Nor mother, wife, nor England’s counted Queen.”
Shakespeare.
Few hours had been tolled2 on the great clock of Saint Paul’s, or had rung across the water from the Tower guns, ere England knew what was the vengeance3 to be taken. Once more royal blood was shed upon Tower Hill; once more England stooped to commit murder at the dictation of a foreign power. The white dove was sacrificed.
About ten o’clock on the morning of the 12th of February, Lord Guilford Dudley was beheaded on Tower Hill. It is plain that he died a Protestant, seeing that no priest was present at his death. And like the fiends they were, his executioners brought him, both going to the scaffold, and his dead body in returning, past the windows of Partridge’s house, where his poor young wife had her lodging5. They let her—that tender bird of seventeen short summers—from her chamber6 lattice see all the horror she could see, and feel all the agony she could feel; and then they brought her forth7, to die also.
Calmly and quietly, as though she had been going to her forfeited8 throne, she came forth to her death. And she was going to her throne. For she was one of Christ’s martyrs9, and sat upon His throne with Him.
She spoke10 very little on the scaffold; only saying that “though she had consented unto the setting up of herself against the Queen’s Highness, yet was she innocent of all procurement11 or desire thereof: and that she died a true Christian12 woman, looking for eternal life unto the passion of Jesus Christ only, and to none other; and she thanked God, that had given her space to repent14; for when she was younger, and did know the word of God, she had neglected the same, and had loved her own self and the world.” And then she said to Dr Feckenham, “Shall I say this Psalm15?”
Feckenham—a man of the Jesuitical type, renowned16 for the softness and sweetness of his manners—bowed assent18. Then the victim prayed through the Fifty-first Psalm, and prepared herself for the sacrifice. The hangman knelt down and asked her forgiveness: she replied, “Most willingly,” and “I pray you, despatch19 me quickly. Will you take it off before I lay me down?” Poor child! The executioner was the one who dealt with her most gently and respectfully. He said, “No, Madam.” So she handed her gloves to one of her women, and her book to Sir John Bridges, and tied the handkerchief over her eyes. Feeling about with her hands for the block, she said,—“What shall I do? Where is it? Where is it?” One of the bystanders guided her hand to it. Then she laid down her head; and saying, “Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!” her head fell with one stroke. She was out of Philip’s way now. And the angels of God, for whose company she exchanged a society somewhat less angelic, were not so likely to account her in their way.
A fearful day was that from dawn to dusk. Half an hour after the execution of Lady Jane, Lord Courtenay (but a few days before made Earl of Devon) was brought into the Tower; he would not declare the cause of his coming there, saying he could not tell; “but,” added he, “let the world judge.” All the evening the noise of hammers was going in the City, for the gallows21 were set up everywhere. There was one at every gate of the City, and at the bridge-foot one; four in Southwark, one at Leadenhall two in Cheapside, six or eight in Fleet Street and Charing22 Cross—nor were these all.
Throughout London all the prisons were so full that the less important prisoners were kept in the churches, by eighty in a group. Dr Thorpe said, “If they hang all the Queen’s subjects, there will be small fear of a new rebellion.” Men greeted each other fearfully, scarcely knowing if they should ever meet again. But the worst fears of all were awakened23 for the Archbishop, Bishop24 Ridley, and Mr Latimer, within the Tower, and for Mr Rose outside it. On the 15th of February, Isoult Avery wrote in her diary—
“In Southwark all this day were the gallows at work, till I am sick at heart for every sound I hear. The gallows at Aldgate, I thank God, cannot be seen from our windows, being hid by the gate. If it could, I scantly25 know what should come of us. I dare not go forth of the door, lest I meet some awful sight that I may not forget to my dying day.
“God Himself showeth His displeasure by fearful sights from Heaven. Two suns should this morrow be seen in the sky, and this even was a rainbow over London, turned the diverse way, the arch on the ground, and the points on high. I dare not think what shall come next, either on earth or in Heaven, unless Christ Himself (that scarce ever was more wanted) would rend27 the heavens and come down to save us. Yea, Amen, Lord Jesus, come Thou quickly!”
But no sign of the Son of Man flashed on that weary land. Not yet was accomplished28 the number of the elect; and until the last sheep was gathered into the fold, there could be no hastening of the kingdom.
The execution of Lady Jane’s father quickly followed her own. He died, as men of his stamp often do, better than he had lived. The “subjection to bondage29 from fear of death,” in which he had spent his trembling life, vanished before death came to him. Boldly and bravely this timid, shrinking soul stood forth at the last, telling all the world that he died in the faith of Christ, “trusting to be saved by His blood only, and by no other trumpery30.” Strange words from one of the weakest men that ever lived!—yet it is the special characteristic of Christ’s strength that it is “made perfect in weakness.” It may be chiefly when His children come to die that they understand the full meaning of that passage, “He hath abolished death.” For our faith, as it has been said, is a religion of paradoxes31. Strength, whose perfection lies in weakness,—life, which is founded upon a death—glory, which springs out of shame and suffering. When the Twelve heard that, to draw all men unto Him, the Master should be lifted up from the earth, it probably never dawned upon their minds that the scene of that exaltation was to be the cross. News that made men tremble came before the end of February. The Lady Elizabeth had been summoned to Court—was it for life or death?—and Bishop Bonner had issued a commission of inquiry32 concerning all in his diocese, with orders to present all persons who had failed to frequent auricular confession33 and the mass. Many fell away in this time of temptation—Sir William Cecil (afterwards Lord Burleigh) and his wife Mildred, amongst others. The Duchess of Suffolk held on her way unwavering. Annis Holland’s second letter, which had been delayed, reached Isoult Avery in the beginning of March.
“Unto my right entirely35 beloved friend, Mistress Avery, that dwelleth at the sign of the Lamb, in the Minories, next without Aldgate, beside London, be these delivered.
“My Very well beloved Isoult,—My most hearty36 and loving commendations remembered unto thee. Sithence my last writing have I made a most woeful discovery, the which I would almost I had not done. But thou shalt know the same.
