Barbara looked at him curiously.
"You are a divine, sir, are you not?"
"Yes, I am indeed a servant of the Lord, though for many years I have been withheld from openly preaching His word. For fifty years I have lived and worked secretly among the miners of the Mendip Hills, and when they marched to support the defender of our religion, I followed to give them the comfort of my words. I thank God that I shall follow them to the end. Ah, child," he continued earnestly, "you cannot understand what it is to be silenced, to be dumb, as 'twere, for twenty-three years; to be torn to pieces 'twixt the burning in my heart to speak the Word, the fear in my breast of meeting the punishment. It is worth a thousand deaths to have had at last this chance of testifying once again to the truth."
Barbara looked at him gravely.
"No," she said, "I do not understand."
His earnestness vanished. He gave a soft resigned sigh and smiled at her, as at a child.
"No, you do not understand; you are young and fearless."
"It should be easy to me to be courageous," she answered lightly. "I have nought to fear. 'Tis for me but some few days in prison, and then perchance a fine. In justice they can do no more."
He smiled at her a trifle sadly.
"Aye, child, as you say, in justice they could do no more."