Robert Annys: Poor Priest

Robert Annys: Poor Priest

A Tale of the Great Uprising

By

ANNIE NATHAN MEYER

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1901

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1901,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

Norwood Press
J. B. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.

TO THE READER

Admirers of William Morris—among whom I count all his readers—will recognize the personal description of John Ball as taken from his "A Dream of John Ball." They will also note that some parts of his sermon as well are from the same book. It seemed to me that certain bits of Morris's imaginative work were too fine and true to be spared in any attempt to set the blunt old poor priest before the modern reader. I have no fear of bearing off undeserved palms; for just as a few of the sayings of John Ball bear the marks of authenticity too clearly upon them to be mistaken for mine, so such as are taken from Morris are as clearly distinguished by the marks of supreme beauty and genius.

In the course of many years of close reading, it is inevitable that there should have been woven into this book some of the ideas and prepossessions of certain Church historians. Although many other writers have been exceedingly helpful and suggestive, I want especially to acknowledge my indebtedness to Renan, Kingsley, Fisher, Baldwin Brown, Gosselin, Braun, Montalembert, Vincent, and Sheppard.

I

The great Minster of the Fens never looked lovelier than at the close of a November day, 1379. The coloring of Fenland is not attuned to the brightness of Spring or Summer, but there is in the late Autumn a subtle quality that brings out its true charm. The dull browns and yellows of the marshes, the warm red-browns of the rushes, the pale greens of the swamp grasses with the glint of the sun low down at their feet,—all on this day found just the right complement in the great, heavy, gray clouds that broke here and there only to show irregular bars of saffron sky. Just before night fell there was one supreme moment when a patch of gold lingered in the north just over the wonderful octagon, the glorious crown of St. Audrey, and the great west front with its noble tower and its wealth of windows flung the orange gleam of the setting sun over the landscape as a gauntlet proudly thrown in the face of Night. The lordly outlines of the vast edifice looked lordlier than ever as the slowly gathering darkness descended and drew it up into itself.

The east wind blowing from over the sea, pungent with the odor of marsh plants, was keen, and caused a man who was surveying the scene to gather his thin gown more closely about him. Until he stirred, this man might almost have been taken for a part of the landscape, so admirably did his garb of coarse russet sacking harmonize with his surroundings. Although he shivered slightly, he did not move from his position, but remained with arms tightly folded on his breast, and his deep-set eyes fixed earnestly upon the solemn pile before him. A solitary figure he stood in the vast stretch of sky and land, and he felt himself peculiarly alone. Yet as he faced the Cathedral there was no sign of faltering or dread in his face, but rather a distinct note of defiance.

Not long before, the stately procession of priests had departed from the Vesper service. A choir boy of angelic countenance, but impish spirit, had for an instant trailed his violet robe in the dust and flung the stone he picked up straight at the russet form. Not a priest in line but envied the boy. Outwardly, the russet priest showed no sign. He thought of St. Francis who had been stoned by the very ones who later placed those stones under his direction. Also he thought of the stoning of One greater than St. Francis.

One year before, at Oxford, Robert Annys had bidden farewell to his beloved master, John Wyclif, and had become one of his noble band of poor priests,—or russet priests, as they were familiarly dubbed,—who went about the country, preaching the Gospel and teaching the people how to read, that they might bring Holy Writ more closely into their lives. As a student, he had passed many happy years by the side of his great master at Balliol, translating the Bible into the language of the people so that they might come to know God and love God by themselves without the shadow of the priestly office ever between. Nevertheless, although he had been well content to pass all his life in that beautiful manner, when the time came that his master ordered him out into the world, he went without a murmur and bravely, empty handed, with no more thought of the morrow than had the twelve whom Christ had bidden:—

"Take nothing for your journey, neither staff, nor wallet, nor bread, nor money; neither have two coats."

Since then he had lived close to the people, he had been of the people. He had come to them, not with the crumbs from the Communion table but with the strong bread of life. He had preached the Gospel in the fields while the heat rose in palpitating waves, and on the downs while the hail beat on his bare head; he had prayed over them while the shears dripped white from the sheep of their overlord; he had hungered with them and thirsted with them and shared such coarse food as they had; he had watched with them as some worn soul departed from its worn body. His way had led to no sumptuous oratories of towered castles, to no cushioned prie-dieux in scented chambers. He had shrived, not grand seigneurs and haughty dames whose momentary comfort had been disturbed by the pricking of a superficial regret, but strong, simple souls who trembled from the sway of tremendous feeling—men who thirsted for the blood of their child's betrayer, victims who raged at infamous injustice and brooded over desperate means to escape their thraldom. No lightly felt peccadilloes were confessed to him, but the agony and shame of those whose tortured souls hung betwixt heaven and hell.

And he had grown to love this life. He had thought to have a peculiar aptitude for letters, and his master had never altered translation wrought by him. Yet he knew now that his gift lay rather in swaying men, and one short year had done much to make his name known from Sussex to Lincolnshire. No wonder, then, that he had joy in his work, for it is not given to man to know greater happiness than this: to watch the face of a fellow-man kindle with a new and great hope, which he knows he has planted within the other's breast. Yet deep down within there had been slowly growing in his heart a secret questioning. He had been warned by his master to hold himself strictly to the work of spreading the knowledge of the Gospel, and he had been clearly enjoined against undoing the peace of the realm and setting serfs against their masters, as a certain mad priest named John Ball was even at that moment doing, both by the reckless violence of his language and the revolutionary quality of his theories. It was easy for Wyclif in the shelter of the University to warn against over-haste and to protest that education must come before a lasting reform could be accomplished, and that one must build on solid foundations for the future. It was not so easy for the wandering poor priest, with the sufferings of the people ever before him, to refrain from pressing the Gospel into immediate action. Annys began very soon to suspect that it was impossible to feed the people with the knowledge of Holy Writ and expect no indigestion to come from the strange diet. If Life truly began to be tested by Holy Writ, some idols must fall—if the Church Hierarchical, alas for it! If Christian society were to be modelled on the plain teachings of its Founder, some strange sights would be seen.

Annys had not needed to be stoned to feel rise up within him a fierce hatred toward that stately church that reared its head so haughtily to heaven. Ah, truly he held with St. Boniface of old that "in the catacombs the candlesticks were of wood, but the priests were golden. Now the candlesticks are of gold."

