“But one other point, Robin, leave not out of thine account,” said John. “It may be thou canst not receive orders.”
“Why, then,” replied he, “if I cannot, I cannot. But when shall I know that I cannot?”
“When all the Protestant Bishops are in prison, I take it,” said John, smiling.
“Were it not better, Robin,” suggested Isoult, “to fix thee a time, not unreasonable distant, whereat, if thou mayest not hap to receive orders afore, thou shalt resign that expectation, and be free to wed?”
“Good and wise counsel!” cried John. “Thou hast hit the nail on the head. Thinkest not so, Robin?”
Robin sat silent for a moment. Then he said,—“Ay—if Mr Rose agree thereto.”
“We will ask him that,” answered John, “so soon as we may.”
On the 11th of August, to borrow the expression of the Gospellers, the abominable thing was once more set up in England. For the first time for six years, an old priest sang the Latin mass in Saint Bartholomew’s Church, to the awakening of such burning indignation on the part of his hearers, that he was compelled to escape for his life by a side door.
The application to Mr Rose was made on the Sunday evening following, when John and Isoult, with Robin, rode over to the evening service at West Ham. Mr Rose’s sermon was a very solemn one, on the text, “I am now ready to be offered.”
Ready to be offered! how many of the Gospellers needed to be so, in that autumn of 1553!