“An even of late, I was alone in my chamber sewing, having sent Maria forth to buy certain gear I lacked. And being so alone, I began to sing lowly that hymn37 of Saint Bernard—‘Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur,’ (Note 1) when of a sudden I was aroused from my singing by a sound like a groaning38, and that very near. I hearkened, and heard it again. One was surely moaning in the next chamber. Thinking that one of the bower-women might be evil at ease and lack one to help her, I crept forth from my chamber, and, listening at the door of the next, heard plainly the moaning again. I laid mine hand on the latch39, and entered.
“It was a large chamber, airy, but not light. All the windows were high up in the wall. There was a bed, divers26 chairs, and a table; and by the table sat a woman apparelled in black, her arms laid thereon, and her head upon them. Her face showed much pain. She lifted her head slowly as I came towards her, and then I saw that she had the face of a stranger. ‘Who is it?’ she said in a whispered voice. ‘My name, Señora, is Ines de Olanda,’ said I. ‘Meseemeth you lack ease. Could I in any wise bring it unto you?’ ‘Ay, I lack ease, muchacha’ (which is to say, maiden40), quoth she. ‘I lack rest. But that lieth in—the grave.’ She spake slowly and uncertainly. ‘Whence comest thou?’ she said again. ‘Thy tone is not of these parts.’—‘Señora,’ said I, ‘I am a stranger from England.’—‘And how camest thou hither?’ quoth she. ‘As reader of English unto the Queen’s Highness,’ said I. ‘How much hast thou read unto the Queen?’ she asked, and smiled.
“Her smile lighted up her face marvellously. It was not a fair face. I misdoubt if it were ever such. Her hair is near white now; but though her complexion42 were good, and her eyes shining and dark grey, her features must have been alway something harsh and strong. ‘Nothing at all, Señora,’ then said I; ‘for it is now three months sithence my coming, and yet had I never the honour to see her Highness.’—‘Traitors!’ quoth she angrily; and her features grew harsher than ever. I stood in silence. ‘Thou art not a Lutheran?’ she said suddenly. ‘Methinks it should fare ill, Señora, with any that were so here,’ I made answer, desiring to be discreet43. ‘Is that any answer to my question?’ she said, knitting her brows. ‘Señora,’ said I, trembling greatly, ‘I cannot tell a lie, even though you may betray me. I am a Lutheran.’—‘I betray thee!’ she said pitifully. ‘Poor child! whoso doth that, it will not be I. I am under the same ban.’—‘Señora!’ I cried, much astonied, ‘you are a Lutheran? here, in the Queen’s Palace.’—‘Doth that amaze thee?’ she answered with another smile. ‘Then a second thing I can tell thee will do so yet more:—I am the Queen.’
“I set myself upon my knees afore her Highness, so soon as my astonishment44 would give me leave. ‘They do not burn me,’ she said, in the slow uncertain way wherein she had spoken at first. ‘I think they scarce liked to do that. But I had suffered less; for then it had been over long ago. They say I am mad. And it doth seem sometimes as if somewhat in my head were lost,’ she saith, pressing her hands wearily upon her brow. ‘It was Doña Isabel, my mother. She used to give me the cuerda!’—‘Señora,’ I answered, ‘craving your Highness’ pardon, I, being a maid from strange parts, know not that word cuerda!’—‘Have they the thing in your land?’ answered the Queen heavily. ‘Did they try that on my poor sister, your Princess of Wales (Katherine of Aragon)? Ay de mi!’—‘I know not,’ said I, ‘under the gracious pleasure of your Highness, what the thing is.’—‘Look!’ she said, pointing with her thin, trembling hand.
“I looked whither she pointed45, and in the further corner of the chamber I saw a frame of pulleys set in the ceiling. But it came not presently to my mind wherefore they were there. ‘They set those short sticks under my arms,’ the Queen said, speaking heavily as it were with sleep. ‘Then they jerk up the pulleys, and I have to go up with them. It hurts very much. I think I scream sometimes, and then he beats me for disturbing people. They alway do it at night. They say I need it, and I am mad. I marvel41 if they cure mad people so in England. And I think if they did it sometimes in the day, it would not disturb people so much. You see, I understand it not—at least they say so. But I fancy I understood better before the cuerda.’
“I was silent from very horror, as the fearful truth dawned slowly upon me. ‘Ay de mi!’ sighed the Queen again, leaving her head fall back upon her arms. ‘My father never used to do so. They say ’tis by his command. I marvel if they tell me the truth.’—‘Who dareth to do thus unto your Highness?’ I said at last. ‘Denia,’ she said, in the same dreamy fashion, ‘and them he bringeth with him. They want me to confess, and to hear mass. I think they make me go sometimes, when that thing in mine head is lost. But if I know it, I resist them.’
“Again she lifted her head, and her voice grew more resolute46. ‘Muchacha, I have been here twenty-six years. All that time, in this chamber! They left me two of my children at the first. Then they took the Infant Don Fernando from me. And all my heart twined round my little maid,—my last-born, my Catalina! So they took her. I never knew why. I never did know wherefore they began at all, save for listening to some French friars that came to see me. And they told me very good things. God was good, they said, and loved me, and Jesus our Lord had taken away all my sins. And it was good to think so. So then they beat me, and set me in the cuerda; and they called me an heretic, and a Lutheran, and all the bad words they knew. I do not think the holy angels at the gates of Paradise will turn me away, nor call me an heretic, because I thought Jesus had taken away my sins. If this be Lutheranism, then I am a Lutheran—then I will be a Lutheran for ever! And those were good friars, that came from Paris. They say the Observants are the ones I should believe. The Queen Doña Isabel set Observants about me. But the Observants beat me, and put me in the cuerda; and the Good Men (Note 2)—the French friars—said Jesus our Lord loved me, and had taken away all my sins. That was the better Evangel of the two. That thing in my head goes wrong when they give me the cuerda. But when I can sit quiet like this, and they will let me alone a little while, I love to think of Jesus our Lord, and of His taking away all my sins. I know not wherefore I should be beaten for that. It is my head, thou seest.’
“Poor, poor lady! I felt great tears running down my face, and dropping on my gown as I knelt. ‘Ay Señora mia!’ I said, so well as I could falter47 it, ‘Jesus, our dear Lord, hath taken away all our sins that do believe in Him. He loveth your Highness, and if you will cling to Him, He will have you to dwell with Himself at the end of this life.’
