CHAPTER XXII.

THE TRIAL.

When Jack arrived at the jail where he was to be confined, he found a great crowd gathered round the door, and was greeted from the midst of it with more than one cry of, "God speed thee, dear lad!" "Be of good courage, brother, and God bless thee! Our prayers are with thee!" And he read in most of the faces surrounding him only pity and sympathy.

Father Barnaby frowned ominously on the assemblage, and hurried his prisoner as soon as possible into the jail.

"Let this young man be shut up by himself," said he to the jailer.

"Your reverence must needs build him a cell, then," returned the jailer, who seemed to have no special pleasure in his task. "Every place is full and overflowing, except the dungeon, where there are only two. Shall I put him therein? I think he were best out of sight of this crowd."

"Do so, then," replied the father. "Youth, I advise thee to take the time of thy imprisonment to consider and repent of thine errors. Thou art but young, and thou hast been misled by more crafty heads than thine own. Thou hast also good parts, and I would fain serve thee, and make thee an instrument of good in the Church."

"I thank your reverence," replied Jack, in a steady tone, and then raising his voice he said, "Good people, pray for me and mine, and be steadfast in the truth, you who own it."

"We will! We will!" shouted several voices in return; and one man added, "Let the Jack Priest look to it. If old Harry quarrels with the Pope, we will pull down their crow's nest about their ears ere long."

Jack was hurried into the jail and the doors shut upon him, so he heard no more, but he noted even then the look of furious wrath mingled with confusion on Father Barnaby's face. He had no time for further observations before he found himself pushed into the cell of which the jailer had spoken, and the door locked upon him.

It was some minutes before his dazzled eyes could distinguish anything in the dim dungeon, which was lighted only by a small grated aperture near the ceiling. As he grew more accustomed to the place, however, he saw that it was a small room about twelve feet square, with stone walls and floor. The furniture consisted of a stool or two, a rude table, and two pallet beds, on one of which lay stretched a sleeping man. Another man, apparently just aroused from slumber, rose to his feet and advanced a step to meet him.

"I cannot say thou art welcome, friend, to this dungeon," said a voice Jack knew right well; "but to such slight entertainment as we have, I do bid thee welcome."

"Dear uncle," exclaimed Jack, recovering his dazed senses and springing forward, "dearest uncle, do you not know me?"

"My son, my son!" cried the old man. "Is it indeed my son? I feared this, but hoped you might have timely warning. And is it to this I have brought thy youth?"

"Nay, dearest uncle," returned Jack; "not you, but the malice of our enemies, and the enemies of the truth of God. You brought me to the knowledge of that truth and goodness, which shall make all their wrath to praise Him. But who is our companion?"

"It is Master James Dennett, a ship-owner and merchant here in Bridgewater. Disturb him not, for he hath been sorely tried in spirit, and unable to sleep the whole night. Truly, I am glad to be eased of his lamentations. But sit you down here on the bedside, and tell me how all this has chanced. I had hoped you would have had timely warning."

Jack told the story of his betrayal and arrest.

"Alas! Poor maid, was she so far left to herself?" said the shepherd, when he heard of Anne's part in the transaction. "We must put up many prayers for her. And how is your father disposed?"

"He gave me his blessing ere I left him, and do not think he is angry with me. I left him with old Father John, who rode all the way from Holford to give me warning, but he was too late. But how were you taken, dear uncle?"

"Even as I would have desired—on my knees," replied the old man smiling. "I was in the little thicket whither I have long resorted for prayer and reading, as my father did before me, when a band of men, headed by Brother Joseph the sacristan, broke in on me. I told them it was paying a fair compliment to an old man-at-arms, that at nearly ninety, he should need six men to secure him."

"But surely Sir John Brydges will take your part?" said Jack.

"I believe he can do nothing," replied Thomas Sprat. "They have raked up the old matter of Lollardie, and Father Barnaby assures me that as a relapsed heretic, I have no chance of being admitted to mercy, though if I will recant my errors I may perhaps, in time, be delivered from purgatory."

"Many thanks to him," said Jack. "He hath been profuse in his promises to me if I will recant, even to promising me church advancement. But do you know aught of Arthur?"

