently up-stairs. She paused a moment at Mrs Rose’s door. Should she go in, or not? All she could hear was Thekla reading or repeating a verse of Scripture17.
“‘In the world ye shall have tribulation18; but be of good cheer: I have overcome the world.’”
Thekla opened the door while Isoult still stood there.
“Shall I come in, Thekla?”
“I think not, Mrs Avery, but I thank you,” she answered. “She hath not awoke to the full sorrow yet; it is rather a shock, a stun19, than an agony. And who is dead to pain is alike dead to comfort. She will feel it more to-morrow, and then it may be an help unto her to talk with you.”
“And for thee, Thekla, poor child!” said Isoult, sympathisingly.
“For me?” said she, the ghost of a smile flickering20 a moment about her lips. “It may be I have scarce awoke either; but I dare not allow myself to think. I have my mother to comfort and support. If she can sleep at all, then will be my time.”
“And who is to support thee, poor Thekla?” whispered Isoult.
“Mrs Avery,” she answered, the light returning a moment to her eyes, “He that holdeth up heaven and earth can surely hold me up.”
The first thing in the morning, when Isoult rose and went into the nursery, she saw a woman bending over Walter’s crib, with black shining hair that she knew could be on no head but Esther’s.
“Esther, dear heart!” she cried, gladly, “I never was more fain to see a face than thine this morrow.”
She lifted her head and smiled. Ay, certainly it was Esther.
“But how earnest thou safe?” asked Isoult.
“‘Is any thing too hard for the Lord?’” she answered, in her soft, measured voice. “There were more prisoners than Sheriff’s men, and not enough rope to tie us all together; so they marched some of the women last, and untied22. And while we went through a dark alley23, I took mine opportunity to slip aside into a doorway24, the door standing25 open, and there lay I hidden for some hours; and in the midst of the night, ere dawn brake, I crept thence, and gat me to the house of my friend Mistress Little, that I knew would be stirring, by reason that her son was sick: and I rapping on her door and calling to her, she knew my voice, and let me within. So there I abode26 till the gate was opened; and then coming home, Mrs Thekla saw me from her window, and opened to me, not many minutes since.”
“I thank God, that saved thee!” cried Isoult. “Now, Esther, is there any likelihood of Robin escaping likewise?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “if it shall be good in the eyes of the Blessed to work a miracle to that end.”
“Not, I think, with aught less,” answered she. “They tied him and Mr Rose together, and marched them first, the Sheriff himself guarding them.”
Even in this agony there was cause for thankfulness. Mrs Holland was not there, nor Mr Underhill and his wife, nor Mr Ive and Helen, nor Mr Ferris.
When the evening came, Isoult went up to Mrs Rose. She found her, as Thekla said, awake now, and bemoaning29 herself bitterly. Yet the deepest part of her anguish seemed to be that she was left behind. She flung her arms around her friend’s neck, weeping aloud, and spoke30 to her in French (which, or Spanish, she used when her heart was moved), calling her “Isoude, chère soeur” and besought31 her to call her Marguerite.
There was no change in Thekla, nor any tears from her. The next day, the Lord sent them comfort, in the person of Austin Bernher, who came straight from his good work, and told them that he had seen all the prisoners. Mr Rose, they heard with heavy hearts, was in the Tower; a sure omen12 that he was accounted a prisoner of importance, and he was the less likely to be released. Robin was in the Marshalsea: both sent from the Clink, where they were detained at first. Austin spoke somewhat hopefully of Robin, the only charge against him being that brought against all the prisoners, namely, absence from mass and confession33, and presence at the service on New Year’s night; yet he did not hide his conviction that it would have been better for them all had that service been any other than the Lord’s Supper. Isoult asked Austin if he had any hope of Mr Rose.
Both sent a message by Austin.
“Robin’s was,—‘Tell my father and mother, Austin, that I am, it may be, less troubled than they; for I am ready to serve God in what way He will have me; and if this be the way, why, I will walk therein with a light heart and glad. That it hath pleased Him to exalt35 me to this calling, with all mine heart and soul, friend, I thank God! I can go unto the stake as I would to my bridal; and be assured of an happier and blesseder meeting therefor hereafter. Kiss the dear childre for me, and tell them God hath given me some physic that I need, after the which He promiseth me somewhat very sweet.’”
“And none other message, Tremayne?” said Austin, when he paused. “Ay,” resumed he, “one other. ‘Ye now therefore have sorrow; but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.’” Austin did not ask him to whom he should give this; but he showed how well he knew, by waiting till Thekla was present before he gave it.
Afterwards, he told them Mr Rose’s words. “Brethren, the Devil hath so great wrath36, that he must needs know he hath but a short time. Yet for the elect’s sake the days shall be shortened. The trouble shall be very quickly over, and the joy shall be eternal. Our way may be rough; yet shall it not be painful, for we go to God. Jesus Christ hath wrought37 for us everlasting38 righteousness; He now waiteth to see of the travail39 of His soul and to be satisfied. He died for us, with the fearful weight of the wrath of God upon Him; we die for Him, with the sweet and certain hope of eternal life.”
So much was for all the Gospellers; but there were added a few special words for those at the Lamb.
“I ask not Avery and his wife to have a care of my beloved ones,” said he, “for I well know they will. Say only from me to those beloved, that the time is very short, and the glory of God is very near. There shall be no persecution40, no death, no parting, in the presence of the Master, whereunto I go. Bid them come to me; I only pass on a few moments before them. We shall meet at Home.”
“God bless Austin Bernher! He is a Barnabas unto us all—the very son of consolation41.” So wrote Isoult in her diary—and well she might. During the progress of the Marian persecution, no man was more blessed by the victims and mourners than Austin.
Austin came again, four days later, with yet further bad news. Bishop42 Bonner had sent his sumner to lay hands upon Mr Holland’s shop and goods, and Mrs Holland had suffered some ill usage, because she could not, or would not, tell where her husband was gone. They had not, however, apprehended43 her; and for Mr Holland, who was expected to return to London that week, Austin was on the look-out.