“I felt I must use words easy to be received, for her understanding seemed gone, and like unto that of a little child. ‘Ay doncella mia!’ she sighed, ‘I shall be glad when the end of this life is come.’
“And she laid down her poor head so wearily. ‘When the Lord seeth good,’ I answered. ‘Sometimes,’ she said dreamily again, ‘I want so sorely to go forth. I long so much to breathe the sweet, cool air—to see the cork-trees and the olives. They never bring me so much as an orange flower. Then my head goes wrong, thou seest, when this longing49 cometh on me; and then—. And sometimes I feel sick, and cannot eat. Then they make me eat with the cuerda. I wish Jesus would make haste and help me. I used to understand it all better before I had the cuerda. But I had my husband then, and my children around me. Not one of them ever comes now; and there are six (Note 3). My husband is dead—I think he is; they say so (Note 4). I think they might have let one of them come, if only just to say “Mother” to me. I cannot understand it now; and it seems so long—so long! Ay de mi! if Jesus would come!’
“I could not utter another word ere Rosada brake in. ‘Ines!’ she cried in a loud whisper; ‘what do you here? Know you not, amiga, that the Lord Marquis will well-nigh kill you if he find you in this chamber? None of her Highness’ women are ever allowed to enter at will. Back, back, as fast as you can go!’
“Then, kneeling a moment, she said hastily, ‘Criada umilisima de Su Alteza!’ (‘The most humble50 servant of her Highness.’) and arising, pushed me forth of the chamber, and into mine own, almost before I knew what she had said or done. Five minutes later, my Lord of Denia his steps sounded in the corridor. ‘Thank the holy Virgin51 and all the saints!’ cried Rosada under her breath. ‘Amiga, you know not that man. He would not hesitate one minute to stab you if he found you there, and fancied any cause of suspicion against you. ’Tis forbidden ground—Maria sin pecado (without sin)! How came you in such peril52? I knew her never before left alone even a moment.’—‘I did but hear her Highness moaning,’ I said bewilderedly, ‘and was moved to go to her.’—‘The Devil must have moved you!’ she saith breathlessly. ‘I think rather,’ I answered, ‘saving your presence, Rosada, and not intending you, it was the Devil pushed me forth hither.’—‘You mean my Lord Marquis?’ quoth she, taking me rightly. ‘The saints pardon her Highness! You know she is quite out of her mind. She saith all manner of evil of him.’
“I thought it better, perchance, to make no answer. But into my mind came a remembrance touching53 a way wherein the fools should not err54; and I thought she should maybe come in at the gates of Heaven afore either Rosada or I.
“O Isoult! I would I were forth of this horrible country! It is peopled with devils. Leonor is not one, methinks; nor assuredly is Rosada, neither this my poor sely maiden Maria; but I should find it hard to write a fourth within this palace.
“I may not make my letter much longer. Prithee tell me some news of England, if any be; and shouldst thou hear ought of my gracious mistress (the Duchess of Suffolk), I would like much to know it.
“I do well-nigh wish I had not gone into that chamber! and yet, if I have in any wise comforted her, it is well. It hath maybe done her some little good to pour forth her sorrows to me for a minute. But now I never awake of a night but I listen for those fearful screams. I thank God, I have not heard them again as yet. Methinks her gossips did blunder in naming her Juana; they should have called her Dolores (sorrows).
“I pray thee, make mine hearty commendations to Mr Avery and all other that I know; and kiss thy little Kate for me. And so I commend thee to the tuition of God. From Tordesillas, this fourteenth of August.—Thine own assuredly,—
“Annis Holland.”
When we look back over the way which the Lord has led us these forty years in the wilderness55, we sometimes find in retrospect56 the Marahs no sadder than the Elims. Nay20, there are times when the Elims are the sadder.
“A sorrow’s crown of sorrow
Is, remembering happier things.”
There was much sorrow of that class for the Gospellers at this time. Ease and liberty had gone already: they were followed by the cruel agony of parting. Within fourteen days of the 25th of February, every married priest in the diocese of London was commanded to be deprived and divorced. The first would have been a sufficiently57 bitter draught58, without the added desolation of the second. On the table before Isoult Avery lay a sheet of paper, containing a few lines of uneven59 writing. They were blotted60 with tears, and were signed “Marguerite Rose.” Their purport61 was to ask for shelter at the Lamb, for a few weeks, until she could see her way more clearly. Thekla herself brought her mother’s letter. There were no tears from her, only her face was white, and worn, and weary.
“And you have not wept, Thekla?” said Isoult.
“There are tears enough elsewhere,” she said, and shook her head. “I cannot weep. It would ease me, perhaps, if I could.”
“These fiends of men!” cried Dr Thorpe, who was not renowned for weighing his words carefully when he was indignant. “Is it because they cannot drive nor persuade us into the sin and unbelief of Hell, that they be determined62 we shall lose none of the torment63 of it, so far as lieth in their hand to give us? Shall God see all this, and not move? Have they banished64 Him out of the realm, with other strangers?”
“Bitter words, Dr Thorpe!” answered Robin65, softly. “‘Shall God cast away His people, whom He foreknew?’ From them that are lights in the world, shall He who is the Light of the World depart? Nay, ‘when we pass through the waters He will be with us.’”
“They are dark waters for some of us,” whispered Thekla under her voice.
“But not fathomless66, dear Thekla,” replied Robin. “There are footsteps before us, though we may not see them; and at the dreariest67, there is God above us.”
“I hope so,” responded Dr Thorpe. “I am afeard, Robin, thou shalt say I am an unbeliever and a fool; but it doth look mainly as if He had fallen asleep, and the Devil had stole the reins68 of the world out of His hands.”
“Not an unbeliever,” said Robin, in his gentle manner; “only a believer in the dark. ‘Lord, carest Thou not that we perish?’ They were not unbelievers that said that. But you well know the answer—‘How is it that ye have no faith?’”
“’Tis main hard to get hold of it, lad!” said Dr Thorpe, more quietly, but with some choking in his voice.
“’Tis harder to do without it,” answered Robin.
