And now, to-night, on the 22nd of May, 1471, the prisoner is very worn and weary. He sits with a book before him—a small square volume, in illuminated Latin, with delicately-wrought borders, and occasional full-page illuminations; a Psalter, which came into his hands from those of another prisoner in like case with himself, for the book once belonged to Richard of Bordeaux (Note 2). He turns slowly over the leaves, now and then reading a sentence aloud:—sentences all of which indicate a longing for home and rest.
“‘My soul is also sore vexed; but Thou, O Lord, how long?’
“‘Lord, how long wilt Thou look on? Rescue my soul from their destructions, mine only one from the lions.’
“‘And now, Lord, what wait I for?’
“‘Who shall give me wings like a dove?—and I will flee away, and be at rest!’” (Vulgate version).
At last the prisoner closed the book, and spoke in his own words to his heavenly Friend—the only friend whom he had in all the world, except the wife who was a helpless prisoner like himself.
“Lord God, Thy will be done! Grant unto me patience to await Thy time; but, O fair Father, I lack rest!”
And just as his voice ceased, the heavy door rolled back, and the messenger of rest came in.
He did not look like a messenger of rest. But all God’s messengers are not angels. And there was little indeed of the angel in this man’s composition. His figure would have been tall but for a deformity which his enemies called a hump back, and his friends merely an overgrown shoulder; and his face would have been handsome but for its morose, scowling expression, which by no means betokened an amiable character.
The two cousins stood and looked at each other. The prisoner was the grandson of Henry of Bolingbroke, and the visitor was the grandson of Richard of Conisborough.