For God and Gold

by Julian Stafford Corbett

Mr. Drake greeted us very warmly, and Mrs. Waldyve with great respect. He was in the churchyard talking with the godly farmers of the parish until it was time for the service. To-day the well-worn subject of the Queen's marriage, and all the danger that came of her delays, was set aside, and they had been discussing Mr. Strickland's Bill, which he had lately moved before Parliament for the abrogation of various religious ceremonies, and how the Queen's Grace had taken it so ill that she had put him in prison. They continued their talk after our greetings were done, while Mr. Drake drew me aside to ask what I thought of the new order of the Commission against reading, praying, preaching, or administering the sacraments in any place, public or private, without license. I condemned it so warmly, as will be easily guessed, for a piece of most wanton and sinful Erastianism, that the people in the churchyard gathered round to listen. I was in the midst of proclaiming it, on the authority of Mr. Cartwright, as a thing that should not and would not be borne, when little Willie Drake cried out from the skirts of the throng:

'Father, father, there's a wolf in the fold!'

A movement was made towards the church, and I could now see the Sergeant pointing out to his mistress the score of bad points of a beast tied up to the gate, which I at once recognised as Mr. Death's nag. Hoping to avert a storm, I begged them both to come with me into the church, which was now crowded; but the tempest had already burst.

Mr. Death had got possession of the pulpit. It was a strong position, being only approached by the old rood-loft steps, which were cut through the solid pier of the chancel arch. The enemy was defending the narrow passage with the door, which he held tightly shut, and a smart fire of reasons, which he shot down at Mr. Drake from behind his barricada.

'You have no license, you have no license,' he was crying as we entered.

'What, no license!' said Mr. Drake. 'I who was licensed preacher to the King's navy when you were still crying for the mass!'

'Ay, but the Archbishop has revoked all licenses, and you have not renewed,' answered Mr. Death. 'The flock must be fed with the Word; you may not feed them, and I claim your pulpit.'

'O Death, Death!' cried Mr. Drake, 'is that your sting? There was a time when you would brag that no Erastian prelate of them all should be your authority, but only the voice of God, that called you to the ministry. Is this all that has come of your loud shouting for the battle? O Death, Death! where is now your victory?'

'I care not for your roaring, Fire-Drake,' cried Death. 'You are no preacher, being unlicensed; and I, being licensed, have authority in every pulpit in the diocese.'

The people now began to cry out, some that they would hear him, and some that he should be plucked down and cast out of the church. Yet they all stood by, waiting to see how the two preachers would settle it; and they had not to wait long.