“Isoult,” said her husband to her that night, “when this befell, I was about to tell thee that methought I had now laid up a sufficiency of money for our returning to Bradmond. What sayest thou?”
“O Jack! how can we?” cried Isoult. “Could we leave Robin in prison? and could we either forsake44 Mrs Rose and Thekla in their extremity45, or carry them with us into Cornwall? But what is thine own thought?”
“Truly, dear heart,” he answered, “my thought is that the Lord hath spoken to us reasonable plain, and hath said, ‘Tarry where ye are until I bring you word again.’”
“Yes,” said she after a pause; “I think we must.”
“And take for thy comfort, sweeting,” said he tenderly, “one word that hath been much laid upon mine heart of late: ‘I know where thou dwellest, even where Satan’s seat is.’ God’s letters be never wrong directed.”
On the 10th of January, Austin came again, and brought some notes of Mr Rose’s examination before Gardiner. It was plain that Mr Rose had stood forth46 boldly, and braved the Bishop to his face.
“I wonder, my Lord,” said he, “that I should be troubled for that which by the Word of God hath been established, and by the laws of this realm hath been allowed, and by your own writing, so notably48 in your book De Vera Obedientia, confirmed.”
“Ah sirrah, hast thou gotten that?” said the Bishop, who now could not bear to hear of his heretical work.
“But,” continued Austin, “have you heard that my Lady of Suffolk’s Grace is clean escaped?”
“O Austin!” cried Isoult, “tell us all you know touching her.”
“Why,” said he, “it should seem to have been agreed betwixt her Grace and Mr Bertie ere he left England, but none was told save one Master Robert Cranwell, an ancient gentleman of Mr Bertie’s acquaintance, in whom he had great trust. So last New Year, early in the morrow, afore any were stirring, her Grace took her little daughter, and seven of the meanest of her servants, and at four of the clock departed from the Barbican in silence. The Duchess, that was donned like a mean merchant’s wife, through much trouble, came safe to Lyon’s Quay50, where (the morning being misty) the waterman was loth to launch out, yet her Grace persuaded him, and so away rowed they toward Gravesend. I have yet heard with no certainty whither she hath reached; but assuredly she is gone. The Lord keep her safe, and grant her good landing whither He shall see meet to provide the same!”
“Amen, with all mine heart!” said Isoult. “Good Austin, if you hear any further, I would earnestly pray you to do me to wit thereof.”
“That will I,” said he, “and with a very good will.”
The 29th of January was a painful day to the prisoners. Every one of them, from all the prisons, was brought up before the Bishop of Winchester, Dr Gardiner, in his house at Saint Mary Overy, and asked if he would recant. Mr Rose and Robin of course were amongst them. But all answered alike, that “they would stand to what they had believed and taught.” When he heard this, the Bishop raved47 and stormed, and commanded them to be committed to straiter prison than before.
The same day, in the general meeting of the Bishops51 assembled at Lambeth, Cardinal52 Pole reproved some for too much harshness, these doubtless being London and Winchester. Of Cardinal Pole himself people spoke diversely; some saying that he was the gentlest of all the Popish Bishops, and had been known to visit Bishop Bonner’s burnings ere the fire was lighted, and to free all of his own diocese: while others maintained that under the appearance of softness he masked great severity. Old Bishop Tunstal was perhaps the best to deal with; for he “barked the more that he might bite the less.” If a Protestant were brought before him, he would bluster54 and threaten, and end after all in fining the man a few nobles, or locking him up for three days, and similar slight penalties. Worst of all was Bonner: who scourged55 men, ay, and little children, with his own hands, and seemed to revel56 in the blood of the martyrs57. Yet there came a time when even this monster cried out that he was weary of his work. As Bishop of London, said he, he was close under the eyes of the Court, and two there gave him no rest. For those two—King Philip and Dr Gardiner—were never weary. Drunk with the blood of the saints, they yet cried ceaselessly for more; they filled London and the whole land, as Manasseh did Jerusalem, with innocent blood, which the Lord would not pardon.
In the same month, by command of Bishop Bonner, Mr Prebendary Rogers was removed from the Marshalsea to Newgate, and there set among the common felons59. At this time, the worst of all the prisons was Newgate (excepting the Bishop of London’s coal-hole, where Archdeacon Philpot and others were placed); somewhat better was the Marshalsea; still better the Fleet; and easiest of all the Counter, where untried prisoners were commonly kept to await their trial. Alexander, the keeper of Newgate, was wont to go to Bishop Bonner, crying, “Ease my prison! I am too much pestered60 with these heretics.” And then an easement of the prison was made, by the burning of the prisoners.
Men grow not into monsters all at once. It is a gradual proceeding61, though they generally run the faster as they near the end. But the seeds of the very same sin lie in all human hearts, and the very same thing, by the withdrawal62 of God’s Spirit, would take place in all. God’s restraining grace is no less marvellous than His renewing grace. This world would be a den9 of wild beasts but for it.
On the same 29th of January—a black day in the Protestant calendar—Bishop Hooper was condemned64 to death, and also Mr Prebendary Rogers; but with the latter the Bishop said he would yet use charity. “Ay,” observed Mr Rogers to Austin Bernher, “such charity as the fox useth with the chickens.” And such charity it proved. Dr Rowland Taylor of Hadleigh, and Mr Bradford of Manchester, were also adjudged to death: both of whom, by God’s grace, stood firm. But Mr Cardmaker, who was brought to trial with them, and had been a very zealous66 preacher against Romanism, was overcome by the Tempter, recanted, and was led back to prison. Yet for all this he did not save himself. More than once during this persecution, he who loved his life was seen to lose it; and he that hated his life to keep it,—even the lower life of this world.
