Cissy considered. “Father, I could never get along a bit, if you were so angry you wouldn’t look at me!”
“Truly, dear heart, and I would not have my Father so. Ask the Lord what thou wilt, Cis, if it be His will; only remember that His will is best for us—the happiest as well as the most profitable.”
“Wilt shut up o’ thy preachment?” shouted Wastborowe, with a severe blow to Johnson. “Thou wilt make the child as ill an heretic as thyself, and we mean to bring her up a good Catholic Christian!”
Johnson made no answer to the gaoler’s insolent command. A look of great pain came into his face, and he lifted his head up towards the sky, as if he were holding communion with his Father in Heaven. Elizabeth guessed his thoughts. If he were to be martyred, and his little helpless children to be handed over to the keeping of priests who would teach them to commit idolatry, and forbid them to read the Bible—that seemed a far worse prospect in his eyes than even the agony of seeing them suffer. That, at the worst, would be an hour’s anguish, to be followed by an eternity of happy rest: but the other might mean the loss of all things—body and soul alike. Little Will did not enter into the matter. He might have understood something if he had been paying attention, but he was not attending, and therefore he did not. But Cissy, to whom her father was the centre of the world, and who knew his voice by heart, understood his looks as readily as his words.
“Father!” she said, looking at him, “don’t be troubled about us. I’ll never believe nobody that says different from what you’ve learned us, and I’ll tell Will and Baby they mustn’t mind them neither.”
And Elizabeth added softly—“‘I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee.’ ‘Leave thy fatherless children; I will preserve them alive.’”
“God bless you both!” said Johnson, and he could say no more.
The next day the twelve prisoners accused of heresy were had up for examination before the Commissioners, Sir John Kingston, Mr Roper, and Mr Boswell, the Bishop’s scribe. Six of them—Elizabeth Wood, Christian Hare, Rose Fletcher, Joan Kent, Agnes Stanley, and Margaret Simson—were soon disposed of. They had been in prison for a fortnight or more, they were terribly frightened, and they were not strong in the faith. They easily consented to be reconciled to the Church—to say whatever the priests bade them, and to believe—or pretend to believe—all that they were desired.
Robert Purcas was the next put on trial. The Bishop’s scribe called him (in the account he wrote to his master) “obstinate, and a glorious prating heretic.” What this really meant was that his arguments were too powerful to answer. He must have had considerable ability, for though only twenty years of age, and a village tradesman, he was set down in the charge-sheet as “lettered,” namely, a well-educated man, which in those days was most extraordinary for a man of that description.
“When confessed you last?” asked the Commissioners of Purcas.