"Nothing. Old Margery stayed there as long as she lived, and since her death, it has been shut up. Sir Arthur hath ever considered it your property, and he also holds quite a sum of money which Uncle Thomas left you. Sir Arthur is not strong, and I fear will not live many years."
"I will ride out and see him soon," said Jack. "Are the Brents well?"
"Well and flourishing. Davy has a fine vessel and is growing a rich man, and here is Peter to speak for himself," as the tall journeyman entered the room; "and a fine fellow he is, too, as ever kneaded up a batch of dough. He hath been more like a son than a servant to me, and I have used him accordingly. I suppose you heard all about poor Sir William from Master Fleming?"
"Yes, and received the remembrance he left me," replied Jack. "I could but wish as I entered the church this afternoon that he were there to see and hear."
"He is in a better place, if ever man was," said Master Lucas. "His memory is green in this place, I can tell you. When the news came of his death and the manner of it, the people were ready to break their hearts. But it grows late, and the good father is already asleep. I dare say Cicely has your old room ready for you."
A few days after his return, Jack rode over to Holford to visit his friend Sir Arthur, and the place where he had first learned to know and value the Scripture.
"You will find everything as it was in the old man's time," said the steward, as he gave Jack the key of the cottage, "save that the storm last night has somewhat shattered the tree at the house end."
Jack found the place unchanged, as the steward said. A high wind the night before had blown down part of the great old oak, which, no doubt, had been a tree in the time of the Saxons, exposing a hollow in the trunk.
Jack drew near and examined it. Suddenly uttering an exclamation, he put in his hand and drew forth a good sized square bundle wrapped in leather and carefully secured with thongs of the same. Jack carried his prize into the cottage, and undoing the wrapper with some difficulty brought to view a large volume written on parchment, well bound and clasped with iron.
Reverently, he opened the book. It was the Bible of Wickliffe—the very Bible which had been hidden away a hundred years before, and which had given the crown of martyrdom to both Thomas Sprat and his father.