There was a brief delay of the cavalcade just as the officers rode up to the place where he stood, and Waghorn, with a heartfelt ejaculation of thanks, raised his eyes to heaven. His breast heaved with emotion, though his strong, square-set face betrayed nothing but quiet determination.
“Sir,” he said, approaching Massey, “may I crave your help, and entreat that you will spare your men for the pious work of destruction. There stands a cross, sir, in yonder churchyard—a popish cross. Bid your soldiers throw it down.”
“My good fellow,” said Massey, “I have other work on hand just now, and the men need food and rest.”
“It will not take long,” pleaded Waghorn. “It stands hard by, and, sir, as you know, Parliament hath expressly ordered the destruction of crosses, because the people do idolatrously bow down to them.”
“Yes, ’tis true,” said Massey, who, as a matter of fact, cared for none of these things, and was more or less a soldier of fortune. “It shall be done some day, but not now. I am certain to be in the neighbourhood again. Ask me when I have more leisure.”
Waghorn drew back, grievously disappointed.
“He is not whole-hearted; my soul hath no pleasure in such. Yet he did help to defend the godly city of Gloucester, and maybe some other day I shall prevail with him. I must bide my time,” and, with a deep sigh, he returned to his house, and, falling on his knees, prayed fervently that he might be spared to do the Lord’s work, and to cast down every high thing that exalted itself against truth and righteousness.
The man was no hypocrite, his character was absolutely genuine, he hated whatever he deemed likely to lead people astray; but sorrow and loneliness had warped his nature. Since his father’s death no spark of love had been kindled in his heart, and incessant brooding over one great grievance had distorted his powers of judgment. His zeal had degenerated into fanaticism, his Christianity had faded into that longing to call down fire from heaven on all who disagreed with him, which has often marred the career of great saints and honest disciples.
Meanwhile, the kindly Vicar—a man who loathed strife and ill-will—made his way out into the village, and with just a comforting remembrance of the splendid ammonite, his newest treasure, to linger in the recesses of his troubled heart with a sort of grateful glow, went from one to another of his parishioners, gathering by degrees the state of affairs. At the door of the “Bell Inn” he saw Massey and two of his officers dismount, and with the quick glance of one who is always studying his surroundings recognised in the stream of bright lamplight coming from the open door, one of Sir Richard Hopton’s sons.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Hopton,” he said, pleasantly. “I am sorry to learn of the trouble that has befallen Sir Richard.”