That morning, when he preached to the men in the fields and told them in homely language of the life of their Lord and His death to save them, a summons had come from the Bishop of Ely bidding Robert Annys appear before him. And, wondering what the Bishop could want of him (unless to order him peremptorily from his diocese, in which case it was scarcely necessary to do so in person), he had had himself rowed over the wide-spreading meres that separated the isle of Ely from the mainland. As he slowly approached the glorious pile, there came over him with a curious stir the memory of that King Canute who had also been thus rowed across and who had bade the oarsmen pause midway that he might listen to the beautiful chanting of the monks.

Truth to tell, for all his passionate disdain for what lay outside of the true heart of Christianity, he was more profoundly moved by the beauty of Ely Minster than he would have dreamed it possible. For he was an ardent student of history, and here before him was wrought as true and noble an epic as ever was writ on parchment. Into these noble arches and soaring towers, these delicate pinnacles, these exquisite traceries, surely the adoring heart of Mediævalism had lavishly poured itself. This russet priest was an artist and worshipped beauty, hence he could not look on Ely unmoved. He was an Englishman to the fingertips, hence he could not stand on ground so alive with heroic traditions and not thrill to the memory of them. As he stood there in the gathering darkness before the church, he saw a long struggle before him. He saw the Bishop of Ely and the whole powerful Church of Rome leagued against him. And why? Because he followed Christ's clear mandates. Yet he was certain that nothing that the Hierarchy could do would conquer him. He would stand to the end, alone if need be, but fearlessly true to his convictions, true to the master who had sent him out into the world to do His work. Something of the grim determination of those Saxons of old entered into him, those hardy warriors who had fought so many hundred years before on that very spot and made their last dogged stand against the conquering Normans; something, too, of the undaunted will of that old monk-architect, who, even amid the roar of the falling walls of the old tower of Ely, had conceived the great new tower, the wonderful octagon which was unique in all England.

No! no threat of imprisonment or other punishment on the morrow could make him swerve from the course he had chosen. He would continue to go among his people with only a book and a bag. His people who awaited him among the hayricks, who let plough rest idle in the furrow or tossed aside the spade that they might hearken to him. His people! His eyes dimmed with tears as he thought of the pathetic figure of Piers Ploughman standing in the fields, the light of a great wonder in his face,—Piers in the condition of a man who has had his eyes bandaged for a long time, and now for the first time has had the bandage removed. In the strange light that now bursts upon him the most familiar objects take on a new and strange appearance. In the transformation that is going on about him, all that his honest heart has held stable, omnipotent, eternal, now sways unsteadily before him: Feudal Lords, Sheriffs, King's men and Kings; Fees in Tithe, Manorial Holdings, Rights of Labor, Acts of Parliament, and even Holy Church herself. No, no, come what may, he could never desert Piers now:—

"One side is ...

Popes, cardinals, and prelates,

Priours, abbots of great estates.

The other side ben poor and pale;

And seeme caitives sore a-cale."

The night closed slowly down upon the Cathedral. At last its great mass was felt rather than seen.

"Thy strength against mine," the poor priest murmured, as he lingered yet an instant.

"Thy strength against mine."

II

The following morning Thomas Goldynge, Bishop of Ely, lay in bed awaiting those to whom he had promised audience. It was with considerable curiosity that he awaited the young poor priest whom he had summoned. He sighed with relief as he realized that the hard fight which he had waged against Rome was ended. It was a contest over the best method of suppressing the poor priests, and it had taken many secret embassies to Rome, and many letters in cipher sent to trusted friends at the Papal Court. Indeed, it had looked at one time as if the Bishop himself, aged as he was, would have to undertake the long and tedious journey to the Holy City, for the Bishop looked upon this matter as one of vital importance to the Church. He agreed with the Papal Legate that the incendiary preaching of the poor priests must be stamped out, but he had some theories of his own as to this stamping-out process, and persecution bore no part in them. He, more than any other Churchman, realized that the English people needed careful handling. How was the Italian Legate to understand anything of the rage and indignation that were growing up in the hearts of the English against foreign subjection, against a Church that gave the best sees in the land to Italians who scarce deigned to make acquaintance with the very outsides of their churches? The substance of the people was being wrung from them to help the cause of their bitter enemies. The King of England had little or nothing left for his needs because the Church refused to give up one tittle of its moneys for the good of the realm. Goldynge was an Englishman, and he had struggled all his life to place Englishmen in English churches. He was against the new spirit of Nationalism, however, when it asserted itself against the most sacred prerogatives of the Church, for he could look far ahead and see that this spirit might become powerful enough to wreck the Church Universal and give birth in England to a Church that would forswear all allegiance to Rome. He was for doing all in his power to redress the wrongs of the people and keep the breach from widening, for Holy Church had about all the schisms it could well take care of for some time to come.

When Robert Annys was ushered in with head flung well back and every line in the lithe young body eloquent of a proud defiance, the Bishop raised himself on the pillow and looked long and eagerly into his face. Therein he read all that he had counted to find. In the deep-set eyes, the high, narrow brow, the sensitive mouth, the delicately chiselled chin, there were revealed to the shrewd old prelate the enthusiastic temperament of a reformer, the idealism of a poet, the puissant desire to work, to change, to remake. And also, and therein lay his secret satisfaction, he read the fine acumen of a critic. A dangerous quality that, which was certain to make war upon the other qualities that struggled in his breast. Here was before him no blunt fanatic like John Ball, flying as unswervingly to his goal as the arrow shot from the bow, but one with the discerning mind that weighs, discriminates, and looks far enough ahead to see its own heart-break at the end.

"You sent for me?" although the tone was defiant, it was less so than Annys had intended it. Somehow he found it hard to be arrogant to this gentle old man whose flowing locks looked whiter than ever against the deep red of the bed-curtains. Only a beautiful old man upon his couch, looking at him with dim kindly eyes and a mouth that smiled. Far rather would he have faced a haughty prelate in rustling robes—that would have roused him and strengthened him in his hatred of all for which a Bishop stood.

"Yes," replied the old man, very gently, "I have sent for thee, for I have heard much of this russet priest who sways great bodies of men as they hearken to him, even as row upon row of corn is swayed by the wind that blows across the fields. I wished to see him and hold converse with him."

"Why should I come here before you that you may look upon me? I owe no allegiance to the Bishop of Ely. I serve him not, I serve only my master, John Wyclif."

"And our Master, Jesus Christ?" mildly interposed the Bishop.

"Yea, I serve my Master, Jesus Christ," asserted the poor priest, "but"—he was annoyed to find that the words in his heart did not rise so easily to his tongue as he would have them do. He felt the old man's eyes gravely fixed upon him.