Dr Thorpe never twitted Robin with his youth now. On the contrary, he seemed to respect him, as one who with few years had amassed69 much wisdom.
There was only one unpleasant element in the grant of a refuge to Mrs Rose. It would lock the doors of the Lamb on the beloved pastor70. Where she was, he must come no more. The chief element of comfort was Thekla. She could have free access to both her parents, so long as they remained at liberty; and Mr Rose might yet be heard to preach in the houses of other Gospellers.
“Isoult,” said Dr Thorpe, coming in, a few days after this woeful letter had been received and answered, “for all the late ’headings, there be fools left in the realm.”
“Troth,” said she, laughing, “I never cast doubt else.”
“Why,” pursued he, “if they hang up all the wise men, what else shall be left? But list the marvellous news. Yesterday, a parcel of lads did gather in a field by Saint James, for to have a game of childre’s play.”
“Is that such news?” said John.
“Hold thy peace till I have made an end,” said Dr Thorpe. “These childre in their playing (as childre will) did elect to follow their fathers in their late diversion; and one half of them should be the Queen’s men, and the other half Wyatt’s men. And so rough was their play, that the lad which stood for the Prince of Spain was caught of Wyatt’s side, and half strangled of them. But in the midst thereof, ere he were full hanged, come the watch, and took all the young rebels into custody71, as well the one side as the other.”
“I take it they boxed their ears and let them go,” said John.
“Do you so?” answered Dr Thorpe. “Not by no manner of means, worthy72 Sir; but this day are the great and mighty73 rebels on their trial afore the Queen’s Council, and the statesmen of this realm do sit in sad debate what shall be done with them. I had counted that the lad which was half hanged should have been enough punished for his state crimes; but maybe they think not so, but shall hang him out. But saw you a copy of the Queen’s Majesty’s ordinances74?”
“Nay,” replied John. “What be they?”
“It were well to know them,” he answered. “These be they:—
“First, all the statutes75 of King Henry touching religion shall be put in force. No Sacramentary shall be admitted to any benefice; all married priests shall be deprived, but more lenity shall be shown to them whose wives be dead (to wit, I take it, they shall not be divorced from their dead wives). If they shall part by consent, and shall promise to commit the crime of matrimony no further, they may be admitted again, at discretion76 of the Bishop, but in no case to the same benefice. No religious man shall be suffered to wed17. Processions, Latin service, holy days, fasts, and all laudable and honest ceremonies, shall be observed. Homilies shall be set forth. Men shall go to their parish church only. Suspected schoolmasters shall be put forth, and Catholic men put instead. And lastly, touching such persons as were heretofore promoted to any orders, after the new fashion (hark to this, Robin!) considering they were not ordained77 in very deed, the Bishop of the diocese, finding otherwise sufficiency and ability in these men, may supply that thing which wanted in them before, and thus according to his discretion permit them to minister.”
“Now here is a knot to untie78: how say you concerning the divorce of such men, not again ordained of the Bishops79? If they be not priests, then they need not to be divorced: or, if they be divorced, then are they priests.”
“Friend,” said John, “there is no better man in this world than Dr Gardiner for getting round a corner; and where he may not come round the corner, he hath Alisaunder’s sword, to cut the knot with no more ado.”
The blow fell at last, and the home in Leadenhall Street was broken up. Mr Rose himself brought his wife and daughter to the Lamb on the evening of the 10th of March, which was the last allowed for all married priests to separate from their wives. Doubtless the parting was very painful; but it passed in private, and the Averys too much reverenced80 his sorrow to suffer him to depart otherwise than in silence. Only John walked with him to his desolate81 home, and he told Isoult that not a word was spoken by either, but the clasp of Mr Rose’s hand at parting was not to be lightly forgotten.
The lads who had mimicked82 the rebellion were whipped and imprisoned83 for three days, and then released, by the Queen’s own command. On the 12th of March, the Archbishop, Dr Ridley, and Mr Latimer, set out for Oxford84, where they were—ostensibly, to maintain their theories in a public disputation; really, to be martyred. Dr Hooper went part of the way with them. He was going to Gloucester—to the same end. For a week, Thekla flitted backwards85 and forwards between her parents; generally spending her mornings with her father, and the evenings with her mother. Robin constituted himself her guard in all her journeyings.
Sunday was the day after his bereavement86, and Mr Rose was silent; but the following Sunday he preached at Mr Holland’s house, where the Gospellers gathered to hear him. Thekla remained with her mother; she would not leave her alone with her sorrowful thoughts. It was a rainy morning, but in the days before umbrellas were invented, rain was less thought of than it has been since. John Avery and his wife, Dr Thorpe, Esther, and Robin, set forth, despite the rain. Before they had gone many yards, they overtook a crowd of people, all running riverwards; and Isoult, looking towards the water, fancied that she could see the standard of the royal barge87.
“Whither away?” asked John of some of the crowd.
But no answer was vouchsafed88, except a cry of “The Tower!” till suddenly Mr Underhill hove in sight, and was questioned at once.
“What, know you not what all London knoweth?” said he; “that the Lady Elizabeth’s Grace is this morrow a prisoner of the Tower? ’Tis very true, I warrant you: would it were less! This moment is the Queen’s barge at hand with her. Will you see?”
“Have with you,” said Dr Thorpe, who never missed a sight, if he could possibly help it.
