“Gramercy, no! Nature never cut him out for a general.”
“Mr Latimer, quondam of Worcester?”
“As fiery as Ned Underhill,” answered Mr Rose, smiling; “indeed, somewhat too lacking in caution; but an old man, with too little strength or endurance of body—enough of soul.”
“Nay, then, I see but one more,” continued Avery, “and if you say nay to him also, I have done. What think you of my Lord’s Grace of Suffolk?”
“‘Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel,’” he answered. “A man weak as any child, and as easily led astray. If he be your head, Avery, I would say it were scarce worth to turn out for the cause. You would have an halter round your neck in a week.”
“Well,” responded John, “I cannot see any other.”
“I cannot see any,” was Mr Rose’s answer.
“Then we have no leader!” said Dr Thorpe, despondently.
Dr Thorpe was beginning to say “we” when he meant the Gospellers.
“We have no leader,” said Mr Rose. “We had one—an Heaven-born one—the only man to whose standard (saving a faction) all England should have mustered, the only man whose trumpet should have reached every heart. And but three months gone, his blood reddened the surfeited earth upon Tower Hill. Friends, men may come to look upon that loss as upon a loss never to be amended. Trust me, we have not seen the worst yet. If it should be as you guess—and that may well be—there shall yet be a bitterer wail of mourning, yet a cry of agony ringing to the Heaven, for the lack of Edward Seymour.”