"But?" he suggested with sedate politeness—"but?"

The young man reddened with discomfiture, but remained silent.

"I beg of you to go on," said the Bishop, suavely; "we are quite alone. I have sent for you to understand what is in your heart, and I would that you open it to me without fear."

The word stung the poor priest as the older man knew it would.

"Fear? I have no fear. What should I fear? I would say that one cannot serve two masters at one time, the one Christ, the other Antichrist. I do not see that one can bear at one and the same time the pectoral cross and the cross of Christ Jesus."

It was now the Bishop's turn to redden, but he only bit his lip for an instant and then smiled frankly. "I understand," he said, "I have heard somewhat of this kind of thing before. You poor priests claim that Christ founded no cathedrals, and that He worked with fishermen instead of Bishops. I know ye would like to see the palaces of Bishops razed to the ground that bread might be placed between the lips of the hungry, the gold of the altars melted that it might run into the purse of the poor. As your poet hath it,

"'Let Bishops' horses become beggars' chambers.

Is that not it?"

His listener folded his arms tightly over his breast and nodded for answer.

"Ah, yes; ah, yes," continued the Bishop, musingly, "do I not know? Was I not even as thou in my youthful days? But I am an old man now, and many things lie bathed in the clear white light of knowledge that then lay darkly shrouded in mystery. My dear son, you are only one of many who fix their eyes on what should have been, instead of on what really was. Ye bury your faces within the pages of the Bible, and if ye look up once to see what is going on about you, it is only to contrast with impatience the teaching and example of the Church Visible with the teaching and example of Christ and His disciples. Ye are willing to look on the Church as it now is, and God knows there are faults and crimes enough to excuse some of your impatience, but ye refuse to look at the history of the Church, and at the magnificent service it has rendered in the cause of humanity. Ye refuse to consider gravely and seriously the work that it has accomplished, and to ask yourselves if any other human agency could have done a tenth as well. You critics are as men who have been saved by a bridge from a wild and devastating stream, and now once safely crossed, ye kneel down—not to thank God Almighty for having saved you, but to detect the flaws in the bridge."

Annys could not but be moved by the eloquence of the old man. He began to understand something of the great power which had been wielded from the throne of Ely. Yet he waited not with his answer, "Christianity is no longer the Church of Christ, it is the Church of Rome. Why keep up the pretence longer? I am but seeking to bring the people back to Christ as St. Francis did before me."

"Ay! as St. Francis did before you. He was so sure that all the world needed was the Word and his Rule of Poverty. Well, how many years after his death was it that the people complained to the authorities of the great wealth of the Franciscan monasteries?"

Annys remained silent.

"The Church is a more intricate matter than any one Book or any one Rule," went on the Bishop. "Why think you it was that the wolves of the north, as St. Jerome well called them, those wild tribes of Franks and Burgundians, of Vandals and Goths and Visigoths, savage as their onslaught was, yet paused in the face of Rome? Was it not because the Churchmen at the critical time were no idle dreamers, but the greatest statesmen the world ever saw? Ah, my son, if temporal power meant a fall from the early apostolic Church, do not forget that it was a fall brought about by the very greatness of its own servants. It was to the early Bishops that the world was forced to look for its rulers when the reins of government were slipping from the weak hands of all others. It was Cyprian at Carthage, Jerome and Leo at Rome, Ambrose at Milan, Augustine in Africa, Boniface at the court of Pepin, Martin at Tours, Hilary at Poitiers, and Marcel at Paris who were doing the work of the world. It is easy to speak of the Pope's need for Charles the Great when he placed the diadem of the Cæsars on the Frankish Emperor's brow; yet if Leo needed Charles, Charles needed Leo, as well, and we do not quite so often hear that. My son, the mitre has resisted many a blow that would have shattered the sword."

"Ah, but how much finer had the Church of Christ been built up even as Solomon would have had it, if it could have truly been said of the Head of the Church:—

"'He shall not put his trust in horse or rider, and bow, nor shall he multiply unto himself gold and silver for war, for he shall smite the earth with the word of his mouth.'"

"A beautiful dream, no more, my son. Take the Crusades; how easy is it for critics to aver that an intriguing Pope started them to increase his own glory and gratify his sense of power. Yet hast ever thought whether the peoples of Europe would not have fallen upon and destroyed one another but for the wise craft of a leader who united them by finding a common enemy? Now do not misunderstand me; no one more than I realizes the awful sins of the Schismatic Popes, the terrible greed of some of the powerful Churchmen, their criminal neglect of their charges; no one realizes more that the people have wrongs that should be righted. But I am sure it is for the good of the people that these wrongs be righted from within the Church. The people have no better friend than the Church. It has been the one Institution which has sought out the individual, and asked of him only what service he could render it. In its bosom it has held the divine spark of the equality of man, and kept it there and protected it while the world was not yet ready for it. It has nourished it until it will be a flame great enough to light the torch of Freedom.

"We agree, save that you think the world is ripe for that spark, and I know that it is not; loosed now, it will but scorch and sear; it is not ready to illumine."

Annys had listened with profound earnestness to the impetuous words of the great prelate; before he could respond, the speaker continued, with a great light of enthusiasm in his face:—

"Think on the refrain which you know well. Con it when you are tempted to think that the Church has done naught for the people:—

"'Had they (the priests) been out of religion,

They must have hanged at the plowe.

Threshing and diking fro towne to towne,

With sorrie meat, and not halfe ynowe.'

"What can that mean, save that the Church hath taken up into its bosom the men who otherwise had no career save the plough? True, the time has come when the Church once again needs to be drawn nearer to the people—the people who all yearn for it and need it. Do not lead the people away from it, lest in the end you destroy their faith and undo them. The Church needs just such workers as thou; come to us and work with us. Stand no longer without!"

At this appeal, the young poor priest suddenly roused himself.

"What? stand no longer without! work with you! with a Church whose head hath launched bull after bull against my master and his teachings? Come within a Church that sets the ruling of a man above the words of Holy Writ? The chief article of my creed is that the Gospel suffices for the salvation of Christians without the keeping of ceremonials and statutes that have been made by sinful and unknowing men. What work has Holy Church for me? Surely there are others who can mouth more glibly than I the words of the Mass, and who are more deeply versed in the labyrinths of canonical lore."