"They have not apprehended him, but more than that I do not know," replied the shepherd.

"But here comes the jailer with our bread and water."

"Methinks on a feast day they might offer us better fare," said Jack. "It is scarce canonical to fast upon St. Michael's day."

"Don't cry out before you are hurt, young sir," said the jailer, depositing a jug of broth on the table. "I have so far stretched my orders as to bring you the same breakfast as the other prisoners who are only confined for highway robbery, murder, and the like."

"Many thanks for your courtesy, Master Davis," said Jack. "When I am again at liberty, I will do as much for you."

"I would you were at liberty to do it," said the jailer bluntly. "This turning the key on old friends and neighbors is no pleasure to me, I can tell you. What then? A man must do his duty, be he jailer or mayor; but he need not have a heart as hard as the nether millstone. I judged you and the old man would like to be together, so I clapped you in here; but do not you tell yonder monk so."

"Never fear," said Jack. "I do not love him so well as all that. Again I thank you, Master Davis, and so will my father. Be assured you shall be no loser. Come, we are better than we might be," said he after the man had closed the door. "I am heartily glad we have fallen into such good hands. Shall we awaken our companion? He sleeps soundly."

"He has not slept all night," said Thomas Sprat. "I fear much he will not stand the trial. The goods and ties of this world are over-near his heart, poor man. What, brother! Will you awake and break your fast?"

"Where am I?" said Master Dennett, sitting up and gazing round him with a bewildered expression. "What has happened? Alas, I know too well!" he added, sinking back again. "That I should ever live to find myself here in Bridgewater jail! And who is this new companion in misery? Surely, it is Master Lucas's son. Alas, young man, what has brought you hither?"

"The fear of God and the love of His Word," said Jack. "But come, sir, arise and eat, that you may be strengthened for the day's trial."

"And what will strength avail?" asked the ship-owner somewhat peevishly. "Can we break out of the dungeon by dint of strength? Or can we bend the hard hearts of our enemies?"

"The God we serve can do both, brother," said the old shepherd; "or, failing that, He can give us strength to confess that truth which shall minister to us an entrance into His Eternal Kingdom. But come, arise, and eat at all events. There is no use in refusing such good things as we have."

Master Dennett essayed to eat, but desisted after a few mouthfuls, and threw himself upon his pallet again.

Jack made a tolerable meal, and then bestirred himself to render the place as comfortable as might be. The rest of the day passed quietly enough.

Master Dennett lay on his pallet and wept over his hard fate.

Jack and his uncle talked quietly together, recalling many passages of Scripture, and encouraging each other to steadfastness in the trial which they knew was awaiting them. Towards night, the jailer brought in their evening meal, and a large bundle.

"Here are some matters sent you from home," said he to Jack, "bedding and such like, as I guess. Your father hath been here, and has begged me to be kind to you, as why should I not? You never harmed me, I trow."

Jack warmly thanked the jailer, who, surly as he was, seemed disposed, indeed, to be as kind as his duty allowed.

The bundle contained bedding and linen, and artfully concealed in the centre of a great loaf, some paper, a pencil, and the means of striking a light, together with two wax tapers. There was also a Psalter, in which Jack perceived a leaf doubled down. He opened the book, and found underlined the passage, "Be of good courage;" "Fear not," and others of similar import, and doubly underscored the word "Wait." He turned to the first page and read the name of Father John. There were glad tears in the boy's eyes as he showed the book to his uncle.

"The good, kind, old man!" said Thomas Sprat. "I know not what he can do, and yet I thank him with all my heart. I would not have believed anything would lead him to make such an exertion. For myself, I hope nothing in this world save a speedy passage out of it, and that my age gives me warrant to expect: but I would gladly have you, my son, saved from the fiery trial, if it might be done without your denying the faith."

"Better death an hundred times than that!" said Jack.

"Be not confident, young man," said Master Dennett, apparently somewhat displeased. "Better bethink yourself how you will answer when you are brought before the council."

"I am not over-confident, I trust," replied Jack; "but I trust in Him who says, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee,' and therefore I am bold to say, 'The Lord is my helper: I will not fear what man may do unto me.' As to meditating how I shall answer, I make bold to refer you to the words of our Lord: 'When they take you up, take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall say. For it is not you that speak, but the Spirit of your Father which speaketh in you.'"

