“It’s none so bad. I’m in hopes you’ll have a few more messages, Master Ewring. They’re easy to carry when they come in a basket o’ that metal.”
“Ah, Bartle! wilt thou do that for a gold angelet which thou wouldst not for the love of God or thy neighbour? Beware that all thy good things come not to thee in this life—which can only be if they be things that pertain to this life alone.”
“This life’s enough for me, Master: it’s all I’ve got.”
“Truth, friend. Therefore cast it not away in folly.”
“In a good sooth, Master Ewring, I love your angelets better than your preachment, and you paid me not to listen to a sermon, but to carry a message. Good den!”
“Good den, Bartle. May the Lord give thee good ending!”
Bartle stood looking from the wicket until the miller had turned the corner.
“Yon’s a good man, I do believe,” said he to himself. “I marvel what they burn such men for! They’re never found lying or cheating or murdering. Why couldn’t folks let ’em alone? We shouldn’t want to hurt ’em, if the priests would let us alone. Marry, this would be a good land if there were no priests!”
Bartle shut the wicket, and prepared to carry in supper to his prisoners. John and Margaret Thurston were not together. The priests were afraid to let them be so, lest John, who stood more firmly of the two, should talk over Margaret. They occupied adjoining cells. Bartle opened a little wicket in the first, and called John to receive his rations of brown bread, onions, and weak ale.
“I promised to give you a message,” said he, “but I don’t know as it’s like to do you much good. It’s only one word.”