"What canst thou?" replied the Bishop, warmly, "everything! Once within the Church, thou canst raise the authority of the Scriptures, beat down the vicious barriers that exist between the people and the prelates. Remember, one blow from within counts for ten from without. Come within, and help me in my fight against foreigners who care naught for the people who are their charge, foreigners who never deign to approach these shores, save perchance to count the moneys that are yielded from their sees." Then with a swift change his voice softened, and there was a pathetic appeal in it. "I have fought hard for more than thirty years," he pleaded. "I am worn in body and spirit; if I die to-morrow without providing for a successor, doubtless all that I have accomplished will be as naught. The old conditions in this diocese will arise again. There are many priests and abbots—ay! and some higher than they—who will click their heels gleefully over my grave. Come to Ely and be its Archdeacon. I—nay!—the Church of Christ has need of thee. Come!"

The poor priest was astounded. How could this be that the archdeaconate of Ely should be offered to a poor priest, one of Wyclif's band, so distrusted and hated by Rome?

"You, the Bishop of Ely, you offer me this? It is no jest?"

The Bishop smiled. "Well, I do not mind confessing that it was no easy matter to bring about. Yet why should we go on permitting you to take people away from the Church? I am persuaded that the people need the Church as much as the Church needs the people. They have your confidence; I want you to bring them back to the altar."

"But, Father, the instant I doff this russet gown and don the albe and stole, that instant the people's confidence in me is gone."

"I cannot believe it has gone so far as that."

"Yea, I say it. It is too late to try to drag the people back. They have grown weary of having fat and lazy priests prate to them, with white hand on full belly, of patience and humility and duty to their overlords. Why do the people believe in me? Why do they follow me? Because they wot well that my meals are as uncertain as their own, that my face is roughened by the same wind that roughens theirs. Because I can look into their faces and say, 'I too have a-hungered, I too have a-thirsted, I too have sweated in the fields.'"

The Bishop looked very old and tired. A sob rose suddenly in the poor priest's throat. To his own surprise, suddenly he flung himself upon his knees before the couch.

"Little thought I, Father, when I came here with defiance and distrust in my heart, that I would fling myself on my knees before you; yet it is true that I feel it as a great personal sorrow that I cannot both stay with you and also answer the call of my master. But I cannot desert my people. Where they turn up the soil, where they guide the plough, where their tired backs bend, where the wind and the hail beat down upon them in the fields, there is my place, and there I must go."

The Bishop's sensitive face quivered with emotion. He remained silent an instant and then looked up into the young man's face. "Wilt promise me one thing?"

"If I can, Father."

"Wilt preach the sermon in the Cathedral next Sunday?"

Annys hesitated an instant before he replied. "Only to give the sermon," he stipulated.

"I shall celebrate the Mass myself. I would like you to give the sermon just as you are. There will be a goodly number of people, and it is my whim that you should be heard once from the pulpit. It will come with a new authority. Besides," he added, with a twinkle in his eye, "I should like to have some of our priests hear it. It might not be a bad thing for the Nuncio himself."

And thus, before he departed, Robert Annys had given his promise to deliver the sermon on the following Sunday at Ely.

The Bishop did not yet acknowledge himself defeated. Well he knew the magnetism of the wonderful old church. Well he knew that men did not preach before three thousand souls in Ely Minster and then lightly step forth on their way again.

III

The following Sunday a great concourse of people flocked to the Cathedral. There was much curiosity concerning the sermon of the poor priest. Many who for years had been accustomed on the plea of ill-health or old age to ask for a stave for support during the long service, now passed by the doorkeeper oblivious of everything save their desire to secure a good place in which to stand.

To begin with, sermons were growing infrequent. In some churches they had fallen into complete disuse, and it had been necessary for the "Father Bishops" to enjoin "upon all those that had under them the cure of souls openly in English upon Sundays to preach and teach them that they know God Almighty."

And even when there was a sermon, it frequently turned out to be upon some light and immoral bit from Ovid or Boccaccio taken as a text, while the people hungered for the words of the Gospel. Or perhaps some formal schoolman would preach upon the seven works of mercy, or the seven spiritual sins: "Pride—that lyking of office and high state, Envy—that sorrowe at the syte of welefare and ioy, Anger—that wykkyde stirrynge of herte, Gluttony—that lufe in taste of mete and drynke, Covetousness, Sloth, and Lechery,"—to which last were always tacked on for good measure,—"Fornication, Adultery, and Incest."

Holy Father! of what use was it to hear a description of these sins. They were familiar enough to all. What they wanted was some hope and comfort in their daily life, some counsel in their daily struggles, some love to help them bear their daily burdens. And it was pretty certain that the poor priest would give them that. When at last a priest approached the altar and lit the tall wax candles, full three thousand persons were glad that their patient wait was at an end.

The ringing of the great bells of the Cathedral and the breaking forth of the organ into sound announced the arrival of the Bishop. The stately procession appeared, blazing a sinuous path of light and color through the dim spaces of the chancel. First came an acolyte bearing the censer, followed by the cross-bearer carrying the great cross and escorted on either side by boys with tall lighted tapers in their hands. After them followed the entire body of clergy, the Bishop, resplendent in his robes, leaning slightly upon the two assistant deacons who accompanied him. In his left hand he held the beautiful pastoral staff, while the right hand was somewhat elevated, as was meet, to bless such of the faithful as might come upon his way. In the midst of all the splendor of violet and gold and swaying lights walked one slender figure in plain russet sacking, a living protest against all the pomp and magnificence that surrounded him.

Impressive figure! No buskins of cloth of gold on those feet, no annice of pure white linen about his head, no long linen albe reaching to his heels, no girdle of white tasselled silk. From those slender shoulders hung no dalmatic gorgeous with embroidered border, nor graceful chasuble of fine velvet studded with rare pearls. Only a simple, bareheaded, poor priest in a garb which had become a familiar sight enough in the fields of harrowed earth or among the rows of waving corn, but here in the Cathedral a strange prophetic figure, portending the beginning of the end—the end of a priesthood that would act before the people, the beginning of a priesthood that would act for the people; the end of the sway of the mortmain with its icy touch of the past, the beginning of the sway of the living hand, red with the quickly flowing blood, warm with the throbbing sense of the fellowship of man.