During this season of trial, Augustine Bernher was almost ubiquitous. On the 29th of January, he brought a letter of which he had been the bearer, from Bishop Hooper to Mr Rose and the others who were taken with him; Mr Rose having desired him to show the letter to his friends. The good Bishop wrote, “Remember what lookers-on you have, God and His angels.” Again, “Now ye be even in the field, and placed in the forefront of Christ’s battle.”
“In very deed, Mrs Avery, no more than I,” replied he; “but I do think God hath set me to this work, seeing He thus guardeth me.”
On January 27, Parliament broke up, having repealed68 all laws against the Pope enacted69 since 1528; and re-enacted three old statutes70 against heresy71, the newest being of the reign72 of Henry the Fifth. And “all speaking against the King or Queen, or moving sedition,” was made treason; for the first offence one ear was to be cut off, or a hundred marks paid; and for the second both ears, or a fine of 100 pounds. The “writer, printer, or cipherer of the same,” was to lose his right hand. All evil prayers (namely, for the Queen’s death) were made treason. The Gospellers guessed readily that this shaft73 was aimed at Mr Rose, who was wont to pray before his sermon, “Lord, turn the heart of Queen Mary from idolatry; or if not so, then shorten her days.”
The Council now released the three sons of the Duke of Northumberland who were yet in the Tower; Lord Ambrose (now Earl of Warwick), Lord Henry, and Lord Robert Dudley; with several others, who had been concerned in Wyatt’s rebellion. Dr Thorpe said bitterly that they lacked room for the Gospellers. The Duchess of Northumberland, mother of these gentlemen, died a few days before their deliverance. Her imprisoned74 sons came forth for her burial.
And before they broke up, Parliament received the Cardinal’s blessing75; only one of eight hundred speaking against it. This was Sir Ralph Bagenall, as Mr Underhill told his friends. Isoult asked him what sort of man he was, and if he were a true Gospeller.
“Gospeller! no, not he!” cried Mr Underhill. “Verily, I know not what religion he professeth; but this know I, that he beareth about in his heart and conversation never a spark of any. He and I were well acquaint once, in my blind days, ere I fell to reading the Scriptures76, and following the preachers. I have sat many a night at the dice77 with him and Miles Partridge, and Busking Palmer—”
“Mr Underhill!” exclaimed Isoult, “knew you Sir Thomas Palmer?”
“Knew him?” said he; “yea, on my word, did I, and have lost many a broad shilling to him, and many a gold noble to boot. Ay,” he pursued, for him very sadly, “there were a parcel of losels (profligates) of us, that swallowed down iniquity78 like water, in that old time. And now—Partridge is dead, and Palmer is dead, and Bagenall is yet as he was then. And wherefore God should have touched the heart of one of the worst of those sinners, named Edward Underhill”—(and he rose, and lifted his cap from his head, as he looked on high)—“Lord, Thou hast mercy on whom Thou wilt79 have mercy!”
Isoult thought she had never heard Mr Underhill speak so solemnly before.
When Dr Thorpe came from the barber’s, on the 4th of February, he looked very thoughtful and pensive80.
“What news abroad, Doctor?” inquired Isoult.
“The first drop of the thunder-shower, child,” he answered. “This morrow Mr Prebendary Rogers was burned in Smithfield.”
“Gramercy!” cried John. “I saw flame shoot up beyond the gate, and I thought there was some fire near Newgate. I never thought of that fire.”
In the evening came Austin, who had been last with the martyr58. Isoult asked him if he suffered much.
“I would say, no,” replied he. “He died very quietly, washing his hands in the flame as it rose. His wife and his eleven childre (one born sithence he was put in prison) met him in his last journey.”
“God help them, poor souls!” cried Isoult.
“When Sheriff Woodroofe said he was an heretic,” pursued he, “he said, ‘That shall be known at the Day of Judgment81.’ Then said he, ‘I will never pray for thee.’ ‘But I will pray for you,’ he answered. He sang Miserere by the way, and refused the pardon which was offered him.”
“Is it very fearful, Austin,” said Isoult, “to see any burn?”
“Only not so,” he answered, his face changing, “when you think of the Home whereto they are going, and of the glorious welcome which Christ the King shall give them.”
“And what think you?” said John. “Shall there be yet more burnings, or is this merely to strike terror, and shall stand alone?”
“I think,” replied he, “nor am I alone in my thought,—that it is the first drop of the thunder-storm.”
Isoult was struck by his use of the very words of Dr Thorpe.
“Ill times these,” remarked Mr Underhill, entering the Lamb, ten days later.
“Ill, in very sooth,” said Dr Thorpe. “It shall take us the rest of this month to get over the burning of Mr Rogers.”
“Marry, is that all you know!” said Mr Underhill, standing and looking round. “You live a marvellous quiet life; thank God for it.”
“What mean you?” cried Mrs Rose, springing to her feet.
“Sit down, Mrs Rose, sit down,” said he, gently. “I am sorry I frighted you—there was no need. But is it possible you know not, all, that Mr Lawrence Saunders of All Hallows hath been burned at Coventry, and Bishop Hooper at Gloucester?”
“Bishop Hooper!” cried all the voices together.
“Ay,” replied he, “or so was to be, five days gone; and this day is Bishop Ferrar departed toward Saint David’s, where he also shall die.”
They sat silent from very horror.
At last John said, “Methinks there shall be some stir among the angels at such a time.”
“Among the devils, I should think,” answered Mr Underhill. “There be no particular tidings yet; but when Austin cometh to London we shall hear all. They say, moreover, Mr Bradford shall die ere long; and, for all his turning, Mr Cardmaker.”
“The fiends!” cried Dr Thorpe. “If they will rob a man of Heaven, they might leave him earth!”
“Friend,” said John, softly, “they can rob the most of us of earth, but they must leave us Heaven.”
When the ladies retired82, Isoult asked Mrs Rose why she was so pale and heavy-eyed. The tears sprang to her eyes.
