“But how didst thou go to bed?” asked Walter.
Robin smiled, and told the child there was no bed to go to.
“And did the gaoler never forget thee?” Kate wished to know.
“Twice he did,” answered Robin, “for a day. But that would not kill me, thou wist. I became very weak ere I came forth. But to continue:—I wept long and bitterly, but it gave me no comfort. I felt as if nothing ever would give me comfort again. The Devil was very near me. It was all folly, he whispered. I had hoped a vision, and had believed a lie. God was dead, if there ever were any God; He never came into Little Ease. None would ever know where and what I was become. I should die here, and if fifty years hence my whitened bones were found, none would know whose they had been. Your dear faces rose around me, and I could have wept again, to think I should never see you any more. But the fountain of my tears was dried now. Mine heart seemed to be freezing into rock than which the walls of Little Ease were no harder. I sat or lay, call it what you will, thinking gloomily and drearily, until at last nature could bear no more, and I slept, even there.”
“Well, Robin!” said Kate, “if thine heart were frozen, methinks it thawed again afore thou earnest hither.”
“It did so, sweet heart,” said he, smiling on her. “Even as I awoke, a text of Scripture darted into my memory, well-nigh as though one had spoken it to me. A strange text, you will say,—yet it was the one for me then:—‘Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord his God out of the fish’s belly.’ Well, I was no worse off than Jonah. It seemed yet more unlike, his coming forth of that fish’s belly, than did my coming forth of Little Ease. Methought I, so near in Jonah’s case, would try Jonah’s remedy. To have knelt I could not; no more, I fancy, could Jonah. But I could pray as well as he. That was the first gleam of inward light; and after that it grew. Ay—grew till I was no more alone, because God companied with me; till I was no more an hungred, because God fed me; till I thirsted no more, because God led me unto living fountains of waters; till I wept no more, because God wiped away all tears from mine eyes. Ere I came forth, I would not have changed Little Ease for the fairest chamber of the Queen’s Palace, if thereby I had left Him behind. It gained on me, till my will grew into God’s will—till I was absolutely content to die or live, as He would; to be burned in Smithfield, or to come home and clasp you all to mine heart—as should be most to His glory. The heats of summer, I thought, must be come; but on the hottest summer day, there was but cold and damp in Little Ease. The summer, methought, must be passing; and then, it must be past. I had left hoping for change. I only thought how very fair and sweet the House of the Father would be to me after this. So the hours rolled away, until one morrow, out of the wonted order, I heard the door unlocked. ‘Are you there?’ calls the gaoler in his gruff voice. ‘Ay,’ said I. ‘Feel about for a rope,’ quoth he, ‘and set the noose under your arms; you are to come forth.’ Was this God calling to me? I did not think of the pains of death; I only remembered the after-joy of seeing Him. I found the rope, and the loop thereof, which I set under mine arms. ‘Cry out when you are ready,’ saith he. I cried, and he slung me up. Can I tell you what pain it was? The light—the sweet summer light of heaven—was become torture; and I could neither stand nor walk. ‘Ha!’ saith he, when he saw this, ‘you have not grown stronger. How liked you Little Ease?’—‘I like what God liketh for me,’ I made answer. He looked on me somewhat scornfully. ‘Methinks you be but half rocked yet,’ saith he. ‘Maybe you shall come back. Matt!’ At the shout an under-gaoler came forth of a door. ‘Take thou this fellow by the arm,’ saith he. ‘We shall be like to bear him.’ Himself took mine other arm, and so, more borne than walking, I reached the hall of the Palace. Here they took me into a little light chamber, suffered me to wash, and gave me clean garments, to my great ease. Then they sat me down at a table, and set before me a mess of sodden meat, with bread and drink, and bade me to eat well. I thought I was going afore the Bishop for sentence. But, to my surprise, they let me alone; locked me into the chamber, and there left me. This chamber had a barred window, looking out on the Palace court, in the midst whereof was a round of green grass. I cannot set in words the exquisite delight that window gave me. The green grass and the blue sky—I could never tire of them. Here they fed me well three times in the day; and at night I lay on a mattress, which was softer to me then than I ever felt afore a bed of down. When at last I was strong enough to ride, I was set on an horse, and his bridle tied to the horse of the Sheriff’s man. So we rade away from Woburn, twenty or more in company. This time I saw we went south. At the last (I will not essay to tell you with what feelings), I knew we were nearing London. I wonder where were you, beloved, that even that I rade in at Aldgate? I looked longingly down the Minories, but I could see no familiar face.”
“Why, Robin dear, what even was it?” said Isoult.
“How shall I tell thee, sweet mother, when I know not yet what even is this?” said he, and smiled. “It was fifteen weeks from to-day, saving three days.”
“There is a sum!” said Mr Underhill. “Jack, whether can thou or I do it? Fifteen—two thirty-ones and a thirty—saving three—the 5th of October, I make it.”
“I think so,” assented John.