“And, Roger,” said Dicky again, after a moment, “it will not be long before I see Egremont again. I have had the promise, ever since I came back, that at the next vacancy for England, I am to be sent. For there are so many young men, of the best blood of England, whose heart’s desire it is to lead the forlorn hope of the Society of Jesus in our native country, that we have to make applications far in advance. I have been waiting to go ever since I recovered from my illness. When one of our fathers is imprisoned, or sent out of the country, or there is a request for one, there are ten men, each begging that he may be sent; but the next call it is my turn to answer,—and I am the envy of all my English brethren here, and at Louvain, and St. Omer’s, and Clermont.”
“And you under sentence of death if you set foot in England!” cried Roger, excitedly. “It is not right; it is not right—and I shall protest to your superiors—nay, I will go to the King himself.”
“Tush, Roger. What did I join the Society for? To sit here, safe at Paris, while better men risk their lives and liberty in England, in North America, all over the world? No, I too am a soldier and I claim the post of danger. Would you have an Egremont do otherwise?”
“Yes, but you are under the death sentence—”
“You should hear of the sufferings of our fathers in North America. A plain English hanging would be merciful to many of them. Besides, when every English Jesuit is on record as applying for duty in England, would you have had me, Richard Egremont, hold back?”
Roger hesitated a moment, then, throwing his arms around Dicky as when they were little boys, he cried:
“No, my lad. I would not have thee to hold back. God guard thee well—for a brave youngster.”
The sun was near setting, and the yellowing light shone on the solemn yews and clipped cedars of the garden. A bell began to toll inside; it was time to part. The two young men walked hurriedly to the solid iron gate in the wall, and stood for a moment, with their hands clasped, and each with a hand on the other’s shoulder.
“Good-bye, dear Roger,” said Dicky. “If we should never meet on this side of Death, know that I ever loved you better than anybody in the world, and esteemed you more than any man I ever knew. And if you should hear of me as dying on the scaffold in England, remember, my last thought, my last prayer will be for you.”
Roger stood silent. Some inner voice spoke with the clearness and certainty of the bell which continued its melancholy tolling through the mild spring air. And the bell was saying, “Farewell, farewell.” Roger’s eyes were moist, but Dicky’s sparkling blue ones were filled with a calm and happy light; the warrior soul of him was not to be alarmed at the scaffold, the executioner, the knife. He pressed Roger in his arms.