The rest went on. Mr Rose looked older, they thought, and more worn than was his wont89; but his voice was as gentle and his smile as sweet as ever. He came to them as soon as they came in, and wanted to know all they could tell him of Mrs Rose and Thekla, though his eyes asked rather than his lips; yet his first words were a query90 why Thekla was not with them. His sermon was on three words of David, “He shall live.” And first he showed that David spoke this of Christ, by prophecy: and then divided his subject into three heads—“He hath lived,” “He doth live,” “He shall live.” And under the first head, he pointed out how from all eternity91 Christ had lived with the Father, and was His delight, rejoicing alway before Him; and how then He had lived a little babe and a weary man upon this earth defiled92 with sin, amidst a people who knew Him not, and would not receive Him. Then coming to the next part, “He doth live,” he showed what he now does, standing48 before the throne of God, within the true veil and beside the better mercy-seat, presenting in Himself every one of His people, and pleading every moment for them. And lastly, “He shall live.” He shall come again; He shall reign4 over the earth; He shall live for ever. And “because He liveth, we shall live also.” If He could die again, then might we. But He dieth no more, having died once for us; and we that believe in Him, He having died in our stead, can never die the second death. He hath abolished death, as well for His Church as for Himself: He that is the Living One for evermore holdeth the keys of Hell and of death. And for this cause, even the natural death, not one can suffer except by His permission. Mr Rose bade his hearers not to fall into the blunder that evil men held their lives in their hands. “Christ hath the keys, not they. If they be suffered to take our lives away, it is because we have ended our work, and He calleth us home to Him. And what child ever went home from school that went not gladly, except indeed he had an ill home? Let us not bring up an evil report of that good Land, by unwillingness93 to go Home.” Coming back, they found Dr Thorpe returned, and talking with Thekla.
Thekla made no answer, except a smile; but it disappeared as soon as she saw her friends, and coming forward, she began to talk in a low tone with Robin.
“There is small praise for somebody,” said John. “Who is it—my Lady Elizabeth’s Grace?”
“Even so,” replied Dr Thorpe.
“Well, and how went the matter?” said he.
“Why,” he answered, “they took her in at the drawbridge by the Traitor’s Gate. And, the barge arrived there, my Lord Treasurer95 sent my Lord of Sussex to desire her Grace to land. ‘Nay, that will I not,’ quo’ she. Nor could she, in very deed, unless she had gone into the water over her shoe. My Lord of Sussex then went back from her to my Lord Treasurer, and brought word that she would not come. Then said my Lord Treasurer roughly, ‘She shall not choose.’ And all this while sat she in the rain. So my Lord Treasurer stepped forward and did proffer96 his cloak for her to tread on. Then up rose my Lady Elizabeth, and put back my Lord Treasurer’s cloak with her hand, with a good dash. And setting her foot upon the stair, she saith stoutly97, ‘Here landeth the truest subject, being a prisoner, that ever landed at these stairs.’ To whom my Lord Treasurer—‘So much the better for you, Madam.’ So in went she, as manly98 as ever did man; and Sir John Gage99 shut up the gates upon her. She hath the stoutest100 stomach ever I saw. If all the men were hanged through England, there should be yet one left in her.”
On Good Friday the Marquis of Northampton was released from the Tower. Dr Thorpe said, the Queen “played at see-saw with my Lord of Northampton, for he is in the Tower this day and out the next, and so over again.” In the afternoon of Easter Sunday, Esther and Mrs Rose went out together. When they returned, Mrs Rose went up quickly to her own chamber; and Esther drew her mistress aside.
“Why, Esther, what is the matter?” said Isoult.
“Methinks I had better tell you,” replied she. “I would I could have helped it; yet the Blessed saw not good. As we came back through Poules, there was set up on a board a long list of all the priests in this diocese which have been divorced from their wives by decree of my Lord of London; and them that had parted by consent were set by themselves. And in this list—”
“Good lack!” cried Isoult. “Saw you Mr Rose’s name?”
“She saw it,” said Esther in a low voice, “though I did essay to turn her away therefrom by bidding her to observe the fair carving101 on the other side the way; but it was to no good. She caught the two names—‘Thomas Rose’ and ‘Margaret Van der Velde.’ And she brake forth when she saw them. I thank the All Merciful we two were alone in the cloister102.”
“But what said she?”
“‘Margaret Van der Velde!’ she cried. ‘I am not Margaret Van der Velde! I am Marguerite Rose. I have borne his name for two and twenty years, and shall I cast it off now at the Bishop of London’s bidding? No, not if he were the Pope and the whole College of Cardinals104!’ Then she fell into French and Spanish mixed together. And ‘Parted by consent!’ quoth she. ‘Ay Dios! que veut-on dire105? what consent is there? They thrust us asunder106 with halberds, and then say we have parted by consent! God! art Thou in Heaven, and dost Thou see all this?’ she cried.”
“Poor soul! And what saidst thou, Esther?”
“I said little, only essayed to draw her away and to comfort her. It is hard work to bear such things, I know. But I think we be too apt to seek to be our King’s kings—to bring down the Holy One that inhabiteth eternity to the measure of our poor knowledge. ’Tis not alway when we think Israel at the lowest that Othniel is raised up to judge us. He will come at the right time, and in time to save us; but very often that is not the time we would choose.”
Poor Mrs Rose! Isoult could scarcely wonder at her words of indignation. But she had not seen nor borne the worst yet.
“Isoult!” said Dr Thorpe, coming in on the 8th of April, “there is a jolly sight in the Chepe. I take it, a piece of some Lutheran’s or Gospeller’s work, whose wit and zeal107 be on the thither108 side of his discretion. On the gallows in Cheapside is a cat hanged, arrayed in vestments, all proper, her head shaven, and her forefeet tied over her head with a round of paper betwixt them for a wafer. What say you to that for a new thing?”
“Poor cat!” said Robin; yet he laughed.
“Nay, I know not that they killed the cat o’ purpose,” said Dr Thorpe. “They may have taken a dead one.”
“But what say the folk thereto?” asked Isoult.
“Some laugh,” he answered, “and some rail, and some look mighty solemn. Underhill was jolly pleased therewith; it served his turn rightly. I met him on my way home, and he asked me first thing if I had seen Sir Cat.”
“I warrant you,” said John, “’tis a piece of his work, or else of George Ferris. Mind you not how he told us the tale of his (Underhill) stealing the copper109 pix from the altar at Stratford on the Bow? I will be bound one of those merry twain hath done it.”
“Little unlike,” said Dr Thorpe.
Proclamation was made of a reward of twenty nobles, increased afterward34 to twenty marks, to find the irreverent hanger110 up of the cat, but in vain. It was never discovered who did it. On Cantate Sunday—April 22—Mr Rose preached at Mr Sheerson’s house in Bow Churchyard. John and Isoult were there, with Esther, Thekla, and Robin. After service (for they were late, and it was beginning when they entered), Mr Rose came to them, and, after a few minutes’ conversation, asked if they had heard the news from Oxford.
