This seems to be a true portraiture of Knox in the days of his vigour; if we are to speak of vigour in the case of a man with a small and frail body (one of his early biographers speaks of him as a mere corpuscle), and a man throughout his whole public life struggling with disease. In the last year of his prematurely 'decrepit age,' we have another description of him; and this time it is taken in St Andrews. Edinburgh and Leith were now again at war, and the quarter of Knox's house was the most unsafe in the city. The 'King's Men' outside were always attempting to force the Netherbow Port; and their guns, planted close by on the Dow Craig,[120] and a little farther off on Salisbury Crags, smote from either side. They were crossed and answered, not only by the great guns of the castle, held by the Queen's Men under Kirkaldy, but by a nearer battery on the Blackfriars' Yard, and by guns planted on the roof of St Giles (the biggest of which the soldiers of course christened 'John Knox'). In these circumstances Knox was safer away; and from May 1571 to August 1572 his residence was St Andrews. There the mild James Melville, a student at St Leonards, watched the old man with the wistful reverence of youth.

'I saw him every day of his doctrine go hulie and fear,[121] with a furring of martricks about his neck, a staff in the one hand, and good godly Richard Ballanden, his servant, holding up the other oxter,[122] from the Abbey to the parish kirk; and by the said Richard and another servant, lifted up to the pulpit, where he behoved to lean at his first entry; but before he had done with his sermon, he was so active and vigorous that he was like to ding that pulpit in blads,[123] and fly out of it!'[124] And the impact on the mind of the youthful Melville was scarcely less than that on the pulpit. He had his 'pen and little book,' and for the first half hour of Knox's sermon, took down 'such things as I could comprehend'; but when the preacher 'entered to the application of his text he made me so to grue[125] and tremble that I could not hold a pen to write!'[126]

But his day was rapidly moving to its close; and Knox, without waiting for his return to Edinburgh, now wrote his Will. In it, after an unexpectedly mild address to the Papists, and a prophecy (which was not fulfilled) that his death would turn out a worse thing for them than his life, he turns to the other side, and in one striking paragraph sums up the work that was now to close.

'To the faithful I protest, that God, by my mouth, be I never so abject, has shewn to you His truth in all simplicity. None I have corrupted; none I have defrauded; merchandise have I not made (to God's glory I write) of the glorious Evangel of Jesus Christ. But according to the measure of the grace granted unto me, I have divided the sermon [word] of truth into just parts: beating down the pride of the proud in all that did declare their rebellion against God, according as God in His law gives to me yet testimony; and raising up the consciences troubled with the knowledge of their own sins, by the declaring of Jesus Christ, the strength of His death, and the mighty operation of His resurrection in the hearts of the faithful.'

When (still before leaving St Andrews) he publishes his last book, he dedicates it to the faithful 'that God of His mercy shall appoint to fight after me;' and he adds, 'I heartily salute and take my good-night of all the faithful of both realms ... for as the world is weary of me, so am I of it.' In those darkening days, even when he is merely to write his subscription, it is 'John Knox, with my dead hand but glad heart.' For in this inevitable anti-climax of failing life, Knox found his compensations not in the world, nor even in the Church. When he returned to Edinburgh, he had become unable for pastoral work. 'All worldly strength, yea, even in things spiritual,' he writes to his expected colleague, 'decays, and yet never shall the work of God decay.... Visit me, that we may confer together on heavenly things: for, in earth, there is no stability, except in the Kirk of Jesus Christ, ever fighting under the cross. Haste, ere you come too late.' His colleague hurried from Aberdeen to Edinburgh, and at his induction Knox appeared and spoke once more in public. But it was the last time, and at the close of the service the whole congregation accompanied the failing steps of their minister down to the Netherbow. And from that 9th November 1572 he never left his house.

We have at least two accounts of his death—one in Latin from a colleague, one in Scots by his old servitor and secretary; and the latter seems to have the merit of admiring and indiscriminating faithfulness. It is often said that such death-bed narratives are worthless, unless judged by the light thrown upon them from the previous life. It is true. Yet Death, too, is a great critic; and, at least when that previous life has included a problem, (as we have thought to be the case here), it may be well before we volunteer a verdict to listen to his summing up. It may finally divide, or it may reunite, the inward and outward elements which have co-existed in the life. And it may at least reveal which of them was the ruling and radical characteristic. For while Knox had long been a beacon-light to Scotland, we have had reason to think that the flame was first kindled in this man's own soul. But now that the fuel which fed it is withdrawn, will that flame sink into the socket? Will it flicker out, now that the airs which fanned it have become still? How will it behave in the chill that falls from those winnowing wings?

