I looked up. A friar, so it seemed by his dress, was standing near me. For some moments I was at a loss to recollect who he was, till I recognised him as the companion of Father Overton. I had the presence of mind, however, to be silent till I could frame a wise answer.
“Perchance you mistake me for some one else,” I answered. “I am a young man still under instruction; but, young as I am, I desire to follow the true faith.”
“You are cautious in your speech,” said the friar; “but go on—I find I am not mistaken. I wish to have a word with you in private. I mean you no harm. You can tell me of one in whom I am interested.”
Keeping hold of A’Dale’s arm, I at length found myself again in the street. We went down the hill towards Ludgate, and then turning along the bank of the Fleet, soon found ourselves in a quiet spot, free from observation. The friar had kept us in sight, and soon again joined us.
“I thank you for this confidence, young sir,” he said. “These are dangerous times, and those who trust others may fare ill; but of you I have no fear. I want to learn from you news of one whom you knew as Father Overton. I have received several epistles from him, and by their means I have been brought to hold very different doctrines to those I had before believed were true; yet hitherto I have not dared to express them, but I feel that I can keep silence no longer. My great desire is to go forth and preach the great doctrine of justification by faith, held by Luther and those true and pious bishops who have lately been committed to the flames. Their deaths, testifying as they did to the truth, were, with the exhortations of my friend Overton, the means of turning me from the Church of Rome. I trust that you have not fallen back into the errors of that Church.”
“No, indeed, I have not,” I answered. “I rejoice to find that you, as well as Father Overton, have deserted them. With regard to him, I saw him several times at Antwerp, where he was supported by my patron, Master Gresham, but suddenly he disappeared, and no one could tell what had become of him. The fears were that he had been carried off by the Inquisition.”
“We shall ere long meet again,” said the friar, after we had exchanged a few more words. “However tempted, my young friends, hold fast to the faith. I never knew happiness till I embraced it. I am very sure that bitter regret and misery will be the lot of those who have once known and then deserted it.”
Thus saying, he pressed our hands, and hurried away along the banks of the river. We slowly returned homewards, afraid of exchanging our thoughts, lest we should be overheard.
The next day was a holiday, for it was the festival of some saint in the Romish Calendar. A’Dale and I were on foot early. Finding a large concourse of people going in the direction of the northern part of the City outside the gates, known as Smithfield, we followed them. On one side were some high and ancient houses, but on the other the ground was entirely open, with meadows and woods beyond.
“It is to be the grandest burning we have had yet,” I heard a person remark. “There is a priest to be burnt, and two women, besides a knight and two other laymen.”