“O Isoult!” cried she, “since the burning of Mr Rogers I have scarcely slept at all. And when I do sleep—” she shuddered83, and turned away her head.
“Hermana mia (my sister), I see him—and the fire.”
She did not mean Mr Rogers.
The party gathered on Ash Wednesday at Mr Underhill’s house in Wood Street, where Austin Bernher was come with news; and Mr Underhill desiring to know all, had asked his friends from the Lamb to come and hear also; yet he dared not ask more than those from one house, lest the bloodhounds should get scent84 of it, and mischief85 should ensue.
So Austin told all the horrible story; for a horrible story it was. He was not at Mr Saunders’ burning, but he had seen some one who told him particulars of it. To the Bishop of London, who degraded him, Saunders said, “I thank God I am none of your Church.” And when he came to the stake, he embraced and kissed it, saying, “Welcome the cross of Christ! Welcome everlasting life!” And so “being fastened to the stake, and fire put to him, full sweetly he slept in the Lord.” (Foxe, Acts and Monuments, Pratt’s Townshend’s edition, six, 428.)
But Austin himself was at Gloucester, where Bishop Hooper suffered his passion. “A passion indeed,” said he, “for I think never man was burned that had more pains of death. Afore he went into the fire, the gentle Bishop lift up his hands, and said, ‘Lord, I am Hell, but Thou art Heaven!’ And ‘Strengthen me, of Thy goodness, that in the fire I break not the rules of patience; or else assuage86 the terror of the pains, as shall seem most to Thy glory.’ And God did strengthen him, for he was patience herself, though the wood laid to him was all green, and the wind blew the fire away from him, so that he was long dying, and had an hard death. It was a lowering, cold morning, and the fire first kindled87 went out, having only touched his lower half. You have seen him, and know how high of stature88 he was. But he said only, in a mild voice, ‘O Jesus, Son of David! have mercy upon me, and receive my soul.’ Then they fetched fresh faggots, but that fire was spent also. He did but say softly, ‘For God’s love, good people, let me have more fire.’ This was the worst his agony could wring89 from him. The third fire kindled was more extreme, and reached at last the barrels of gunpowder90. Then, when he saw the flame shoot up toward them, he cried, ‘Lord Jesus, have mercy upon me! Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!’ And so, bowing forward his head, he died at last as quietly as a child in his bed.” (Note 1.)
“O Austin, how frightful91!” cried Isoult: and though she said no more, she wondered secretly if that would ever be the case with her.
“On his way to the stake,” resumed Austin, “they essayed to make him turn. Saith Sir Anthony Kingston unto him, ‘Life is sweet, and death bitter.’ ‘Truth, friend,’ quoth the Bishop; ‘yet is the death to come more bitter, and the life to come more sweet.’”
“He hath found it so ere now,” said John, softly.
“But have you,” pursued Austin, “heard of Dr Taylor’s burning?”
“Not of the inwards thereof,” answered Mr Underhill, “only of the act.”
“Well,” said Austin, “when Bishop Bonner came to degrade him, quoth the Bishop, ‘I wish you would remember yourself, and turn to your mother, holy Church.’ Then said Dr Taylor, ‘I wish you and your fellows would turn to Christ. As for me, I will not turn to Antichrist.’ And at the first, when he come afore my Lord Keeper (Bishop Gardiner), quoth he—‘Art thou come, thou villain92? How darest thou look me in the face for shame? Knowest thou not who I am?’ with a great and big voice. Then said Dr Taylor, ‘Yes, I know who you are. Ye are Dr Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, and Lord Chancellor93; and yet but a mortal man, I trow. But if I should be afraid of your lordly looks, why fear you not God, the Lord of us all? How dare ye for shame look any Christian94 man in the face, seeing ye have forsaken95 the truth, denied our Saviour96 Christ and His Word, and done contrary to your own oath and writing?’ with more to the same end.”
“My word on’t,” saith Dr Thorpe, “but yonder is a jolly hearing. I am right glad my Lord Chancellor got so well swinged!”
“Suffered Dr Taylor much, Austin?” asked Isoult.
“I trow not,” answered he. “When he came nigh Hadleigh, the Sheriff asked him how he did. Quoth he, ‘Well, God be praised, good Master Sheriff, never better; for now I know I am almost at home. I lack not past two stiles to go over, and I am even at my Father’s house.’ He was a very tall and great man, with long snow-white beard and head; and he stood in the fire with his hands folded, and never moved nor spake, till one struck him on the head with a halberd (I know not whether it were in malice97 or in compassion) and he fell down dead into the midst of the fire.”
“Well!” said Dr Thorpe, “I will tell you a thing: I would my gossips had named me any thing but Stephen.”
“There was a Stephen the first martyr,” suggested Austin; “comfort you with that remembrance.”
“Verily,” answered he; “yet I love not to be called the name which Satan hath chose for himself on his incarnation.”
One thing strange to human, reason is worthy98 of note, as showing the good hand of our God upon those who suffered for Him. In the case of the majority of these martyrs, those who had the fear of physical suffering had not the suffering. Ridley and Hooper bore themselves bravely, and knew no terror; and they endured awful anguish at the last. But Archbishop Cranmer, who at first held back for fear, uttered no cry in the fire; Latimer, who did not hold back, yet trembled at what he had to pass through, died to all appearance without pain. Most marvellous of all was the case of Lawrence Saunders, the gentle Rector of All Hallows, a man of delicate feeling, who shrank from the bitter cup, yet drank it off bravely for Christ’s sake. And Christ failed him not, but carried him in His own arms over the dark river; for no sooner was he chained to the stake than a deep sleep from God fell upon him, and he never woke to feel the fire at all, but slept sweetly as a child while his body was consuming. “Is any thing too hard for the Lord?”
When Isoult and Thekla came in from the market one morning in March, Dr Thorpe, who sat in the chimney-corner, asked them to go up to Mrs Rose.