Through the hearts of the vast congregation the solemn service swept, majestic, sublime, stupendous in its power. Power? Everything spoke of power. Power, power, power—the power of the lesser clergy, the power of deacons and archdeacons, the power of Bishops and Archbishops, the power of the Papal Legate, the power of the Pope, the power of Mighty—Imperial Rome. What though the note of the prayers was always humility? What knew the people of the Latin words that rose to Heaven? What though the exquisitely intoned phrases of the Bishop were all a self-confessed unworthiness to appear before the Lord? There was none of it observable in the stately motions of the celebrant. What though he cast himself upon his knees and cried out, "I am an unclean sinner! Oh, wash me, dear Lord, from all the stains of sin"? What the people saw was a proud prelate in superb dalmatic, wearing a golden mitre and carrying a jewelled crozier. To them he was the great Bishop of Ely, Peer of the realm, Lord of many towns, holder of many manors, possessor of ten great palaces of residence.

Little by little the people's part in the service had shrunk, until now the Mass was frankly but a great and magnificent spectacle performed before them, the choir and the clergy taking upon themselves the responses that once had been the duty of the congregation. It was well for the people to know when to kneel, when to bow the head, and when to genuflect. Also it was well to remember that the devil writes down every word said during Mass. Every one knew by heart the tale which St. Augustine related to St. Gregory the Great, of the two chattering women and the fiend. And it was well to know that a special indulgence is granted to all that kiss the ground when the Mass is ended.

As the beautiful service took its course, the young poor priest, who had come with a sneer on his lips, found himself more profoundly stirred than he would have liked to confess—even to himself. While in the sacristy, he had been disgusted at the levity of the priests who stood about in evident indifference while the Bishop was being most augustly invested. Small wonder that they wearied of the infinitude of detail performed before their eyes week after week without variation of a motion or a word. It was the supreme genius of Rome to enforce obedience to its slightest demand. It was beyond even that genius to infuse life into the performance. Annys looked about him during the investiture with a sickening sense of the futility of it all. From the putting on of the sandals to the last act of handing the Bishop his beautifully embroidered gloves (the deacon handing him the right one, the subdeacon the left one) there must be no one prayer or form omitted. The prelate must be surrounded by eight acolytes upon their knees, the acolytes and deacons who touch the episcopal vestments must first wash their hands, the acolytes must elevate the vestments, then they are solemnly passed over to the deacons who do the actual enrobing. As the Bishop receives each one of the nine different articles, he must kiss each one and then murmur the appropriate prayer for each.

What had all this to do with the telling of "Christ and him crucified?" Alack for the holy Church of Christ!

Yet, once within the noble interior of the Cathedral, it was impossible not to fall completely under the sway of the wonderful Art that had squandered itself, not alone on the general conception, but on each slightest detail of arch or pillar, so that the least touch of the humblest stonecutter revealed the presence of Genius. The mind was caught up and lifted to God by the exquisite delicacy and grace of execution. If it was but the carving of a single oak leaf, it was done so that the breath of the woods stirred in the perfect turning of the serrated edge.

And the ponderous, throbbing voice of the organ, how it overwhelmed him! And the angelic sweetness of the trained boy voices, how it thrilled through him! The tears rose to his eyes. He was in the presence of a Beauty, of a Harmony, the very faintest shadow of which he could not possibly have conceived. His will lay dormant, a kind of stupor of deadly sweetness crept over him. Not one sense that was not subjugated, not one emotion that was not played upon. There crept into his heart a whisper that perhaps after all there was something in religion that was not summed up in just a man and a book. Emotions hitherto unknown thrilled through him as he sat there with the wonderful service going on about them. Once he came unexpectedly in contact with the coarse sacking of his gown, and raged against the harsh touch; he wanted to feel silk and linen between his fingers.

"Benedicamus Patri et Filio: cum Spiritu Sancto,"

the sweetish fumes of the incense penetrated through the vast edifice. He forgot his dislike of the pagan custom.

"Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis"

rang out from the choir, while the strong chords of the organ filled the great spaces and made them vibrate. His soul swooned in exaltation.

"Laudamus te, Benedicimus te, Adoramus te, Glorificamus te."

Yes, yes, he adored. He must have been mad to refuse to spend his life ever within this glorious Minster, ever within sight of these beautiful vistas, ever within hearing of these heavenly sounds. He would go immediately after the service to the Bishop and confess his error. Fool, fool that he had been to hesitate. Was it now too late? Would the Mass never be over that he could fling himself once again before the Bishop?

"O Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. O Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world, grant us peace."

Yes, peace, peace at any price. That was all that his soul now yearned for. Could anything be more divine than that exquisite refrain?

"Agnus Dei."

Could the most hardened sinner listen unmoved to that celestial music? He recalled the words of the Bishop—the savage wolves of the north pausing in the face of this—the great, visible, tangible power of the Spirit. Oh, he could not wait to confess to the Bishop how foolish and stiff-necked he had been. He, Robert Annys, could be the Archdeacon of Ely and he had refused it.

And yet, accompanying the strong emotional exaltation, there came slowly over him a sense of helplessness, as if a net were closing tightly down over him, until there was no escape from its entangling meshes. He felt the awful eye of Rome upon him, the eye before which Barbarian chiefs, and Emperors as well, had quailed. It was not alone that the Papal Legate sat there before him, the presence of Rome was felt in every one of the countless forms of the Rubric. In the ringing of the sacring bell, here twice, there thrice; the position of the deacon and the subdeacon as the celebrant chants the Introit; the kissing and the incensing of the various articles that are used in the service, the facing of the altar here, and the facing of the congregation there; the putting on of the mitre and the taking it off; the angle of the body in the various degrees of bowing; the precise position of the second and third fingers; the placing of the veil over the host, slightly lower on the right than on the left side; and finally the giving of the left cheek for the kiss of peace.

So much, so very much to come from the simple rule: "Love your neighbors as yourselves."

He could not but think of that proud boast of the Roman general, Scipio Africanus, "It is ever our fate that conquered, we conquer."

Did Rome ever more truly conquer than when apparently she lay crushed and helpless before the triumphant Church of Christ? Had not the Holy Roman Church (mark the very name!) of the fourteenth century far more in it of pagan Rome than of Hebraic Nazareth? Was there no one to tell those people gathered there that all these stately processions bringing with them light and color into the twilight of the churches, these swaying banners of gorgeous design, these choir boys in violet robes, these tall, solemn-faced priests resplendent in their vestments—all had been employed centuries before to delight and subjugate the Roman populace? Did they not know that these same triumphal trains had wound their way through gayly decorated streets to the temples of the immortal gods? The incense that was swayed so solemnly in the jewelled censers, did they suspect that this same sweet odor once rose at the feet of Roman idols? Did they dream—these simple, confiding people—that even the holy water itself was compounded from a heathen recipe? that even the very halos about their saints were copied from the statue of the wicked Nero, where it had symbolized the glory of the sun? that the devotion paid to the Pope had been received by Caligula, even down to the kissing of his toe?

