"'Tis all the fault of the new doctrines—those pestilent heresies that crawl over the land like palmer worms," said a begging friar, a guest like ourselves, but methought scarce so welcome. "'Tis they have put these maggots in the King's head."
"Nay, I think you are wrong there," answered my father. "'Tis true, Mistress Anne is reported for a Lutheran, and maybe some of the same sort may build hopes on her advancement; but Luther himself has lifted his voice manfully against the divorce, and Tyndale—he who has set forth this new translation of the Gospels—"
"The curses of Mother Church and all the saints upon him!" interrupted the friar, spitting in token of his abhorrence. "He is the arch fiend of them all—worse than Luther himself, even!"
"Be that as it may, he hath written a letter against the divorce, and that of the sharpest!" answered my mother. "'Tis said his Majesty's wrath was aroused far more by the letter than it was even by the translation of the Gospels."
"Aye, have they got the Gospels in English again?" said a very old man, who had been sitting in a great chair, apparently unmindful of all that was going on. (I had seen with pleasure how neat and clean he was, and how careful the good woman was to prepare his mess of food, serving him with the best on the board.) "Well, well, the world goes on, but methinks it goes back as well—"
"How so, good father?" asked my mother.
"Oh, 'tis but an old man's tale now, my lady; but when I was very young—younger than your son yonder—there was great stir about one Wickliffe, who, 'twas said, made an English Bible. Our parish priest had one, and read it out to us in the church many a Sunday, marvellous good words, sure—marvellous good words. But they stopped him at last and hied him away to some of their convent prisons. 'Twas said that he would not recant, and they made way with him. They said 'twas rank heresy and blasphemy—but they were marvellous good words—I mind some of them now—'Come unto me, and I will refresh you, ye weary and laden.' It ran like that, as I remember: 'God loved the world so that he gave his Son—that he who believed should have—should have'—what was that again?"
"'Should have everlasting life'—was that it, my father?" said I, speaking I know not why, from some will, as it seemed, not my own.
"Aye, that is it," answered the old man, eagerly, his wasted face lighting up. "I thank you, my young lady—the blessing of an old man be on your fair head—'everlasting life'—aye that is it! Bless you, Madam! Yes, yes! 'Everlasting life!'"
"And where learned you so much, my fair lady?" asked the friar, bending his brows on me in no friendly way.