“Yon dolt99 Carter hath been hither,” said he, “and sat with her half an hour; and from what I heard since over mine head, I am afeard he gave her to wit some ill news, for she hath been sobbing100 ever since his departing. Go you and comfort her.”
Thekla was up the stairs in a moment; and Isoult followed. Mr Carter (a fictitious101 person) was the clergyman who had stepped into Mr Rose’s place of minister to the Gospellers’ gatherings102, when they dared to hold them; a good man, but very cold and harsh.
“O Thekla! Isoult!” cried Mrs Rose when they came in. “Am I so very wicked as Mr Carter saith me to be?”
Poor soul! she had been weeping bitterly.
“If you be very wicked, dear Marguerite,” said Isoult, “you have hidden it from me hitherto. But what saith Mr Carter?”
“He saith that I love my husband too much, and it is idolatry, which God will punish; and (ay de mi!) I ought not to grieve for him, but rather rejoice that he is called unto the high honour of martyrdom. M’amie, c’est impossible! And he saith that by such sinful and extravagant104 grieving, I shall call down on me, and on him also, the great displeasure of God. He saith God alway taketh away idols105, and will not suffer idolatry in His people. It is an abominable106 sin, which He hateth; and we ought to pray to be kept from loving overmuch. Ça peut-il être, ma soeur? Que digas, niña?” (What sayest thou, child?)
Isoult looked at Thekla in dismay; for this was a new doctrine107 to her, and a very unpleasant one. Thekla’s lip trembled, and her eyes flashed, but she did not speak; so Isoult answered herself: for poor Mrs Rose’s wailings in French and Spanish showed that she was sorely troubled.
“Well, dear Marguerite,” said she, “if it be thus, I fear I am to the full as guilty as thou. I never prayed in all my life to be kept from loving Jack or my childre overmuch. I thought in mine ignorance that I was bound to love them as much as ever I could. Doth not Scripture tell us to love our neighbour as ourself?”
“Ay,” answered Mrs Rose, sobbing again, “and so I said to Mr Carter; but he answered that I loved him more than myself, because I did say I would rather to have died than he; and that was wicked, and idolatry.”
Thekla knelt down, and passed her arm round her mother, drawing her to herself, till Mrs Rose’s head lay upon her bosom108.
“Mother,” she said, “whatsoever109 Mr Carter or any other shall say, I dare say that this is not God’s Gospel. There is an whole book of Scripture written to bid us love; but I never yet fell in with any to bid us hate. Nay110, Mother dear, the wrong is not, assuredly, that we love each other too much, but only that we love God too little.”
“Thekla, thou art God’s best gift to me!” said Mrs Rose, drying her eyes, and kissing her. “It made me so miserable111, mi querida (my darling—literally, my sought-for one), to think that God should be displeased112 with him because I loved him too much.”
“I wish Mr Carter would keep away!” answered Thekla, her eyes flashing anew. “If he hath no better Gospel than this to preach to God’s tried servants, he might as well tarry at home.”
“But, hija mia (my daughter)! thou knowest God’s Word so well!—tell me an other, if there be, to say whether it is wrong to grieve and sorrow when one is troubled. I do not think God meaneth to bid us do what we cannot do; and I cannot help it.”
“Methinks, dear Mother,” said Thekla, more quietly, “that Mr Carter readeth his Bible upside down. He seemeth to read Saint Paul to say that no chastening for the present is grievous, but joyous113. An unmortified will is one thing; an unfeeling heart an other. God loveth us not to try to shake off His rod like a wayward and froward child; but He forbiddeth us not to moan thereunder when the pain wringeth it from us. And it may be the moan soundeth unto other at times that which it is not. He knoweth. He shall not put our tears into the wrong bottle, nor set down the sum of our groans114 in the wrong column of His book. Hezekiah should scantly115 be told ‘I have seen thy tears,’ if he did very evil in shedding them; nor Moses twice over, ‘I have seen, I have seen the affliction of My people, and am come down to deliver them,’ if they had sinned in being afflicted116. When God wipeth away all tears from our eyes, shall He do it as some do with childre—roughly, shaking the child, and bidding it have done? ‘Despise not thou the chastening of the Lord’ cometh before ‘faint not when thou art rebuked117 of Him.’”
“Of a truth, I never could abide118 to see any so use a child,” said Isoult, innocently; “but, Thekla, sweet heart, it should as little serve to run unto the further extremity, and give all that a babe should cry for.”
“Were that love at all?” said Thekla; “unless it were the mother’s love for herself, and her own ease.”
Isoult saw that Mrs Rose seemed comforted, and Thekla was well able to comfort, so she gently withdrew. But when she came down-stairs, John having now returned, she asked him and Dr Thorpe to tell her their opinions.
“My thought is,” replied Dr Thorpe, “that the fellow knoweth not his business. He must have cold blood in his veins119, as a worm hath. I might search the Decalogue a great while ere I came to his two commandments—‘Thou shalt not sorrow,’ and ‘Thou shalt not love thy neighbour any better than thyself.’”
“I have little patience with such doctrines120, and scantly with such men,” said John. “They would ‘make the heart of the righteous sad, whom God hath not made sad.’ They show our loving and merciful Father as an harsh, stern ruler, ‘an austere121 man,’ meting122 out to His servants no more joy nor comfort than He can help. For joy that is put on is not joy. If it arise not of itself, ’tis not worth having. Paul saith, ‘As sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing;’ but that joy showeth not alway in the face: and Father Carter hath forgot the first half. I do believe (as I have said to thee, dear heart, ere now) that God taketh more pleasure to see His people joyful123 than sorrowful; but He never taketh pleasure, sure am I, to see them make up an hypocrite’s face, and fall to dancing, when their hearts are like to break. Why, sweeting! thou lovest rather to see Frank happy than woeful; but dost thou therefore desire her to smother125 her tears, and force a smile, rather than come and lodge126 her little troubles with thee? Nay, rather do I believe that to do such were to insult God. I could tell thee of that I have seen, where I do verily believe that pride, and naught127 else—that abominable sin that God hateth—kept His afflicted child up, and smirking128 with a false smile over the breaking heart; and no sooner was that self-righteous pride subdued129, and the child brake forth into open sobbing,—crying, ‘Father, Thy rod doth hurt, and I have been a fool!’—no sooner, I say, was this confession made, than God threw away His rod, and took His humbled130 child to His heart. Dear heart, when God taketh His rod in hand, He meaneth us to feel it. Methinks a man that can speak to one in such trouble as Mrs Rose, as Father Carter hath spoken, hath not himself known neither much love, neither much sorrow, neither much of God.”