The entire organization of the Holy Roman Church, what was it but the organization of Imperial Rome changed merely in nomenclature?

He looked at the resplendent figure of the Bishop: each scrap of the episcopal vestments bore its special significance—the sandals signifying purity, their red bows the patience of martyrs, the girdle symbolizing continency, the two points or horns of the mitre standing for the knowledge of the two Testaments—and so on through every detail—the annice which was wound about the neck being a very encyclopædia of symbolism, standing for five distinctly different things.

His eye rested a long time upon that wonderful insignia of office, the pastoral staff, symbolically shaped on the lines of a shepherd's crook. The staff was of enamelled gilt copper terminating in an ivory crook upon which was an exquisitely carved figure of the Virgin. About the knop were four compartments each containing a figure illustrative of the history of David, while above these were representations of the six vices overcome by the same number of virtues, a pleasant microcosm (which could scarcely be said to be symbolic of the larger life on earth) where Faith overcame Idolatry, Chastity conquered Impurity, Charity swept away Envy, Temperance subdued Gluttony, Bounty dispelled Avarice, and Peace did away with Strife.

And was he to concern himself with all this—give up his freedom to become a kind of prompter to the Bishop? For the Archdeacon must see to it that no slightest duty of the celebrant is overlooked, that this part of the Gospel is read on the north side of the altar and that part on the east side, and see that his arms are extended here and withdrawn there.

No, no, after all, his religion was of a totally different kind.

"For where two or three are gathered together in my name there am I in the midst of them."

Surely nothing could be simpler. Surely the religious life foreshadowed by these words of Christ could take no thought of the countless forms thrown together and ossified by the Hierarchy.

When the moment came for the delivery of the sermon he arose with a new courage, his languor entirely thrown off. For as he faced the vast congregation these words were ringing in his heart:—

"For Christ made never no cathedrals

Ne with him was no cardinals."

IV

For his text, Annys chose the words of Paul:—

"And I, brethren, when I came unto you, came not with excellency of speech or wisdom.... For I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ, and him crucified.... And my speech and my preaching were not in persuasive words of wisdom, but in demonstration of the spirit of power."

From this, he proceeded to lash the preacher of the day, who, if he deigned at all to quote the words of the Gospel, was so taken up with the manner of his discourse that the matter seemed of small import. And if such an one read the Gospel of Christ, he must load each sentence with evidences of his own learning, distort each saying to show off his own cleverness, so that he doth liken himself more to a mountebank who contorts himself before a crowd to earn its applause and catch its pennies, than to a sober minister of God. He held to it stubbornly that to tell of Christ and Him crucified, to spread the knowledge of "Goddes Lawe," was the chief mission of Holy Church, and that to live by the Gospel was complete salvation, without the observance of certain forms set up by man.

"For sure it is," he said, "that they do punish more the men who trespass against the Pope's bulls, than those who trespass against Christ's Gospel."

Bold words, these! Words that caused the priests to writhe in their seats and cast meaning glances at one another. The clearest Lollardry, this! Forsooth! this one ragged priest to set himself up against Ecumenical Councils, Synods of the Holy Church, Decretals, Canons, Rubrics, Curias, Popes; against the whole Hierarchy with its hundreds of priests, its thousands of Masses, its hundreds of thousands of worshippers; with the strength of empires behind it, and the prestige of the Imperial City,—this one ragged priest!

Cardinal Barsini, the Papal Legate, could scarce restrain his rage. How dared Thomas of Ely to offer high office to this stirrer-up of sedition and heresy? Thomas of Ely, forsooth! this canny Bishop will bear close watching. To be sure, he had proved himself a very watch-dog of the funds of the Church, and thus very useful to his Holiness the Pope while the greedy Barons had been making their onslaughts on the Church's Treasury. Yet this same prelate had been most outspoken in his belief that these same moneys should be spent for the good of the English Church, and not for the carrying on of foreign wars. "English money must not help England's enemies," was the cry of the Bishop and his followers. Basta! dangerous theories, these, to be crushed down with a strong hand. And what nonsense was this insolent poor priest prating of?—the simplification of the priestly office was just what the priesthood did not want. If it were necessary merely to read the Gospel without explaining and interpreting it, why, be a clerk and have done with it. The aloofness, the dignity, the power of the clergy would fall away instanter, the very fabric of the Church Visible would crumble away before their eyes.

While they fumed and bit their lips, the deep, melodious voice of the young poor priest rang through the church:—

"'And about this time there arose no small stir concerning the way. For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made silver shrines of Diana, brought no little business unto the craftsmen; whom he gathered together with the workmen of like occupation, and said, Sirs, ye know that by this business we have our wealth. And ye see and hear that Paul hath persuaded and turned away much people, saying that there be no gods, which are made with our hands: and there is danger that this our trade come into disrepute.'

"Now the priest that says unto himself, 'Behold, if the mere words of Christ contain all of religion, what need is there for me?' is like unto that Demetrius of old who feared to lose his trade of making the silver gods. Shall we, then, continue to place Imagery and Incense above the words of Christ in order that the priestly trade fall not into disrepute? Verily, to understand and teach the word of Christ requires not such great learning; it has been once understood by simple fishermen. Now we are all more eager to appear versed in the writings of the Fathers, than in the words of Christ Jesus. The opinion of commentators hath grown to exceed in importance the opinion of Him who is commented upon. To know Anathasius and Jerome and Augustine is placed above knowing just Christ, and Him crucified. O my friends, help me bring back the Church to Christ Jesus—help me bring her back to the fountain head of inspiration that she may be baptized anew in the reviving waters."

There was an instant's silence, and then through the vast interior there sighed the exquisite benediction:—

"The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be with you all."

And slowly the people dispersed and went their several ways.

Long after the great church was empty, the young poor priest remained before the altar, bowed in prayer. He prayed fervently for light. He tried to fasten his mind upon the one essential question: Could he be of greater service to the people as a poor priest going from town to town, with the illimitable heavens, the waving trees, the only cathedral; or as Archdeacon of the great church of Ely, preaching a weekly sermon, helping the Bishop reform abuses, investigating monasteries, probing into the administrations of abbots, visiting infrequently the scattered villages within his diocese, striving to hold the people within the Church? Perhaps he could prove to them that not with all Churchmen—

"The poor to pill is all their pray;"

that there were exceptions to those described in the popular satire:—

"The pope maketh bishops for earthly thanke,

And nothing at all for Christ's sake,

Such that been full fat and ranke,

To soul-heale none heed they take."

