“Lo’ you, now! I forgat that. Ay, afore the anointing, my gracious Lord Chancellor proclaimeth her Majesty’s goodly pardon unto all prisoners whatsoever and wheresoever—save and except an handful only, to wit, such as were in the Marshalsea, and the Fleet, and the Tower, and such as had order to keep their houses, and sixty-two more.”
“Why, that were to except them all!” cried Mr Holland.
“Nay, they excepted not them in Newgate, nor the Counter.”
“A goodly procession of pardoned men!” said John.
“Well,” said Dr Thorpe, after a short pause, “the Queen’s reign is now fairly established; what shall the end be?”
“Ask not me,” replied Mr Ferris.
“We know what it shall be,” answered Mr Rose, thoughtfully. “‘I will overturn, overturn, overturn, until He come whose right it is, and I will give it Him.’ Let as pray for His coming. And in the mean time have we a care that our loins be girded about, and our lamps burning; that when He cometh and knocketh, we may open unto Him immediately. We shall be unready to open immediately, if our hands be overfull of worldly matters. It were not well to have to say to Him, ‘Lord, let me lay down this high post, and that public work, and these velvet robes, and this sweet cup, and this bitter one—and then I will open unto Thee.’ I had rather mine hand were on the latch of the door, looking out for Him.”
“But, Father Rose, men must see to public matters, and wear velvet robes, and carry weights of all fashions—why, the world would stand still else!”
“Must men do these things, Master Ferris? yet be there two ways of doing them. Believe me, there is one other thing they must do—they must meet Christ.”
A jovial, merry, gallant gentleman was George Ferris; and a Protestant—of some sort. But he outlived the persecution. It was not of such stuff as his that martyrs were made. The gorgeous pageants were over, and the bitter suffering came back.