The day after Knox sickened he gave one of his servants twenty shillings above his fee, with the words, 'Thou wilt never get no more from me in this life.' Two days after, his mind wandered; and he wished to go to church 'to preach on the resurrection of Christ.' Next day he was better; and when two friends called he ordered a hogshead of wine to be pierced, and urged them to partake, for their host 'would not tarry until it was all drunk.' On Monday, the 17th, he asked the elders and deacons of his church, with the ministers of Edinburgh and Leith, to meet with him; and in solemn and affectionate words, nearly the same with those above quoted from his will, reviewed his ministry and took leave of them all. But here too trouble from his past awaited him. He had not long before accused from the pulpit Maitland of Lethington, now in the Castle, of having said that 'Heaven and hell are things I devised to fray bairns;' and Maitland's demand for evidence or apology was brought to him. Knox had never been able to bear contradiction, especially when he was somewhat in the wrong; and those who wish to acquire new virtues must not postpone them to their last hours. His defence was roundabout and ineffectual; and all were glad when he parted from these details of his long life-struggle, so that his friends, with tears, might take their last look of his worn and wearied face. The effort had been too much for him, and henceforth he never spoke but with great pain. Yet during the rest of the week he had many visitors. One after another the nobles in Edinburgh, Lords Boyd, Drumlanrig, Lindsay, Ruthven, Glencairn, and Morton (then about to be elected Regent) had interviews with him. Of Morton he demanded whether he had been privy to the murder of Darnley, and receiving an evasive assurance that he had not, he charged him to use his wealth and high place 'better in time to come than you have done in time past. If so ye do, God shall bless and honour you; but if ye do it not, God shall spoil you of these benefits, and your end shall be ignominy and shame.' When so many men pressed in, women, devout and honourable, were of course also present. One lady commenced to praise his works for God's cause: 'Tongue! tongue! lady,' he broke in; 'flesh of itself is overproud, and needs no means to esteem itself.' Gradually they all left, except his true friend Fairley of Braid. Knox turned to him: 'Every one bids me good-night; but when will you do it? I shall never be able to recompense you; but I commit you to One that is able to do it—to the Eternal God.' During the days that followed, his weakness reduced him to ejaculatory sentences of prayer. 'Come, Lord Jesus. Sweet Jesus, into Thy hands I commend my spirit' But Scotland was still on his heart; and as Napoleon in his last hours was heard to mutter tête d'armée, so Knox's attendants caught the words, 'Be merciful, O Lord, to Thy Church, which Thou hast redeemed. Give peace to this afflicted commonwealth. Raise up faithful pastors who will take charge of Thy Church. Grant us, Lord, the perfect hatred of sin, both by the evidences of Thy wrath and mercy.' Sometimes he was conscious of those around, and seemed to address them. 'O serve the Lord in fear, and death shall not be terrible to you. Nay, blessed shall death be to those who have felt the power of the death of the only begotten Son of God.'

On his last Sabbath a more remarkable scene occurred. He had been lying quiet during the afternoon, and suddenly exclaimed, 'If any be present let them come and see the work of God.' His friend, Johnston of Elphinstone, was summoned from the adjacent church, and on his arrival Knox burst out, 'I have been these two last nights in meditation on the troubled Church of God, the spouse of Jesus Christ, despised of the world, but precious in His sight. I have called to God for her, and have committed her to her head, Jesus Christ. I have been fighting against Satan, who is ever ready to assault. Yea, I have fought against spiritual wickedness in heavenly things, and have prevailed. I have been in heaven and have possession. I have tasted of the heavenly joys where presently I am.' Gradually this rapture of retrospection and assurance wore itself down, with the help of recitation by the dying man of the Creed and the Lord's Prayer—Knox pausing over the clause 'Our Father,' to ejaculate, 'Who can pronounce so holy words?'

Next day, Monday, 24 November, 1572, was his last on earth. His three most intimate friends sat by his bedside. Campbell of Kinyeancleugh asked him if he had any pain. 'It is no painful pain,' he said; 'but such a pain as shall soon, I trust, put an end to the battle.' To this friend he left in charge his wife, whom later of the day he asked to read him the fifteenth chapter to the Corinthians. When it was finished, 'Now for the last [time],' he said, 'I commend my soul, spirit, and body' (and as he spoke he touched three of his fingers) 'into Thy hands, O Lord.' Later of the day he called to his wife again, 'Go read where I cast my first anchor!' She turned to the seventeenth chapter of John, and followed it up with part of a sermon of Calvin on the Epistle to the Ephesians. It seems to have been after this that he fell into a moaning slumber. All watched around him. Suddenly he woke, and being asked why he sighed, said that he had been sustaining a last 'assault of Satan.' Often before had he tempted him with allurements, and urged him to despair. Now he had sought to make him feel as if he had merited heaven by his faithful ministry. 'But what have I that I have not received? Wherefore,[127] I give thanks to my God, through Jesus Christ, who hath been pleased to give me the victory; and I am persuaded that the tempter shall not again attack me, but that within a short time I shall, without any great pain of body or anguish of mind, exchange this mortal and miserable life for a blessed immortality through Jesus Christ.' During the hours which followed he lay quite still, and they delayed reading the evening prayer till past ten o'clock, thinking he was asleep. When it was finished, his physician asked him if he had heard the prayers. 'Would to God,' he answered, 'that you and all men had heard them as I have heard them; I praise God for that heavenly sound.' As eleven o'clock drew on he gave a deep sigh, and they heard the words, 'Now it is come.' His servant, Richard Bannatyne, drew near, and called upon him to think upon the comfortable promises of Christ which he had so often declared to others. Knox was already speechless, but his servant pleaded for one sign that he heard the words of peace. As if collecting his whole strength, he lifted up his right hand heavenwards, and sighing twice, peacefully expired.