"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 plaintively.

"'Wait on the Lord,'" softly answered Isoult.

July brought a little respite to the horrible slaughter. 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 G.o.dly woman, and had to ford 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 G.o.d [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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d's truth--that was already doomed 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 jaws 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 narrative horrible, let him know that all the worst details have been omitted. They are written in G.o.d's book in letters of fire, and shall not be forgotten in the day when He maketh up His jewels.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

HOPE DEFERRED.

"Ah, would we but only leave All things to our Father!

Would we only cease to grieve, Wait His mercy rather!

Meek resigning childish choice, Graceless, thankless pressing-- Listen for His gentle voice, 'Child, receive this blessing!'

Faithless, foolish hearts! see you Seeds' earth-hidden growing?

What our G.o.d for us will do, He Himself is knowing."

It was on the 4th of November 1555, that Annis Holland came home from Spain. Queen Juana was dead, and she had no longer any tie to a country in which she had certainly not been happy.

"Please it you, Mistress!" said Ursula's voice at the chamber door, where Isoult sat sewing.

"Well, Ursula?" replied her mistress.

"Mistress Holland would have speech of you, Mistress," said she.

Of course Isoult supposed her visitor to be Roger Holland's wife, and thanked G.o.d in her heart that she was better off than Bessy; but she came down into the chamber--not to see Bessy. On another face her eyes lighted, and a cry of gladness broke from her.

"What, Annis!"

When the first welcomings were over, and they sat down again, Isoult thought she saw a grave, sad look on Annis' face that was not wont to be there.

"I trusted to have seen thee home ere this, dear Annis," she said, "for we heard that the Queen thy mistress was dead, and I thought thou wouldst not be like to tarry yonder."

"Ay," she said, sadly. "She is gone to G.o.d; and laud be to Him for it!

No, Isoult, I had no mind to abide there."

She shuddered, as with very horror, so that Isoult answered--"Methinks, sweet heart, thy Lord Marquis of Denia could be no worser than Bishop Gardiner."

"There be eviller things in Spain than even he is," said she, and shook her head.