Bishop Ferrar was burnt in Wales on the 30th of March. Soon after this, the Queen declared her intention of restoring all the suppressed lands to the Church; nor was she content with that, but plainly intimated that she desired her nobles to follow where she had paved the way. The old Earl of Bedford had but lately died—he who said that he held his sweet Abbey of Woburn worth more than all the fatherly counsels, that could come from Rome; but comparatively few of the Lords followed her Majesty131 in this matter.
On the 4th of April, the Queen took her chamber at Hampton Court. The Papists made great rejoicing over the young master for whom they hoped, but the Gospellers were very sorrowful, seeing that he would take precedence of the Lady Elizabeth, in whom after God was all their hope; and also that he would unquestionably be brought up a Papist. During the last evening in April came news that a Prince was born, and through all London there were ringing of bells and bonfires. But the next day came contrary tidings. God had written next upon the Crown of England the name of Queen Elizabeth, and no power less than His own could change that label.
Early in May, Isoult went alone to market, which was not her custom; and coming back along Cornhill, she suddenly heard a voice say,—“Is it not Mrs Barry?”
Wondering who could thus recognise her who was not also aware of her marriage, she looked up into the face of a handsome, courtly gentleman, splendidly apparelled.
“Sir,” said she, “I pray you of your pardon; I am Isoult Barry, but I am not so fortunate as to know your name.”
“Do you not so?” replied he, and he smiled.
And when he smiled, Isoult thought she knew him.
“Is it Mr James Basset?” said she.
“Truly so,” answered he; “and I am very glad of thus meeting you. I cry you mercy for wrongly naming you, but in very deed I have forgot your present name. Dwell you hereabout?”
Isoult told him her name, and that she lived near London, yet not in the City; but she did not give her exact address.
“I trust we may be better acquainted,” said he, “and that I may find in you (as I cast no doubt) a woman faithful unto God and the Queen’s Grace.”
The terrible peril132 in which she stood stared her all at once in the face. James Basset was a gentleman of the chamber, and “a stout133 Papist.”
“Sir,” said she, “I would be right sorry to be less.”
“Of that I am well assured,” replied he. “Saw you of late my sister?”
Isoult answered that she had not seen Philippa lately; and he, bowing low, bade our Lady keep her, and departed. Isoult came home trembling like an aspen leaf. She knew well that, did his faith come into question, ties of friendship would have little weight with James Basset.
The next morning brought Philippa Basset.
“Well,” said she, “Isoult, so thou fellest in with my brother James yesterday?”
“I did so,” answered Isoult, rather shortly.
“He told me so much,” pursued she; “and said he had forgot to ask where thou dwelledst. So I told him.”
Isoult drew her breath hard.
“I know not whether to thank you for that, Mrs Basset,” observed John.
Philippa began to laugh.
“Do you take me for a fool, both of you?” said she. “Or for worse—a traitor134? If I be a Catholic, yet am I a woman, not a stone. I told him you dwelt on the thither135 side of Lambeth. You have nought136 to fear from me. If all the Gospellers in the world were wrapped up in thy single person, Isoult, none should ever lay hand on an hair of thine head by means of Philippa Basset. Yea, though mine own life were the forfeit,—’tis not worth much to any now.”
“I thank thee dearly for thy love, sweet Philippa,” said Isoult, “but I hardly know how to thank thee for lying.
“’Twere a venial137 sin, I am assured,” said she, lightly. “Why, dear heart! James would burn thee in Smithfield as soon as eat his dinner!”
About a fortnight passed uneventfully—a rare occurrence in the year 1555. But as it was growing dusk on the 21st of May, there was a quick rap at the door, and Mr Underhill hastily entered.
“Coming from the light, I may scantly see who is here,” said he; “but I wish to speak quickly with Mrs Rose—Mrs Thekla, I mean.”
Mrs Rose and Isoult were sitting in the little chamber. The latter rose to call Thekla.
“What for Thekla?” asked her mother, earnestly. “Can you not tell me, Mr Underhill? Is there some evil news for me?”
“I knew not you were here till I heard you speak, Mrs Rose,” he answered, in the gentle manner in which he always spoke to her. “Well, I suppose you may as well know it first as last. Your husband is ordered to Norwich for examination, and shall set forth this even. He shall pass the postern in half an hour, and I came to tell Mrs Thekla, if she desired to speak with him, she should come at once with me.”
“To Norwich!” cried poor Mrs Rose, “what for to Norwich?”
“I know not,” said Mr Underhill; “is he Norfolk-born?”
“He was born at Exmouth,” she answered; “is Exmouth in Norfolk?”
“Nay, surely,” said Isoult; “’tis in Devon, as I well know.”
“Then what for Norwich?” she said again. “But, Mr Underhill! you take Thekla—and you take not me?”
“I cannot, Mrs Rose,” said he; “your peril—”
“What care I for my peril?” she cried, passionately138.
“Doth he belong to them? or doth he belong only to Thekla? Let me go, Mr Underhill! He is mine—mine—mine! Mi alma, mi bien (my soul, my own)! I will go, if it be the last sight of him! Who shall let me?”