“Nay,” said John, “is there so?”
“The sorest we might well have,” he answered. “My Lord Archbishop, Dr Ridley, and Mr Latimer, be all three cast for death.”
Such a cry broke from Isoult, that some turned to look at her, and Mrs Holland came up and asked if she was ill, or what was the matter.
“Are you assured thereof?” asked John.
“With little question,” answered he, “seeing Augustine Bernher came unto me with the news, and is lodged111 with me: who was himself present at the sentencing and all the whole disputation.”
“If Austin brought it, it is true,” said John, sorrowfully.
“But they will never burn Mr Latimer,” cried Isoult in anguish112. “An aged113 man such as he is, that must die in a few years at the furthest!”
“And my Lord Archbishop, that is chiefest subject of the whole realm!” said John.
“There is an other before him now,” answered Mr Rose. “The chiefest subject of the realm is Cardinal103 Pole, that is looked for nigh every week.”
Austin Bernher, who had been talking with Mr Holland, now came up, and John begged him to tell them particulars of the trial.
“It was a right morris-dance,” said he, “all the examination. Mr Prolocutor Weston disputed with the beer-pot at his elbow, and forgot not his devoirs thereto in the course thereof. And (whether the said pot were in fault, I will not say, but) at opening he made a sorry blunder, for he said that the Court was called ‘to dispute the detestable heresy114 of the verity115 of the body of Christ in the Sacrament.’ There was much laughter in the Court thereupon. It was in the choir116 of Saint Mary the Virgin they held Court, and my Lord Archbishop was first examined. He denied all propositions advanced unto him, and spake very modestly, wittily117 (cleverly), and learnedly. So at the end of the day he was sent back to Bocardo, where they held him confined. Then the next day they had in Dr Ridley, who showed sharp, witty118, and very earnest; and denied that (being Bishop of Rochester) he had ever preached in favour of transubstantiation. At one point, the people hissing119 at an answer he had given, Dr Ridley turned him around unto them, and—‘O my masters!’ saith he, ‘I take this for no judgment120. I will stand to God’s judgment.’ The day thereafter called they up my master (Latimer); who, on his entering, escaped no hissings nor scornful laughter. He came in from the bailiff’s house, where he was lodged, having a kerchief and three or four caps on his head for the fear of cold, his staff in his hand, and his spectacles hanging at his breast by a string (Note 5). He earnestly desired to be allowed a seat, and also to speak in English; for (quoth he) ‘I am out of use with the Latin, and almost as meet to dispute as to be a captain of Calais.’ Moreover, he said his memory was weakened, and he very faint. Then they asked him if he would allow the verity of the body of Christ to be in the Sacrament. Quoth he, ‘I have read over the New Testament121 seven times, and yet could I never find the mass in it, neither the marrow-bones nor sinews of the same.’ You know his merry fashion. Then they asked him how long he had been of that opinion; and he said he had not been so long; that time had been when he said mass devoutly122, for the which he craved123 God’s mercy now; and he had not been of this mind above seven years. Then they charged him that he was a Lutheran. ‘Nay,’ said he, ‘I was a Papist; for I never could perceive how Luther could defend his opinion, without transubstantiation.’ And they desired he should reason touching Luther’s opinion. ‘I do not take in hand to defend Luther’s sayings or doings,’ quoth my master. ‘If he were here, he would defend himself well enough.’ And so went they forward, my master answering readily, but calmly: yet he warmed up high enough once, when one spake of the priest offering of Christ. Quoth he, with some of the ancient fire that was wont to be in him, ‘He is too precious a thing for us to offer; He offereth Himself.’ Well, after his examination was over (and they took two days to it) Master Harpsfield disputed with my Lord Archbishop for his doctor’s gown. And the day thereafter (which was Friday) were they all three brought forth to be judged. Then were Dr Ridley and my master asked if they would turn; but they both answered, ‘Nay; I will stand to that I have said.’ So then sentence of burning was passed upon all of them for heresy. Then said my Lord Archbishop,—‘From your judgment and sentence I appeal to the just judgment of God Almighty124; trusting to be present with Him in Heaven, for whose presence in the altar I am thus condemned125.’ Dr Ridley’s answer was—‘Although I be not of your company, yet doubt I not but my name is written in an other place, whither this sentence shall send us sooner than we should by the course of nature have come.’ And quoth my master—‘I thank God most heartily126 that He hath prolonged my life to this end, that I may in this case glorify127 God by this kind of death.’ So they carried them away, each to his old lodging. And yester-morn, but an hour before I set out, there was mass, and procession down the High Street to Saint Mary’s. They caused my Lord to behold128 it from Bocardo, and Dr Ridley from the Sheriff’s house; but not going by the bailiff’s house, they fetched my master to see it. Who thought he was going to his burning, and saith unto the catchpole, ‘My master, I pray you, make a quick fire.’ But when he came to Carfax, lo, there came the procession in sight, Dr Weston carrying the host, and four other doctors supporting the canopy129 over him and his bread-god. Which no sooner had my master seen than he gathered up his heels, and away he ran, as fast as ever his old bones could carry him, into one Spencer’s shop, and would not so much as look toward it. And incontinent after that came I thence; so that I cannot tell any more.”
The Princess Elizabeth was released from the Tower, and sent to Richmond; Mr Bertie, summoned before Gardiner in Lent, took advantage of the temporary cessation of the persecution131 in the summer, and escaped to Germany. The gallows set up for Wyatt’s followers132 were taken down; the cross in Cheapside was regilded; and bonfires, bell-ringing, and Te Deums, were commanded throughout London, as soon as the news of Philip’s landing should be received.
“I marvel,” observed Mr Rose, one Sunday, “if we should not do better to sing Miserere mei, Deus.”
Philip came at last—too soon at any time—landing at Hampton on the 20th of July. He and the Queen were married in the Lady Chapel133 of Winchester Cathedral on the 25th, Mr Underhill being present, and receiving a venison pasty as his share of the spoil; and on the 19th of August, London went forth to welcome its new King. Dr Thorpe, of course, put on clean ruffles134 and trudged135 off to see the sight; so did John and Robin, though they contented136 themselves with strolling down to the riverside to watch the barge pass. Isoult declined, as she said, “to go see one of whom she feared so much.” John asked Mrs Rose and Thekla if they wished to go.
