The Militants / Stories of Some Parsons, Soldiers, and Other Fighters in the World

by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF A MAN WHO WAS WITH HIS WHOLE HEART A PRIEST AND WITH HIS WHOLE STRENGTH A SOLDIER OF THE CHURCH MILITANT.

JACOB SHAW SHIPMAN

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CONTENTS

• [I. THE BISHOP'S SILENCE]
• [II. THE WITNESSES]
• [III. THE DIAMOND BROOCHES]
• [IV. CROWNED WITH GLORY AND HONOR]
• [V. A MESSENGER]
• [VI. THE AIDE-DE-CAMP]
• [VII. THROUGH THE IVORY GATE]
• [VIII. THE WIFE OF THE GOVERNOR]
• [IX. THE LITTLE REVENGE]

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ILLUSTRATIONS

• ["I took her in my arms and held her."]
• ["Many waters shall not wash out love," said Eleanor.]
• [He stared into the smoldering fire.]
• ["Look!" he said, and Miles swung about toward the ridge behind.]
• ["I got behind a turn and fired as a man came on alone."]
• ["I reckon I shall have to ask you not pick any more of those roses," a voice said.]
• ["You see, the boat is very new and clean, Miss," he was saying.]
• [I felt myself pulled by two pairs of hands.]

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THE BISHOP'S SILENCE

The Bishop was walking across the fields to afternoon service. It was a hot July day, and he walked slowly—for there was plenty of time—with his eyes fixed on the far-off, shimmering sea. That minstrel of heat, the locust, hidden somewhere in the shade of burning herbage, pulled a long, clear, vibrating bow across his violin, and the sound fell lazily on the still air—the only sound on earth except a soft crackle under the Bishop's feet. Suddenly the erect, iron-gray head plunged madly forward, and then, with a frantic effort and a parabola or two, recovered itself, while from the tall grass by the side of the path gurgled up a high, soft, ecstatic squeal. The Bishop, his face flushed with the stumble and the heat and a touch of indignation besides, straightened himself with dignity and felt for his hat, while his eyes followed a wriggling cord that lay on the ground, up to a small brown fist. A burnished head, gleaming in the sunshine like the gilded ball on a church steeple, rose suddenly out of the waves of dry grass, and a pink-ginghamed figure, radiant with joy and good-will, confronted him. The Bishop's temper, roughly waked up by the unwilling and unepiscopal war-dance just executed, fell back into its chains.