“That’s comforting, in truth,” said poor Agnes. “But, Master Ewring, think you there is any hope that I may yet be allowed to witness for my Lord before men in very deed? To have come so near, and be thrust back! Is there no hope?”
Agnes Bongeor was not the only one of the sufferers in this persecution who actually coveted and longed for martyrdom. If the imperial crown of all the world had been laid at their feet, they would have reckoned it beneath contempt in comparison with that crown of life promised to such as are faithful unto death. Not faithful till death, but unto it.
“I know not what the Lord holds in reserve for thee, my sister. I only know that whatsoever it be, it is that whereby thou mayest best glorify Him. Is that not enough? If more glory should come to Him by thy dying in this dungeon after fifty years’ imprisonment, than by thy burning, which wouldst thou choose? Speak truly.”
Agnes dropped her face upon her hands for a moment.
“You have the right, Master Ewring,” said she, when she looked up again. “I fear I was over full of myself. Let the Lord’s will be done, and His glory ensured, by His doing with me whatsoever He will. I will strive to be patient, and not grieve more than I should.”
“Therein wilt thou do well, my sister. And now I go—when as it shall please Wastborowe,” added Mr Ewring with a slight smile of amusement, and then growing grave,—“to visit one in far sorer trouble than thyself.”
“Eh, Master, who is that?”
“It is Margaret Thurston, who hath not been, nor counted herself, rejected of the Lord, but hath of her own will rejected Him. She bought life by recanting.”
“Eh, poor soul, how miserable must she be! Tell her, if it like you, that I will pray for her. Maybe the Lord will grant to both of us the grace yet to be His witnesses.”
Mr Ewring had to pass four weary hours in the dungeon before it pleased Wastborowe to let him out. He spent it in conversing with the other prisoners,—all of whom, save Agnes Bongeor, were arrested for some crime,—and trying to do them good. At last the heavy door rolled back, and Wastborowe’s voice was heard inquiring, in accents which did not sound particularly sober,—