“Marry, I would, if I could,” said Mr Underhill, under his voice. “Mrs Avery, what am I to do?” and he looked helplessly at Isoult.
“Leave me to speak to her, Mr Underhill,” she answered. “Dear sister Marguerite, remember Mr Rose is not yet condemned: and there is the shadow of hope that he may not be so. But if they can prove him to have been in your company, that hope will perish. Will you go, knowing that?”
Mrs Rose had knelt down by the table, and buried her head in her hands upon it. She gave no answer save a low, deep moan of unutterable anguish.
“Seigneur, pour combien de temps regarderas-tu cela?”
“Go, Mr Underhill,” said Isoult, softly. “If I know her, she will not follow.”
Mr Underhill hurried Thekla away.
It was an hour before they came back. Mrs Rose had gone up-stairs, and Isoult sat alone in the chimney-corner. She heard the latch lifted, and Mr Underhill’s voice bidding Thekla good-night. He was not returning with her. Then her soft step came forward. She paused as soon as she entered the chamber.
“Who is here?” she said, under her breath.
“It is I, Thekla,” answered Isoult. “Thy mother is above, dear heart; I am alone.”
“I am glad of that.”
And she came forward to the hearth139, where suddenly she flung herself down on her knees, and buried her face in Isoult’s lap.
“I cannot see her just now!” she said in a choked voice. “I must be over mine own agony ere I can bear hers. O Mrs Avery! he is so white, and worn, and aged140! I hardly knew him till he smiled on me!”
And laying down her head again, she broke forth into sobbing—such a very passion of woe124, as Isoult had never heard before from the lips of Thekla Rose. Then in a little while—for she did not check her, only smoothed down her hair lovingly—Thekla lifted her head again, and her first gushing141 of pain seemed over.
“The Sheriff was good to me,” she whispered. “Mr Underhill said, ‘Would it please you of your gentleness, to stay your prisoner five minutes? Here is his daughter that would speak with him.’ And he stayed, and gave us leave to speak—more than five minutes.”
She dried her eyes, and smoothed back her hair.
“Now,” she said, “I can go to her.”
“God go with you, my poor child!” answered Isoult Thekla paused a moment before she set her foot on the stairs. “I feel,” she said, “as if I wanted Him very near to-night.”
On Thursday, the 30th of May, Cardmaker and Warne were burned in Smithfield. And on the 10th of June, in the same place, died John Bradford, saying he should have a merry supper with the Lord that night.
Four days afterwards came Austin Bernher.
“How do you all?” asked he.
“Marry, I shall do better when I know whence you come,” said poor Mrs Rose, lifting her heavy eyes.
“Then I come from Norwich,” saith he, “and, I hope, with good news. Mr Rose hath been examined twice afore the Bishop, the last day of this last month, and the seventh of this, but is not yet sentenced. He is kept in the Green Yard, next the Cathedral; and the charge against him is that he hath held and defended in public that in the Eucharist, or Sacrament of the Altar, the true, natural, and real body of Christ, and the true, natural, and real blood of Christ, under the espèce of bread and wine, be not in verity53; but that after consecration142, the substance of bread and wine remaineth; and that whoso shall adore that substance shall commit idolatry, and shall give Divine honour unto a creature of God. And then he was asked but one question, ‘Whether you will be obedient to the laws of the Catholic Church, whereof the Church of England is a member?’ This was in the indictment143; but the Bishop talked with him no little, and saith unto him, ‘You have preached (quoth he) that the presence of Christ is not in the sacrament. What say you to that?’ ‘Verily, I say,’ Mr Rose answered, ‘that you are a bloody144 man, and seek to quench145 your thirst in the blood of an innocent. I have so preached,’ saith he, ‘yea, and I will so preach again.’”
“Gramercy!” cried Isoult.
“Ay, he was bold enough,” said Austin. “Well, after examination, afore I set forth, come to me my old Lord of Sussex, and that gentle knight146 Sir William Woodhouse, who told me they meant to see Mr Rose, and to do whatsoever they might in his behalf. And a word in your ear: the Queen is very, very grievous sick. My Lord of Sussex, and other likewise, have told me that the Bishops dare not sentence more heretics. They think Mr Rose shall have a lighter147 sentence than death—imprisonment148 it may be. But until they see how the Queen shall fare, they be sore afraid.”
“They were not afeard to burn Mr Bradford,” suggested Isoult.
“Truth,” he answered. “But he, you see, was already sentenced. Mrs Avery, there is one thing I must needs tell you, and I pray you, let me get the same out ere Mrs Thekla come in. I am sore diseased touching Mr Tremayne.”
“For Robin!” she cried. “Austin, have they sentenced him?”
“I know not what they have done unto him,” saith he, “and that is the very truth. He is no longer in the Marshalsea. They have carried him thence some whither, and I, which am alway rambling149 up and down the realm, have not yet discovered whither. Trust me, you shall know as soon as I.”
Early in the morning, six days afterwards, before all were down, and Isoult herself had but just descended150 the stairs, there came a hasty rap, and in ran Austin.
“Where is Mrs Rose?” said he. “I have good news for her.”
“O Austin! is Mr Rose sentenced?” said Isoult, when she had called Mrs Rose.
“Ay,” he answered, “but to no worse than imprisonment in his lodging151. It is as I told you—the Bishops dare not act. And Sir William Woodhouse, being present, maketh offer (under the Bishop’s leave) to keep Mr Rose in his house, seeing he had no lodging in Norwich. Whereto the Bishop assents152, but that he should come up when called for. Sir William therefore taketh him away, and at the very next day sendeth him thence. I cannot tell you where: Sir William will tell none. Only this I know; he is to be passed secretly from hand to hand, until means be had to convey him over seas. And now my Lord of Norwich is come to London, and shall not be back for nigh a month; in which time Mr Rose may win far enough ere he be bidden.—Why, Mrs Rose! is it matter for weeping?”
“I think it is for weeping, Austin, but not for sorrow,” said Isoult.
