Waghorn lifted his piercing eyes and regarded him with grave disapproval.
“I am no sexton, sir, you mistake my calling,” he said.
“Your pardon! but, in truth, you look like a sexton, there is an air of graves and mould about you, of skulls and crossbones,” replied Norton, laughing. “Perhaps, however, sexton or no, you can tell me the name of the Vicar, for I am a stranger here, and have just spoken with him and his daughter.”
“The Vicar is the son of that vile prelate, Bishop Coke, who lives in palaces while the poor starve, one of the hirelings that devour the flock, one of those twelve prelates who sought to break the law of the land, and were justly cast into the Tower. Would that they had remained there,” said the Puritan, bitterly.
“And this son of his, your Vicar, doth he share the Bishop’s views?”
“I know not,” said Waghorn, and an expression of genuine perplexity dawned in his eyes. “He did feed Massey’s men t’other day when they were cold and hungry.”
“The devil he did?” exclaimed Norton. “Doth he then side with the Parliament?”
“In truth, sir, he is one that hates the war, but whether he thinks one side better than the other I know not. As for the lady, she is no daughter of his, but his niece, Mistress Hilary Unett, and she, I understand, hates all godly Puritans, and favours such godless men as Prince Rupert and Prince Maurice. I speak over-freely, however, for I see you are a King’s officer.”
“Nay, man, I like the freedom of your speech,” said Norton, with a laugh. “Judging by your looks I took you for a man of few words, but, beshrew me! you are as good a talker as I have met in these parts.”
“Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh,” said Waghorn. “My thoughts are ever of how to thwart those who are half-hearted in the work of the Lord, those who would keep crosses standing because, forsooth, they are old. Many things are old yet have to be utterly destroyed. The brazen serpent was old, yet, when the people bowed down to it, then it had to be ground to powder. And so shall it be now, in spite of the Vicar. All he cares for is its great antiquity—if a heathen idol were brought across the seas, and if it were curiously wrought, I trow the Vicar would be right proud to place it among his hoards, and he and Mr. Silas Taylor would try to make out its age and its history, as they do with their vain stones, and their bones of those that be dead and gone.”