"Ay, but those words were not spoken to men like us," said Master Dennett. "They were spoken to apostles and saints."

"And what were the apostles and saints but common simple men like to us?" asked Thomas Sprat. "Are not all God's children called to be saints, and does He not promise the same grace freely to all if we are but faithful?"

"Alas, my faith is not like yours," said Master Dennett. "You are, besides, an old man, and must soon die at any rate; but I cannot but bethink me of my young wife and her babes, and the happy fireside I left but yesterday, with my old mother sitting in the chimney corner with my youngest-born on her knees. Little did I think as I bade them farewell and went out to my business, that the evening would find me here."

And the poor man threw himself on the pallet again in an agony of grief.

"It is indeed hard for flesh and blood," said the old man. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. We will pray for and with you, brother, that you may have strength in the evil day."

The night passed without disturbance, and in the morning came another basket of provisions from home.

"Your father has sent meat and alms to all the prisoners—debtors and all," said the jailer; "and a handsome present to my wife as well. He might have spared that, but he is a kind and liberal man. Truly, you have no cause to thank them who brought you into this scrape."

"Nobody led me into it, good Master Davis," said Jack. "I thank you heartily for bringing me these things. Have you heard whether we are to be brought to trial this day?"

"Nay, I am in none of their secrets," growled the jailer, and withdrew.

Jack made haste to examine the provisions. In one loaf, he found a short letter from his father, full of affection. In the other, he discovered what astonished him beyond measure. It was a small book carefully wrapped up, which, on being opened, proved to be the Testament lately given him by Arthur Brydges. In the envelope was written in Anne's hand, "Forgive and pray for me! A. L."

Master Dennett had also received a missive from his wife, and while he was reading it, Jack took the opportunity to show Anne's gift and note to his uncle. "I know not what to think," said he. "It is Anne's hand, I am sure. I cannot wonder so much at what she hath written, but that she should send me the Testament passes my comprehension."

"It is indeed strange," said Thomas. "Can she have repented of what she has done?"

"I cannot but hope so," replied Jack, "if only for her own sake. I have all the time thought she was fighting against her inward convictions. Poor maiden! I forgive her with all my heart. I suppose I had better destroy this writing, though I should love to keep it."

"Destroy it by all means," said the shepherd hastily, "lest it bring the poor girl into trouble."

With the next morning came Brother Joseph and a summons to the prisoners.

"Nay, not so fast, my young scholar," said the sacristan, with a sneering laugh, as Jack rose to accompany his uncle. "Your time will come soon enough."

"Am I not then to go with my uncle?" asked Jack. "You are to stay where you are till you are called, when, mayhap, you may wish yourself back again."

"Farewell, then, dearest son of my love!" said the old shepherd, embracing and kissing Jack. "Fear nothing, but remain in prayer and meditation of that goodness and faithfulness which will fail neither of us. Master Dennett, let us this day play the man for our Master. Once more, farewell, my dear lad. Pray earnestly for me, but have no fears. I am not alone in this matter, but One goes hence with me who will not suffer me to fall."

"Enough of these blasphemies!" said Brother Joseph harshly. "And spare your breath for your own porridge. It will be hot enough to need it all. As for you, young sir, bethink you well, for I tell you unless you wholly recant and confess who were your movers in this thing, not all your Greek and Latin can save you from the fire, here or hereafter."

"You do but throw away your words," returned Jack. "I would rather be in my place than yours."

The whole of that day Jack was left alone. It was the longest day of his life. The little book which Anne had so strangely sent him was his greatest comfort, and he read till his eyes ached with the dim light, striving to impress on his memory the words of the sacred text, lest the book should be found and taken from him.

When he could see no more, he found a bit of wood which had once formed a part of a rude bench, and busied himself in carving some crosses to be sent as farewell gifts to his father, sister, and other friends. He was still so engaged when the jailer came to pay his evening visit.

"Where are my uncle and Master Dennett?" was Jack's first question.

"Ask me no questions; you will know soon enough," was the gruff answer.

"I pray you, Master Davis," said Jack, in some agitation, "tell me how it has fared with mine uncle! Hath he been condemned?"

