“Upon my word, but I am coming to think so!” cried she. “Shame upon every coward of them! Were there not enough to fill the first breach with a wall of men’s bodies, rather than lose the fairest jewel of the Crown? Beshrew the recreants! but I had never come away from that breach alive! I would have died with Calais!”
“I am sorry you were not there, Madam,” said he, “for the sake of Calais. For your own sake, ’tis well.”
“I am sorry all over,” answered she. “The Queen taketh it most heavily of all. She said to her ladies that when she should be dead, they should find ‘Calais’ graved upon her heart.”
Hitherto the storm of persecution had not come inside the little walled circle of friends dear to the hearts of the Averys. It had raged around them, had broken fiercely upon men whom they reverenced and loved as afar off. But now it was to come within. One whose eyes had looked into theirs, whose lips had smiled on them, whose voice had bidden God bless them,—ay, upon whose knee the children had sat, and chattered to him in childish wise,—was summoned from the midst of them, to go up in the chariot of fire into the presence of the Lord.
Austin and Mr Underhill came together, both very pensive, on the night of the 6th of May.
“There is ill news with you, I fear,” said John.
“There is ill news, and that right heavy,” answered Mr Underhill. “Roger Holland is taken.”
“Where and how?” they asked.
“With six other, in a quiet close near Saint John’s Wood, where they were met to read God’s Word and pray together, this last May Day; and carried afore my Lord of London. He had better have tarried at his father’s in Lancashire, whence he was but newly come.”
“And Bessy?” said Isoult, compassionately.