“What! to see the Prince of the Asturias?” (Note 6) cried Mrs Rose. “Think you we have seen too little of him in Flanders? I would as soon to see Satan.”
Thekla smiled and shook her head; and that was her answer. So when the three returned, they were desired to say, “what like were the King.”
“Softly! softly!” said John, smiling.
“Call him a king!” said Dr Thorpe, who appeared somewhat put out. “On my word, I have seen many a mason and carpenter a deal fairer men, and vastly taller fellows of their hands. He should be ’shamed to be a king, and so slender and pitiful a fellow.”
Isoult could not help laughing, and so did Thekla.
“Now give us thine opinion, Jack,” said his wife.
“Well,” replied he, “methinks his Highness is somewhat taller than Kate; but truly he is under the common height of men. His limbs be well made and lithe139, and his person of fair proportions. His hair is somewhat too deep to call it yellow, yet fair; his eyes grey, with a weak look thereabout, as though he might not bear overmuch light; his brow not ill-made for wit, yet drawing backward; his lips large, very red, and thick like all of his house (Note 7). He hath a fair beard and mustachio, and his complexion is fair, yet not clear, but rather of a Cain-colour.” (Note 8).
“Ah, the lip of the House of Austria—how well I know it! It maketh me to shudder140 to hear you,” said Mrs Rose. “Yet if his complexion be Cain-colour, he is changed from what he was. In his young years was it very fair and clear,—as fair as Walter.”
“He is mighty unlike Walter now,” said Dr Thorpe.
“And what is thy view, Robin?”
“I have not to add to what Father hath said,” replied he, “saving that I thought there was a gloomy and careworn141 look upon the King’s face. He is stately and majestical of his carriage; but his nether142 part of his face cometh forward in a fashion rather strong than seemly. It struck me he should be a man not easily turned from his purpose.”
Mr Underhill presented himself in the evening.
“Well,” said he, “saw you our goodly King Philip?”
“Nay,” said Dr Thorpe, “I saw a mighty ill-favoured.”
Mr Underhill laughed. “Verily,” said he, “I would be bond that I could match him for beauty with any the first man I should meet withal in the City. There were two swords carried afore him—”
“Ay,” said Dr Thorpe, “to cut off all heads withal that be left yet unmown.”
“I fear so much,” answered Mr Underhill, more gravely than was his wont. “Were you forth this even?”
“No,” said John; “we have all sat at home sithence my home-coming.”
“In the streets to-night,” said he, “I count I have met four Spaniards for every Englishman. If the King bring all Spain over hither, we shall be sweetly off. As I was coming hither, I protest unto you, I heard more Spanish talked than mine own tongue. I trust some of you have that tongue, or you shall find you in a foreign country—yea, even in the heart of London.”
“I have it,” said John, “and so hath Mrs Rose; but methinks we stand alone.”
“No, Mr Avery, you do not so,” quietly said Esther. (Note 9).
“Marry, I never learned any tongue save mine own, nor never repented143 thereof,” answered Dr Thorpe; “saving, of course, so much Latin as a physician must needs pick up withal. I count I could bray144 like a jackass an’ I tried, and that were good enough for any strange-born companion as ever cumbered the soil of merry England.”
Mr Underhill laughed, as did John and Robin.
“Dr Thorpe, you are exceedingly courteous145, and I thank you heartily,” said Mrs Rose, smiling almost for the first time.
“Body o’ me! what is a man to do when he falleth into the ditch o’ this manner?” said he, with a comical look. “Mrs Rose, I am an ass13 by nature, and shall find little hardship in braying146. I do beseech147 you of pardon, for that I meant not to offend you; and in very deed, I scarce ever do remember that you are not my countrywoman. You are good enough for an English woman, and I would you were—There! I am about to make yet again a fool of myself. Heed148 not, I pray you, an old man in his dotage149.”
“My good friend, say not one other word,” answered Mrs Rose, kindly150. “I do feel most delighted that you should say I am good enough for an English woman. I can see that is very much from you.”
Spaniards were everywhere. England had become a nation of Spaniards in her streets, as she was a province of Spain in her government. And Englishmen knew that Spain, like Rome, whose true daughter she was, never unloosed her hand from any thing she had once grasped. Isoult begged her husband to teach her Spanish; but Kate desired to know why they were all come.
“Is there no meat ne drink in their country, that they come to eat up ours?” she asked in her simplicity151.
Her mother told her “they were come to wait on the King, which was a gentleman of their nation.”
“But wherefore so?” said she. “Could the Queen not marry an Englishman, that could have talked English? I am sure our Robin is good enough for any Queen that ever carried a crown on her head.”
A view of the subject which so greatly tickled152 Robin that he could not speak for laughing. He was, and always had been, very fond of Kate, and she of him.
A fresh rumour153 now ran that five thousand more Spaniards would shortly be brought over; and some of them preferred to the vacated benefices and sees.
On the 30th of September, Gardiner preached at the Cross, the Bishop of London bearing his crosier before him. All the Council were present who were then at Court. He spoke much of charity, which is commonly lauded154 by false teachers; and said that “great heresy had heretofore been preachen at that place, by preachers in King Edward’s time, which did preach no thing but voluptuousness155 and blasphemous156 lies.” Then he touched upon the Pharisees, who stood, said he, “for such men as will reason and dispute in the stead of obeying.” And lastly, he spoke of the King; praised his dominion157 and riches, and “willed all so obediently to order them that he might still tarry with them.”
“Well!” said Dr Thorpe, “I count I shall not need to order me for so long time as King Philip is like to tarry with us: but afore I do go on my marrow-bones to beg him tarry, I would fain know somewhat more of what he is like to do for us.”
Our friends at the Lamb were fearfully employed on the 5th of October. For during the previous fortnight there had been so severe a search for Lutheran books, and nearly sixty persons arrested who were found to possess them, that John determined to hide all his in a secret place: one that, he said, “with God’s grace these bloodhounds shall not lightly find, yet easy of access unto them that do know the way.” So he buried all the books at which offence could be taken, leaving only his own law-books, and Isoult’s “Romaunts” that she had when a girl, and Dr Thorpe’s “Game of the Chess,” and Robin’s “Song of the Lady Bessy,” and the “Little Gest of Robin Hood,” and similar works.
