"Ay," retorted Meryl, "go thou and a handful of others. For a while ye will think yourselves the masters of the earth. Yet it will be as a drop in the bucket compared to what shall be gained if ye bide in patience till the men of every county be ready to rise. Then all the nobles of the land cannot withstand us."
"There is something in his counsellings, after all," murmured the old man. "Yet it is bitter biding the time, and patience and an eager belly go ill together."
Meanwhile Robert Annys led a busy life, making frequent trips to the neighboring towns and hamlets, and preaching before great gatherings. The excommunication bore little fruit. Even Annys was astonished to find how few men cared. For there were many reasons why men still continued to hold fellowship with him. First, they needed him, they found that he brought them what they craved. Also, at no time had the Papacy been held in such scant reverence. How could the spectacle of two rival, quarrelling Popes struggling and wrangling over the chair of Peter as two dogs snarling over a bone, fail to hold up the sacred office to ridicule? Moreover, little by little the figure of the Pope, albeit that he wore upon his head a mitre whose three jewelled crowns cost over five hundred thousand pieces of gold, was waning in majesty and power before that simple figure of a man upon whose forehead rested only a crown of thorns. At a different period, earlier or later, Annys would have found himself in terrible isolation; men would have shrunk from the slightest contact with him, and he would have suffered keenly, even for the ordinary necessities of life. But now so little heed was paid to his excommunication, that a second Papal Bull was launched forth, anathematizing even such as should listen to the heretical and incendiary preaching of this poor priest, Robert Annys.
And still the rustics continued to gather about him whenever he appeared, in the fields, or at the cross-roads, or at the very thresholds of the Church that banished him. Men sent for him to speak with them when they were disheartened; they sent for him when they wished for tidings of the Great Uprising; they sent for him to shrive their souls when they faced the awful journey through eternity, forgetting that it was denied him to perform the offices of Holy Church, remembering only the strong grip of his hand and the love-light in his eyes that somehow seemed to make the great journey less terrible. Dimly struggling through the hierarchical, conventional conception of the priestly office, was coming the recognition of the priest as just a human brother with the sorrows and temptations of all men, and just a little more spirituality and helpfulness than is given to all.
Once, when Annys returned from a long journey, he was more exhausted than usual. Matilda was frankly frightened. Indeed, Richard had of late questioned in his heart if her interest in the poor priest were not growing more intense than mere friendship would warrant. He had watched them together over their Bible with a terrible foreboding in his heart. He had noted, also, the swift illumination of her face whenever Annys returned to them. He was not really betrothed to Matilda, and yet since he had first known her as a little girl he had never thought of marrying another woman. Their friendship had been constant and devoted, but as yet no words of love had been spoken on either side.
"Thou dost look worn and weary," exclaimed Matilda, tenderly, as she laid out for Annys such simple refreshment as she could offer. "It is more than human strength can bear, such work as thine. Take a rest now with us," she added solicitously.
Annys looked into her kind eyes and smiled. He passed one thin hand wearily over his brow. Ah, if it were only the body that was weary. He raised some food mechanically to his lips.
Matilda wondered if he was conscious of the fact that he was eating. There was a hunted look in his eyes as he exclaimed suddenly:—