Elizabeth glanced back into the kitchen where her aunt was sewing, and her two cousins gauffering the large ruffs which both men and women then wore.
“None that can harm. Say on, my master.”
“Bessy, dost know my voice?”
“I do somewhat, yet I can scarce put a name thereto.”
“I am Walter Purcas, of Booking.”
“Robin’s father! Ay, I know you well now, and I cry you mercy that I did no sooner.”
“Come away with me, Bessy!” he said, in a loud whisper. “I have walked all the way from Booking to see if I might save thee, for Robin’s sake, for he loves thee as he loveth nought else save me. Mistress Wade shall lend me an horse, and we can be safe ere night be o’er, in the house of a good man that I know in a place unsuspect. O Bessy, my dear lass, save thyself and come with me!”
“Save thyself!” The words had been addressed once before, fifteen hundred years back, to One who did not save Himself, because He came to save the world. Before the eyes of Elizabeth rose two visions—one fair and sweet enough, a vision of safety and comfort, of life and happiness, which might be yet in state for her. But it was blotted out by the other—a vision of three crosses reared on a bare rock, when the One who hung in the midst could have saved Himself at the cost of the glory of the Father and the everlasting bliss of His Church. And from that cross a voice seemed to whisper to her—“If any man serve Me, let him follow Me.”
“Verily, I am loth you should have your pain for nought,” said she, “but indeed I cannot come with you, though I do thank you with all my heart. I am set here in ward of mine uncle, and for me to ’scape away would cause penalty to fall on him. I cannot save myself at his cost. And should not the Papists take it to mean that I had not the courage to stand to that which they demanded of me? Nay, Father Purcas, this will I not do, for so should I lose my crown, and dim the glory of my Christ.”
“Bessy!” cried her aunt from the kitchen, “do come within and shut the door, maid! Here’s the wind a-blowing in till I’m nigh feared o’ losing my ears, and all the lace like to go up the chimney, while thou tarriest chatting yonder. What gossip hast thou there? Canst thou not bring her in?”