"It may come in your time, but I fear not in mine," said Sister Barbara, sighing, "and there will be terrible times first. The bishops and priests will not give up their claims on the people without a fierce struggle, and nobody can guess the side the King will take. You heard the sermon the priest of St. Mary's preached last Sunday about those who presume to read the new Gospel?"
"Yes, madam," said Jack laughingly. "He is a learned man. He said that Greek was a heathen tongue, and asked if it were likely that the Scripture would be written in the language of heathens, while Latin was the tongue of our Holy Father the Pope. He said Hebrew was the speech of unbelieving Jews, and therefore not fit even to be named by Christians. ¹ I could hardly forbear laughing."
¹ This is a fair sample of the eloquence of the preaching friars.
"Laugh while you can," said Sister Barbara sadly. "I greatly fear we shall all laugh out of the other side of our mouths ere long. Just think what a power this man and others like him hold in their hands; how they penetrate the inmost secrets of families and individuals. Jack, there are hard, troublous times before us, and we do well to be sober, wary, and sad."
"Sober and wary if you please, but by your leave, dear lady, not sad," said Jack. "Since all our fate standeth not in the hands of these men, but in the power and will of our Lord who can overrule all their designs for the good of His children, and make, as the Psalm says, even the very wrath of man to praise Him. He says to His disciples, 'In the world ye shall have tribulation,' but He adds in the same breath, 'Be ye of good cheer, I have overcome the world.'"
"You are right, and I am wrong and faithless," said Madam Barbara; "but oh, dear brother, you are young, and you have never seen what I have seen. You have lived under the pure and peaceful shelter of your father's roof, and your priest, Sir William, is one of a thousand. But I have grown up in a convent; I have been behind the scenes and have been trusted. I saw the condemnation and punishment of Agnes Harland, who was murdered, if ever a sweet saint was murdered in this world for her boldness in speaking the truth."
"Murdered!" said Jack, starting. "I thought she died a natural death."
"And so she did in one sense, that is to say, she was not killed by any regular execution. No, it was by slow, hard, unrelenting tyranny, by exclusion from light and air and nourishing food, ay, often even from sleep itself for days together. Father Barnaby persuaded the prioress that such severity would overcome her obstinacy and bring her back to her duty; but he did not know with whom he had to deal. I have seen the prioress weep bitter tears after she had, at his instigation, given orders for some new hardship to the poor prisoner; and I believe she would never have consented to what was done, had she not verily believed she was acting for the good of Agnes herself. At last Agnes fell ill, so ill that all thought she must die. Then the reverend mother could bear it no longer. She was a spirited lady and used to rule, and she had her own way in spite of the confessor. She had Agnes removed to a more comfortable place, and appointed me to attend on her, because she said she knew I would be kind to her and that I was in no danger of being perverted. She little knew what was going on. But Agnes died at last. They persecuted her almost to the last minute to recant, but she was firm as a rock, and died peacefully, with the name of our Lord on her lips."
"They blamed me much for weeping for an obstinate heretic," continued Sister Barbara, wiping her eyes. "They buried her in an obscure corner of the graveyard, all overgrown with nettles, and without any sacred rites. The sisters were always afraid to approach the place, because others had been buried there before, nuns who had broken their vows, and one who was an heretic like Agnes. They said the place was haunted; but to me it seemed like holy ground."
"You will hardly wish to return to a convent to live, madam," said Jack, after a pause.