“You speak in parables, Doctor,” replied Avery.
“The safest matter to speak at this time,” answered he.
“You look for a new riot, an’ I take you rightly.”
“Hardly for a riot,” the other answered. “Is the door fast?”
“I bolted it after you,” said Avery.
Doctor Thorpe drew his chair closer, and spoke in a low, earnest voice. “Not a riot,” he said. “Say an uprising—a civil war—a mighty rebellion of all that be under, against all that be above. Men that will know no ruler, and bear no curb—little afraid to speak evil of dignities, or to do evil against them. ‘We are, and there is none beside us:’ yea, ‘we are the people, and wisdom shall die with us.’”
“There be such spirits alway,” answered Avery, “but, I thank God, rarely so many come together as shall do a mischief.”
“There shall be mischief enough done in Cornwall and Devon within the next month or twain,” said Dr Thorpe, gloomily. “I see more than you; and I am come to tell you of somewhat that nearly toucheth both you and me. A year gone or thereabout, I was a-riding from Bodmin on the Truro way, when I was aware of a little ragged lad that sat by the roadside, the tears a-rolling down his not over clean face. I drew bridle, and asked the lad what ailed him. He told me his mother did lie at death’s door, not far thence. ‘Hath she any doctor or apothecary?’ quoth I. ‘Nay,’ saith he, ‘neither the priest nor the apothecary would come without money, and father hath not a penny.’ Well, I ’light from mine horse, and throwing his bridle athwart mine arm, I bade the lad lead me to his mother, for I was a physician, and could maybe do her some good. I found her under an hedge, with nought save a ragged rug to cover her, twain other children beside clamouring for bread, and her husband, a rugged sullen-faced man, weaving of rushes for baskets. All they were dark-faced folk, and were, I take it, of that Egyptian (gipsy) crew that doth over-run all countries at times. I saw in a moment that though beyond their skill, her disorder was not (with God’s blessing) beyond mine; yet it did require speedy remedy to serve her. The physic that I fetched for her quickly gave her ease, and I was something astonied at the blessings which the husband did heap upon me when I departed from them. Methought, though he were rugged of face, yet he must be a man that had some power of affection. Well, the woman amended, and all they left that part. I heard no more of them sithence, until late last night, as I was a-riding home, very nigh the same place, all suddenly an hand was laid upon my bridle. An highwayman, thought I; and I remembered that I had little money upon me. But in the stead of easing me of my purse, mine highwayman put unto me a strange question.—‘What is your name, and where dwell you?’—‘Verily,’ said I, ‘I might ask the same of you. But sithence I am in no wise ashamed neither of my name nor my dwelling-place, know you, that the one is Stephen Thorpe, and the other is Bodmin. What more would you?’—‘Your calling?’—‘A physician.’—‘Enough,’ quoth my strange questioner. ‘I pray you to alight from your horse, and have no fear of me. I will do you no harm; I would not hurt you for a thousand pieces in good red gold. I want neither your money (howsoever much it be) nor your valuables that may be on you. Only, I pray you, let us two whisper together a season.’—‘In good sooth,’ said I, ‘I have nought to whisper unto you.’—‘But I have to you,’ saith he, ‘and what I say must not be spoken aloud. You would trust me if you knew what I would have.’—‘Well, friend,’ quoth I, ‘for a friend metrusteth you be, I will do as you bid me. All the money I have upon me is but some few shillings, and to them, if you lack, you are welcome. For valuable matter, I carry none; and I myself am an old man, no longer of much service unto any. If you desire me to ply my trade of healing, I am content; but I warn you that by murdering of me you should gain little beside an evil conscience.’—So with that I ’lighted down.—‘Throw the bridle on your arm,’ saith he, ‘and follow me.’—So, linking his arm in mine, he drew me (for it was pitch dark, and how he found his way I know not) aside from the road, unto a small forsaken and ruinated hut that stood on the common.—‘Stand where you be a moment,’ quoth he; and striking the tinder, he lit a rush candle. ‘Now, know you me?’ saith he. ‘Not a whit better than afore,’ quoth I.—He blew out the candle.—‘You have forgot my face,’ he saith. ‘Mind you a year gone, ministering unto a dying woman (as was thought), in this place, under an hedge, whereby you did recover her of her malady?’—‘I know you now,’ said I; ‘you are that woman’s husband.’ ‘Then you are aware,’ answereth he, ‘that I would do you no hurt.’—‘Say on,’ quoth I.—‘Suffer me,’ saith he, ‘to ask you certain questions.’—‘So be it,’ said I.—Then he,—‘Is your house in Bodmin your own?’—‘It is so,’ answered I, marvelling if he were about to ask me for mine house.—‘Sell it,’ quoth he, ‘and quickly.’—‘Wherefore?’ answered I.—‘I passed no word touching your questions,’ quoth he, grimly.—‘In good sooth,’ said I, ‘this is a strange matter, for a man to be bidden to sell his house, and not told wherefore.’—‘You shall see stranger things than that,’ he answered, ‘ere your head be hoarier by twain s’ennight from now.’—‘Well! say on,’ quoth I.—‘Have you,’ pursueth he, ‘any money lent unto any friend, or set out at usury? You were best to call it in, if you would see it at all.’—‘Friend,’ said I, ‘my money floweth not in so fast that my back lacketh it not so soon as it entereth my purse.’—‘The better,’ quo’ he.—‘Good lack!’ said I, ‘I alway thought it the worse.’—‘The worse afore, the better now,’ he answered. ‘But once more—have you any friend you would save from peril?’—And I,—‘Why, I would save any from peril that I saw like to fall therein.’—‘Then,’ quoth he, ‘give them privily the counsel that I now give you. If the sun find you at Bodmin,—yea, any whither in Cornwall or Devon—twain s’ennights hence, he shall not set on you alive. Speak not another word. Mount your horse, and go.’—I strave, however, to say another word unto him, but not one more would he hearken. ‘Go!’ he crieth again, so resolute and determinedly that I did go. Now, I fear greatly that this man did tell me but truth, and that some fearful rising of the commons is a-brewing. I shall surely take his counsel, and go hence. What say you, Jack? Shall we go together?”
There was dead silence for a minute. Isoult’s head was in a whirl.
At last her husband said slowly, “What sayest thou, Isoult?”