CHAPTER X.
“Good brother rest—the toil is overpast
The weariness, the travail, and the tears—.
All that did trouble thee—and now beholding
From the high heaven how we lay up thy garments
In the safe treasure-house of Death, thou smil’st
Upon our pains. So, till we follow thee.
Farewell!”
It was a blustering, boisterous day in March; strong-handed winds, errant and violent, were roaming waywardly through London. The city had resumed its former look; the grass-grown streets were again filled with busy crowds. The terror of the great enemy had passed into other places, before himself was gone.
In the Hampstead cottage Edith Field, arrayed for a journey, sat waiting for her father. She looked very sad and downcast, and there were tears in her eyes. Dame Rogers went about her household business with loud lamentations over the departure of her guests. Mercy sat in a corner, silently weeping.
At that time the bells of Aldgate Church tolled mournfully for one dead. By a new grave there, Master Chester and Master Field stood together.
The funeral procession had departed—the grave was closed; they were looking down solemnly upon the resting-place of a brave captain in their brotherhood; a manful and loyal servant of God.
By-and-by Master Chester put his arm through his friend’s, and silently they turned away; they had emerged from the din and bustle of the city before either spoke.
“We have left him to his rest, good brother,” said Master Chester then; “and we who leave him, what remaineth for us? God knoweth—the Lord help us I pray, for there seemeth nothing left for us but to become wanderers and vagabonds on the face of the earth.”
“Yea, truly, God help us!” said Master Field, “for He knoweth that this oppression is even too like to make wise men mad. To think of this—that he, whom we have laid in quiet rest to-day, would have been hunted through the country, had he lived one short month longer, after spending life and strength for this people in their extremity. Who is sufficient for these things?”
“It is well,” said the other, his voice faltering with the sorrow which he restrained; “it is well that the Master hath carried him home, where evil act or statute can harm him nevermore. Thou wert a good soldier, Titus Vincent, brother and son of mine, and a faithful as ever served King; and thou art gotten to thine inheritance; the Lord keep us till we join thee. But, brother, pity me for my Mary—my poor girl.”