Perhaps, after all, as the Bishop had suggested, his mission lay in stemming the tide of scorn and distrust that was turning the people away from Holy Church. After all, it was a stirring thought. The sermon delivered, his whole being quivered with a new-born sense of power. The delight of swaying great multitudes was upon him. The pomp and pride of the place had entered into his veins. A mighty ambition swept through him which was by no means a mere carnal desire after great wealth or position. It was not that he craved the Bishopric of Ely with its ten palaces of residence scattered through Hertfordshire, Huntingtonshire, and Cambridgeshire, as well as on the isle of Ely. It was not that he longed to ride forth in state with banners flying and men arrayed in his livery, and the arms of the See blazoned on many a shield. Well was he familiar with the sight of the arms of the noble house to which Thomas of Ely belonged: Quarterly, first and fourth gules a Lion rampant Or; second and third Checquy Or and Azure; all within a Bordure engrailed Argent. These he displayed beside the arms of the See of Ely. But it was the power that went with the state that bit into him, the sitting in Westminster Hall as a Peer of the realm, and framing laws for the good of the land. Once Bishop of Ely (for he knew the archdeaconate was but a step preparatory to that), who could tell but the great See of Canterbury might be his some day, and with it the Primacy of all England? Primate of England, Adviser of the King. Ay! and more than Adviser, for when Kings were weak and Primates strong, who, then, was the true Ruler of the Realm? The great names of the English Primacy rushed through his mind: Theodore the monk of Tarsus, who had been first to lift the throne of Canterbury above all the others, and Dunstan, Abbot of Glastonbury, and Anselm, Lanfranc, adviser to the Conqueror, and Theobald and Thomas Beket, all men who had shaped the policy of England as truly as ever King had done. And once Primate of England, who knew but a second Englishman might come to sit in the chair of St. Peter? Even so, he the poor student, arriving ten years before at Oxford with not a groat in his possession and with only a few rags to hide the garment of haircloth which he had promised his mother to wear on Fridays and fast-days, he the unknown student might rise to be Vicar of Christ, Supreme Pontiff, Successor of the Prince of Apostles! Stranger things than that had happened—was not the present Pope, Urban VI, but a coarse Italian peasant, Bartholommeo Prignano by name? Was not the great Hildebrand himself the son of a Tuscan carpenter? The sons of carpenters had played a not unimportant part in the history of the Church.

Pope! what tumultuous thoughts swept through him with the very name! What visions of Majesty, of Power, of Imperial Might! The full title he rolled upon his tongue: Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Temporal Dominion of the Holy Roman Church.

Pope, Pappa, or Father. Even then there came to him the recognition that, after all, that was the proudest title of them all—Father of the People. Protector! What could Archbishop or Primate more than to obey that beautiful mandate of the Saviour, "Feed my lambs"?

Indeed, too often had the Pope tried rather to fleece them than to feed them, so that a Mediæval wit was led to remark that the Papal staff should be shaped as a pair of shears, rather than as a shepherd's crook. But he, Robert Annys, once Pope, he would enforce Reform, he would bring back the Holy Spouse to its lost purity and singleness of purpose; with his indomitable energy he would wage a merciless war on that terrible Antichrist, Robert of Geneva, who, under the name of Clement VII, was holding shameful court at Avignon. With relentless hand he would put down Simony and Licentiousness; he would put a stop to one prelate holding more than one See. Above all, he would seek to spiritualize the Church, so that men might know that temporal power was not its true life, for, as the popular song had it:—

"Christ bad Peter keepe his sheepe,

Swerde is no toole with sheep to keepe.

Holy Churches rich clothing shall be rightwiseness;

Her treasure true life shall be;

Charity shall be her richesse;

Her lordship shall be unite;

Hope in God her honeste;

Her vessel clean conscience;

Poore in spirit and humilite—

Shall be Holy Churches defence."

And yet other Popes had started with such noble intentions. Who knows but perhaps the man who holds a thousand thousand reins between his fingers may not, in the end, find that, instead of being the driver, he is really being driven? There was the proudest Pope the world knew, Gregory VII, the indomitable Hildebrand, whose power seemed to have no bounds,—what was his end? A lonely death in exile, with one enemy crowned Emperor and another established as his successor in the throne of Rome.

The Bishop waited for his answer. He stood at the parting of the ways. Clearly he must decide without further delay. Perhaps this very indecision was but a sign of the dangers of coming within the spell of the Church. Perhaps this stirring desire to keep within, this fierce ambition which struggled in his breast for mastery, was but a new temptation of the Evil One to lure him into Vanity and a Love of Power for its own sake. Oh, if only on the one side lay the path of perfect right-doing, and on the other the path of evil-doing, how easy were the decision. But, alas! the devil works not in that way. He so mixes up the good with the evil, and the evil with the good, that one knows not which way to turn.

What should he answer to the Bishop? Was he strong enough to stand alone, with only the Bible in his hand, and say in the face of Bishops and Archbishops, Cardinals, Legates, the Pope himself: "Man needs not all these offices and ceremonials, these stately places of worship, these Bishops' palaces. Man should live by the Book alone; then would there be no need for priests to shrive or Popes to anathematize"? The Pope—the people did not need him:—

"What knoweth a tillour at the plow the popes name?"

He sought the answer in prayer. He implored fervently for some miracle to show him the divine way. Hours passed, and still he remained there before the altar, bowed in prayer. The shadows in the great interior changed places as the sun travelled its course. Where in the morning the sun had glorified great windows of painted glass, there now rested cold gloom; what had stood out white and clear now hid itself in shadow; a weird procession of the Apostles and Virgins and Saints took place, one after another silently emerging from dim recesses, and after standing out for a while white and clear-cut, slowly fading away into the gray walls.

Still Annys prayed.

On the altar lay the Gospels beautifully bound in gold. To the Book's ornamentation went twenty sapphires, six emeralds, eight topazes, eight salmandine stones, eight garnets, and twelve pearls. Annys could not but think of the cheeks he had seen that morning sunken from hunger. He could not but reflect how many mouths those jewels might have fed. His eyes fell upon the cruet which contained the consecrated oil. It was enclosed in an exquisitely jewelled reliquary of finest silver gilt; the curtains of the altar were of blue cloth of tissue, with images of the Crucifixion most delicately embroidered on it. Something seemed to whisper within him that Jesus Christ, could He now look on the condition of His Church to-day, would not approve of all the splendor within, while without men died by the hundred for lack of brotherly service. He prayed for light. How would Christ have acted? Would He have been persuaded to take high office within the Sanhedrim, and not go down among His people who waited for Him? Surely not. Could all the gilt and glory of Solomon's temple have made Him forsake the cross? No, a thousand times no! O for some manifestation of the divine will that would make clear his way beyond peradventure!