"Yes, then, if you must know," returned the jailer. "There was no chance for him. They said he had been respited once before—that his father was burned for a Lollard, while he was pardoned for his youth, and by the intercession of the old knight. Brother Joseph, as they call him, testified that he had overheard the old man instructing you in matters of heresy, and that you had both read from the Lutheran books. He was especially bitter against yourself. Then they went about with the old man to learn who had purveyed him the Testament, but they could get no satisfaction from him. I promise you he answered them roundly. Well, the end of it all is, the poor old father is to be burned tomorrow, and you are to be carried to see the show. So there! It is a shame. I care not who hears me say it, and he like a father to you."

"So said one of the priests. ''Tis like seething the kid in its mother's milk,' said he, and old Thomas, who disdained to say a word for himself, plead earnestly for you that you might be spared the sight, but they said it was for your soul's sake, and they would not hear him. What now! Keep up like a man! I have more for you to hear. See, drink this," said the jailer, with rough kindness, holding a cup to Jack's lips. "I have a message for you, and I promised to deliver it."

Jack made an effort to overcome the faintness which was stealing over him, and roused himself to hear the rest.

"The old man bade me tell you to be of good courage and care not for what was to happen to him; 'for,' says he, 'my pain will be but short and my happiness eternal, and so will yours be, so you be but faithful.' There, I had no business to tell it you, but I am not one to refuse a request to a dying man."

"Master Dennett?" asked Jack.

"Oh, he hath recanted and confessed all," answered the jailer, with a touch of scorn. "He was a cock of another sort, I promise you. He is to do penance tomorrow in face of the people, and suffer some fine. But I pray you consider well what you are about, for this monk is in fiery earnest, and it were pity of your father's son to suffer such a death."

"And will you not let me see my uncle again?" Jack asked.

"I could not, if I would," replied the jailer.

"The old man is not here, but confined in the room in the church tower yonder. Fare you well."

When Jack was left alone, he sat down on his bedside like one stunned. Burned! That good, innocent old man! That one whom he loved like a father—who had been truly, and not in mere name, a spiritual father to him. Burned alive! And he was to see it! There was no escape. He was in hands which knew not how to show mercy, and which would never spare him one pang.

He said to himself that he had expected this—that he had known all along that it would come at last; but none the less did it come on him with the suddenness of a hard blow. There are certain things for which no amount of preparation will prepare us. Then would come the old horrible thought—was it worth while after all? Was he not sacrificing life and reputation for a mere dream—a figment of the imagination? Was not one religious belief as good as another—were they not alike the inventions of men? Then, how many good men had believed that which he was about to die for denying! His father believed it still—so did Father John and my lady. Might it not be true, after all? And if it were not strictly so, was it not at any rate as true as the rest? Might he not profess his own belief, and so escape till better times—those times which Master Fleming believed would surely come, when the storm should have spent itself and passed away?

He might keep his Bible and read it in secret, or he might slip away and go abroad to Wittenburg, where he could confess the truth without fear.

But Jack had learned already that the devil is never to be conquered by listening to and arguing with him, but by taking refuge from his malice and sophistry in the presence of God.

He threw himself on his knees, and then on his face, and there poured out the bitterness of his soul. At first, he could say little more than "Lord help me! Lord deliver me!" over and over again, but by degrees he grew calmer, and the quieting and comforting influence of the Holy Spirit made itself felt in his soul.

Promise after promise came thronging to his mind, full of beauty and force as he had never known them before, and at last the full crowning work of Divine grace was wrought in his soul, and he was able to say for his friend as well as for himself, "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." He had never felt any fear for his uncle's steadfastness, and he no longer had any as regarded his own. He felt sure that the Lord was faithful who had promised; and that strength would be given him according to the work he had to do.

He rose at last, and, lighting his candle, he took out the precious little book which had so strangely come to him, but he had read barely one chapter before he heard footsteps approaching, and hastily extinguishing his light, he thrust that and his book far into the straw of his bed. He had hardly done so before his door was unlocked and Father Barnaby entered his cell.

"You watch late, my son," was his first greeting; "methinks you should be glad to sleep."

Jack simply inclined his head.