In the evening came Mr Underhill, whom they told what had been their occupation.
“Why,” said he, “but yesterday was I at the very same business. I sent for old Henry Daunce, the bricklayer of White Chapel (who used to preach the gospel in his garden every holiday, where I have seen a thousand persons), and got him to enclose my books in a brick wall by the chimney side in my chamber, where they shall be preserved from moulding or mice. Mine old enemies, the Papistical spies, John a Vales and Beard, have been threatening me; but I sent them a message by means of Master Luke, the physician of Coleman Street, to let them know that if they did attempt to take me, except they had a warrant signed with four or five of the Council’s hands, I would go further with them than Peter did, who strake off but the ear of Malchus, but I would surely strike off head and all.”
After which message Mr John Vales and Mr Beard never meddled158 further with the Hot Gospeller, doubtless knowing they might trust him to keep his word, and having no desire to risk their necks.
On the 3rd of November (see note in Appendix) was born Mr Underhill’s son Edward, at his house in Wood Street. This being no time to search for sponsors of rank, John Avery stood for the child, at the father’s request, with Mr Ive, and Mrs Elizabeth Lydiatt, Mr Underhill’s sister, who was staying with him at that time. And only a week later they were all at another christening, of Mr Holland’s child, baptised by Mr Rose; and the sponsors were Lord Strange, his kinsman159 (by deputy), Mr Underhill, and Thekla; the child was named after Lord Strange, Henry. (The sex and name of Roger Holland’s child are not recorded.) The all, however, did not include Mrs Rose; for she knew too well, poor soul! the dread160 penalty that would ensue if her husband “were taken in her company.”
The year ended better than the Gospellers feared. No harm had come to the Archbishop and his brother prisoners. Mr Underhill and Mr Rose were still at liberty. Cardinal Pole had returned to the fatherland whence he had been banished for many years; but from him they hardly looked for evil. The Princess Elizabeth was restored to favour. Roger Holland had left London for his own home in Lancashire, to prevent his child from being re-baptised after the Roman fashion. He meant to leave it with his father, and return himself to London. In the Gospellers’ houses, Mr Rose was still preaching: he was to administer the Sacrament on the night of New Year’s Day, at Mr Sheerson’s house in Bow Churchyard. And Philip had been King five months. Surely, the cloud had a silver lining161! surely, they had feared more than there was need! So argued the more sanguine162 of the party. But it was only the dusk which hid the black clouds that had gathered; only the roar of men’s work which drowned the growl138 of the imminent163 storm. They were entering—though they knew it not—on the darkest hour of the night.
Note 1.
“Brief life is here our portion,
Brief sorrow, short-lived care;
The life that knows no ending,
The tearless life is There.”
Neale’s Translation.
Note 2. Boni-Homines—translated into various languages,—was the ancient title of the Waldensian Church and its offshoots.
Note 3. The best of them, and the only Lutheran—Isabel Queen of Denmark—died in 1525; but of course the imprisoned mother never knew it.
Note 4. The letters yet extant in the archives of Simancas, from Denia and others, give rise to strong suspicion that the story which the world has believed so long—Juana’s insane determination not to bury the coffin164 of her husband—was a pure invention of their own, intended to produce (as it has produced) a general belief in the insanity165 of the Queen.
Note 5. This sketch166 in words, given by Foxe, is one of the most graphic167 descriptions ever written.
Note 6. King Juan the Second of Castilla conferred this title on his heir in 1389, in imitation of that of the Prince of Wales, which he greatly admired.
Note 7. This well-known feature came into the House of Austria with the Massovian Princess Cimburgha, a strong-minded woman, who used to hammer the nails which confined her fruit-trees to the garden wall with her knuckles168. She was the wife of Duke Ernest the Iron-handed, and apparently169 might have shared his epithet170.
Note 8. In working the tapestry171 so much in vogue172 during the Middle Ages, certain persons were indicated by hair or complexion of a particular tint173. To Cain was given a sallow complexion, not unlike Naples yellow, which was therefore known as Cain-colour; and Judas Iscariot being always represented with red hair, this came to be called Judas-colour.
Note 9. The English Jews, being Sephardim, spoke Spanish mostly among themselves at this time.
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1
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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procurement
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| n.采购；获得 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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scantly
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| 缺乏地，仅仅 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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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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42
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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43
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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44
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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45
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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46
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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47
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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48
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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49
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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50
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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51
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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52
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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53
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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54
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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55
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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56
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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57
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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58
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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59
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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60
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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61
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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62
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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63
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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64
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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66
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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67
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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68
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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69
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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71
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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72
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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73
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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74
ordinances
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| n.条例，法令( ordinance的名词复数 ) | |
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75
statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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76
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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77
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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78
untie
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| vt.解开，松开；解放 | |
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79
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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80
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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81
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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82
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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83
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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85
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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86
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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87
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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88
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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89
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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90
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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91
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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92
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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93
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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94
manliest
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| manly（有男子气概的）的最高级形式 | |
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95
treasurer
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|
| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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96
proffer
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|
| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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97
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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98
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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99
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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100
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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101
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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102
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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103
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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104
cardinals
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|
| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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105
dire
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|
| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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106
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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107
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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108
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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109
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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110
hanger
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| n.吊架，吊轴承；挂钩 | |
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111
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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112
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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113
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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114
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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115
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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116
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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117
wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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118
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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119
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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120
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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121
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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122
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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123
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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124
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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125
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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126
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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127
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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128
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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129
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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130
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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131
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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132
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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133
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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134
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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135
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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136
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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137
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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138
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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139
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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140
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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141
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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142
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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143
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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145
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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146
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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147
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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148
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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149
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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150
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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151
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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152
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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153
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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154
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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156
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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157
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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158
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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160
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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161
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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162
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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163
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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164
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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165
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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166
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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167
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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168
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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169
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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170
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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171
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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172
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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173
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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