“No,” said Amos; “that might have got him into trouble with the police, if they had found the pony in his possession, or had he sold it to anybody. No doubt, when he found the first night that I would not give him the cheque, he just turned the pony adrift, so that, whether he made his way home or any one found him, there would be no clue to the person who had entrapped me.”
“I see it all!” cried Walter. “But now we must finish up with a word on moral courage, with an illustration by dear auntie.—Yes, Aunt Kate, you see our hero Amos; you see how he has been ready to make a regular martyr of himself, and surely that is real moral courage.”
“Indeed it is so, dear Walter,” said Miss Huntingdon; “and you were right in calling your brother’s courage a species of martyrdom, for the spirit of a true martyr has been well described as ‘a readiness to suffer the greatest evil rather than knowingly to do the least.’”
“Capital, auntie! And now, if father is willing, give us an example.”
Mr Huntingdon having gladly given his consent, his sister spoke as follows:—
“My moral hero this time is a real martyr, and a young one. In the spring of the year 1555, a youth, named William Hunter, entered the church of Brentwood, in Essex, to read in the great Bible which stood there chained to a desk for the use of the people. He was an apprentice to a London weaver, but was now on a visit to his native town. He loved the Bible, and it was his joy to read it. As he stood before the desk, a man named Atwell, an officer of the Romish bishop, came that way, and, seeing how he was engaged, remonstrated with him, and then said, when the young man quietly justified himself, ‘I see you are one who dislike the queen’s laws, but if you do not turn you will broil for your opinions.’—‘God give me grace,’ replied William, ‘to believe his word and confess his name, whatever may come of it.’
“Atwell reported him; he was seized, and placed in the stocks. Then he was taken before Bishop Bonner, who, finding him resolute, ordered him again to the stocks; and there he lay two long days and nights, without any food except a crust of brown bread and a little water. Then, in hopes of subduing his spirit, Bonner sent him to one of the London prisons, with strict orders to the jailer to put as many iron chains upon him as he could possibly bear; and here he remained for three-quarters of a year. At last the bishop sent for him and said, ‘If you recant, I will give you forty pounds and set you up in business.’ That was a large sum in those days. But William rejected the offer. ‘I will make you steward of my own house,’ added Bonner. ‘But, my lord,’ replied the young man, ‘if you cannot persuade my conscience by Scripture, I cannot find in my heart to turn from God for the love of the world.’ ‘Then away with him to the fire!’
“He was to suffer near his native town. There was no prison in the place, so William Hunter was confined in an inn, and guarded by constables. His mother rushed to see him, and his words to her were, ‘For my little pain which I shall suffer Christ hath procured for me a crown of joy; are you not glad of that, mother?’ On the morning when he was to die, as he was being led from the inn, his father sprang forward in an agony of grief, and threw his arms round him, saying, ‘God be with thee, son William.’ His son looked calmly at him and said, ‘God be with you, father. Be of good comfort; I trust we shall soon meet again where we shall rejoice together.’ When he had been secured to the stake, a pardon was offered him if he would recant. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I will not recant, God willing.’ When the fire was lighted, and the flames began to rise, he threw a book of Psalms, which he still held in his hands, into the hands of his brother, who had followed him to the place of death. Then his brother called to him and said, ‘William, think on the sufferings of Christ, and be not afraid.’—‘I am not afraid,’ cried the young martyr. ‘Lord, Lord, receive my spirit.’ These were his last words. The dry fagots burned briskly, and in a few minutes his sufferings were at an end for ever.
“Here, surely, dear Walter, was moral courage of the highest order. William Hunter was very young; life was sweet; he had loving parents. All the neighbours loved him for his gentle piety. A few words spoken would have saved him from imprisonment, hunger, bitter suffering, and a cruel death; but he would not by a single act or a single word save himself, when by so doing he would be acting against his conscience, much as he loved his home, his parents, and his people.”
Walter clapped his hands with delight when his aunt had finished, and exclaimed, “Nothing could be better, Aunt Kate; it suits our hero Amos to a T. Yes, for he would suffer anything rather than get his liberty by doing or promising to do what he believed to be wrong. Thank you, dear aunt; I have learned a lesson which I hope I shall never forget.”