The priest put down the lantern he carried, and sat himself down on the pallet opposite to Jack, as if prepared to enter into conversation. Jack quietly waited for him to begin.

"You have heard the result of the trial to-day, I suppose," said Father Barnaby, after some minutes silence.

Jack assented.

"I would willingly have saved the old man," he continued, "but the evidence was too plain against him. He was convicted on the witness of one who heard him not only reading and speaking heresy, but striving to corrupt you. There was nothing to be done."

Still Jack did not reply, though the priest paused as though expecting him to speak.

"For you, my son, I would fain save you from a like fate," continued Father Barnaby. "I trust to be able to do so, if only you will be conformable and docile as becomes your youth. You will be brought before us in the morning early, before the execution takes place, and I have come to see if any argument of mine can move you so that you shall then be ready to confess your errors."

"You are the jailer and I am the prisoner," said Jack, breaking silence for the first time; "therefore I must hear you whether I will or no; but I tell you plainly, I am not to be persuaded. If indeed you do mean kindly, I thank you for your kindness, but I would rather it displayed itself in leaving me alone that I may have space for thought and prayer."

"But you will not refuse to listen to me," said Father Barnaby gently. "I have not come to argue with you, my son. I know well that in such cases, arguments are of little avail. But I desire to set before you plainly the results of two different courses of action."

Father Barnaby then proceeded to set forth the consequences of Jack's persistence in heresy. He would die a disgraceful and horrible death. He would bring upon his family a lasting shame and probably a suspicion of having shared in his fault. Even if it could be so managed that he should escape with life, he could look for nothing but life-long ignominious imprisonment, secluded from books, from friends, and all that made life worth having.

On the other hand, he had but to abjure his errors to be set at liberty. He should not even be asked to do public penance. The worst penalty inflicted on him should be a short seclusion in some religious house, where he could have the use of such a library as he had never yet seen, and pursue those studies which he so dearly loved. After that he should go to Oxford, or to some college at Rome, and who could tell to what station he might arrive? The great cardinal himself was the son of a butcher, and other eminent men at Rome were of equally obscure origin.

Jack listened so quietly that Father Barnaby thought he was gaining the day, and waxed yet more eloquent. At last he stopped.

"You are very silent, my son. May I not hope that you are coming to a better mind? Upon what are you meditating so deeply?"

"Upon the temptation of our Lord," replied Jack. "The devil took Him up into a very high mountain and showed Him all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them, and said, 'All these will I give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me.' Do you think if our Lord had done so the devil would have kept his promise? Or if he had, do you think the kingdoms of the world would have been worth the price?"

Father Barnaby colored and bit his lip. "You are scarce civil, my son."

"I meant not to be uncivil," said Jack. "So far as you mean kindly, I thank you; but the things you propose have no charms for me at present. I am too near death not to see their true character. As a man would be a fool who should give away the inheritance of a kingdom for the sake of playing the king one day before the eyes of man, so do I hold him a million times a fool who barters his assured hope of a heavenly inheritance for aught this world has to give."

Father Barnaby sat silent for a moment. Then he said with energy—

"My son, every word you say makes me more anxious to save you, not only for your own sake, but for that of the Church. We cannot afford to lose you thus. I do not ask you to change your opinions all at once. I only ask you to recant them, and then take time to study under proper instruction. As a priest, you could study the Scripture without sin, and I will take care that you have every facility to learn not only the Greek but the Hebrew. The Church hath power to bind and loose, and even if you commit a sin in this matter, she can absolve you."

"Ay," said Jack; "but suppose I lie to the Church, how shall I know that the Church will not lie to me? Once more, father, I thank you. I do believe you are willing to save my life, but I tell you plainly that I have no mind to be saved in any such way. I know that the God I serve can yet deliver me out of your hands, if such be His will, and I am content that His will be done. In all courtesy, I pray you to trouble me no more, but to leave me to the rest I need."

"It is enough, ungrateful, obstinate lad," said Father Barnaby rising. "I leave you to your fate. I shall pray for you that you may open your eyes before it is forever too late."

[Illustration: "It is enough, ungrateful, obstinate lad," said Father Barnaby. "I leave you to your fate."]

"I shall also pray for you," returned Jack; "and so I bid you good-night."