“One word, Augustine,” said Mrs Rose, drying her eyes. “Whither shall they take him over seas?”
“In your ear, then,” said he. “To Calais, to Mr Stevens, whence he shall be passed again through France, until he reach Geneva.”
“Then I go thither,” answered she.
“Softly, Mrs Rose!” said Austin, doubtfully. “You must not, methinks, stir out of the realm; a great mischief might ensue. They should guess presently that whither you went would he go.”
“But what can I do?” she said plaintively153.
“‘Wait on the Lord,’” softly answered Isoult.
July brought a little respite154 to the horrible slaughter155. In the beginning of August, came Austin, and with him Mr Underhill.
“There is somewhat merry news from Norwich,” cried Mr Underhill. “My Lord the Bishop, returned thither, summons Rose afore his saintly presence: who is no whither to be found. Whereupon my Lord sendeth for a wizard, and in his holiness biddeth him consult with the infernal powers touching the whereabout of the prisoner. Who answereth that Rose is gone over the water, and is in keeping of a woman. Wherein he spake sooth, though maybe he knew it not; for Rose at that very minute lay hidden in the mean cottage of a certain godly woman, and had to ford65 more rivers than one to win thither. So my Lord the Bishop, when he gets his answer of the Devil, flieth at the conclusion that Rose is gone over seas, and is safe in Germany, and giveth up all looking for him. Wherefore, for once in our lives, we may thank the Devil.”
“Nay, good Ned,” said Jack; “we will thank the living God (this phrase was another symbolum hereticorum), that did overrule both the Bishop and the Devil.”
“And what of Robin?” said Isoult.
“Mrs Avery, I am puzzled and bewildered as I never was before,” replied Austin. “I cannot find him.”
A week later, when the dusk had fallen, but John had not yet come home, and Dr Thorpe and Isoult sat alone in the chamber, a quick footstep approached the door.
“What he! is the door locked?” cried Mr Underhill’s voice outside.
Barbara ran and let him in.
“Where is Mrs Rose?” was his first question.
“Above,” said Isoult. “Is there news for her?”
“Good,” said he, without replying: “and Mrs Thekla?”
“Above likewise.”
“Let her stay there a moment. But tell her (whenas you can without her mother’s ears) that her father is in London again, in the keeping of Speryn, my wife’s brother; and there she may see him. Tell her to come to my house, and I or my wife shall go with her to the other. But she must not tarry in coming, for we hope to have him away to Calais on Tuesday night.”
And away he went.
Mrs Rose was not told a word; but Thekla saw her father before he left England. Then he was passed secretly across the Channel, and on Rysbank Mr Stevens met him, and took him to his house. The next day he was sent away to Boulogne, and so on to Paris, always in the keeping of Huguenots, and thence to Lyons, and so to Switzerland.
On the 26th of August, the King set out for Spain, the Queen going with him as far as Greenwich, where she remained, and the Princess Elizabeth with her.
The respite from the slaughter was short; and it was only the enemy’s breathing-time for a more terrible onslaught. The next entry in Isoult’s diary ran thus:—
“By Austin Bernher woeful news is come. My Lord Archbishop, that stood so firm for God’s truth—that was already doomed156 for his faithfulness—that all we have so loved, and honoured, and mourned—Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, is fallen away from Christ, and hath recanted and rejected the truth by which he stood so firm. I knew never any thing that so cut me to the heart after this sort, sithence Sir Will Smith’s recanting at Calais. Surely, surely, Christ will rescue this His sheep from the jaws157 of the wolf whereinto he is fallen! Of them whom the Father hath given Him, can He lose this one?”
Mr Underhill came in on the 19th of October strangely sad and pensive for him.
“Have you the news this even?” said he.
“What news?” inquired John. “Is it death or life?”
“It is martyrdom,” he answered, solemnly. “Is that death, or life?”
His manner fairly frightened Isoult. She was afraid lest he should have come to give them dreadful tidings of Robin; or, it might be, that Mr Rose had been recaptured on his journey through France.
“O Mr Underhill!” she cried, tremblingly, “pray you, the name of the martyr?”
It was neither Mr Rose’s nor Robin’s. But no name, short of those two, would have thrilled to her heart straighter than the other two he gave.
He said, “Nicholas Ridley, and Hugh Latimer.”
Note 1. If the reader think this narrative158 horrible, let him know that all the worst details have been omitted. They are written in God’s book in letters of fire, and shall not be forgotten in the day when He maketh up His jewels.
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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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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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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10
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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16
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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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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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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32
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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33
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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34
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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35
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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36
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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37
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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38
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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39
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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40
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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41
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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42
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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43
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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44
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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45
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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46
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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47
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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48
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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49
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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50
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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51
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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52
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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53
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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54
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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55
scourged
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| 鞭打( scourge的过去式和过去分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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56
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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57
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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58
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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59
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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60
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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62
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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63
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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64
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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66
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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67
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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68
repealed
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| 撤销，废除( repeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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71
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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72
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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73
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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74
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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76
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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77
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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78
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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79
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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80
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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81
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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82
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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83
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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84
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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85
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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86
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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87
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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88
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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89
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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90
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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91
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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92
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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93
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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94
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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95
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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96
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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97
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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98
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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99
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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100
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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101
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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102
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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103
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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104
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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105
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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106
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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107
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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108
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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109
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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110
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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111
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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112
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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113
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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114
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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115
scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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116
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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119
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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120
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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121
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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122
meting
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的现在分词 ) | |
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123
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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124
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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125
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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126
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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127
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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128
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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129
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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130
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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131
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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132
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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134
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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135
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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136
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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137
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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138
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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139
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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140
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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141
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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142
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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143
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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144
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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145
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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146
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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147
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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148
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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149
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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150
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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151
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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152
assents
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| 同意，赞同( assent的名词复数 ) | |
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153
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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154
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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155
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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156
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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157
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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158
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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