"Grant it, dear Lord, for the sake of Thy Son who died on the rood."

Far up over the altar, above the most beautiful reredos in all England, stood the patient Christ looking down upon him. On either side, slightly lower, stood the solemn figures of Moses and Elijah. The arches in which they stood were supported by shafts of alabaster curiously entwined with spiral belts of agates and crystals on a golden ground. On the reredos was the sculptured story of the wonderful life, the entry into Jerusalem, washing the feet of the disciples, the Last Supper, the Agony in the Garden, and finally, Bearing the Cross; yet the central figure of the Christ, high up in its gable, easily dominated all. Majestic as were the figures of the prophets, there was a certain simpler majesty of the Christ that appealed more intimately to the human soul.

The patient Christ looked down upon the kneeling form, and to the tired eyes of the young priest, it seemed that He smiled upon him. He saw the gentle lips move and heard a low whisper:—

"Patience, dear son. Have I not pleaded with My Father, 'Lord, Lord, I came not to earth, that these great cathedrals be reared, nor that superbly robed priests genuflect before My image'?

"Nevertheless, I have faith that surely the time will come when the hearts of the people are ripe for the knowledge of Me. If the Lord hath seen to it that the seeds of the flowers are blown by the winds of heaven at the appointed time and scattered into the fields that await their coming, surely He will see that My words yet fall on fertile soil."

Annys sprang to his feet, and gazing into the face of the Christ, cried ecstatically:—

"But is the appointed time now come? Am I the one to scatter the seed and cause it to fall upon the right soil? Oh, vouchsafe me a sign, a sign, dear Lord, to show me the way."

For answer, softly there crept into the shadowed apse the faint sound of voices, as of many men chanting a hymn, but far, far away. Slowly it gathered in strength until it touched the walls of the great church and made them speak, ever growing stronger and stronger until at last the words could be distinguished, and the whole vast interior rang with the refrain:—

"Jack Miller asketh help to turn his mill aright.

He hath grounded small, small, small:

The King's Son of Heaven He shall pay for all.

Look thy mill go aright with the four sails,

And the post stand with steadfastness."

And then the stirring call:—

"With right and with might

With skill and with will;

Let might help right,

And skill go before will

And right before might

So goeth our mill aright."

The face of Annys was transfigured with joy, for well he knew the song to be one that passed from lip to lip among the followers of John Ball. It was the call of the People, the defiant song of the down-trodden, law-ridden, priest-ridden People.

"A sign! a sign!" he cried exultantly, and rushed out into the Square.

V

Where three roads from the neighboring villages met, there was formed a great open space in which a thousand or more persons could easily find room without crowding. Here had gathered together the people, eager to see and hear their beloved leader, John Ball.

While Ball was resting at the tavern, after his long tramp, the crowd amused itself welcoming vociferously the late comers, cracking jokes, and singing songs. A tall fellow made his way among them, crying:—

"Busk ye, busk ye, John Ball hath rung your bell. God do bote, for now is tyme."

"By my troth, then, it will be heard from one end of England to the other!" exclaimed a powerfully built, fierce-looking dyer, whose hands, stained a purplish red by his trade, added to his sanguinary appearance.

"'Tis fairly so. We shall yet all be free men," agreed a mild-mannered, lanky youth, with a slight halt in his speech.

"Here come John the cobbler, and Will the tinker, both as sober as owls," called out a youngster.

"Ho, John, John, thy lass will turn a cold front on thee, and thou smooth not the frown on thine ugly phiz!" cried one who was blue with the cold, and danced about first on one foot and then the other to keep his blood circulating.

A short distance from him, a long-nosed, peaked-faced chap, a bit unsteady on his legs, was haranguing a group.

"Here's a nut to crack," he was saying; "who can answer me this: What do the priests prefer over Luke, Mark, and the Book?"

"Nay, then, not I," snarled one who was in no mood for conundrums, "not I, seeing that I cannot boast thy wit, Simon Lackless."

Lackless grinned broadly and placed one lean finger to his long nose, waggishly. "Why, 'tis fair enough," he said; "the priests do prefer Lucre to Luke, Marks to Mark, and the Bag to the Book."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the people about him, passing the joke along from one to the other.

But Lackless had not overlooked the sneer; he now pointed to the speaker and called out in a loud voice, "Poor Wat! We must forgive him, seeing he is so meek at home and must vent his cooped-up spleen on some one!"

Wat sought another part of the crowd, discomfited.

"I wot a good saw," exclaimed an old man, leaning heavily on a staff; "but there, do not ask me for it, for my sides ache with laughing a'ready."

But they would not let him off. "Come now, let's have it," they begged. Some laughed outright from sympathy with the old man's merriment.

"What think ye, what think ye—oh, Lord!" he spluttered. "What think ye they do say at Rome?"

"They do say 'Aves' in plenty, for all the good they do us," grumbled one. But no one else ventured to solve the riddle.

"Why, it is 'Give and it shall be given unto you,'" the old man said, chuckling in his high, cracked treble.

The crowd laughed heartily.

"Ay! 'and moch they take, and give but small,'" sang out an impish lad, who had jumped on the back of a comrade and was pummelling him lustily.

"Aiee! Aiee!" cried the under one.

A wrathy butcher jerked the fellow off the other's back and smacked him soundly for his pains. "Off with you! One would think a mountebank was coming instead of John Ball!"

There were others who felt as he did. Beneath all the fun there flowed an undercurrent of earnestness, and many there were who spoke no word, but gazed grimly before them, seemingly lost in thought.

Suddenly some one started a song to while away the time:—

"Earth out of earth is wonderfully wrought."

Others immediately joined in:—

"Earth from earth has got dignity of naught."

When the last stanza was reached, six hundred voices trolled it defiantly forth:—

"Earth upon earth would be a king;

But how that earth shall be earth's thinks he no thing:

Earth upon earth wins castles and towers,

Then says earth unto earth 'this is all ours.'"

Then a thin boyish treble started a mocking song on the great state of the priests. They did not suffer him to sing alone, but took it up eagerly with him:—

"Priestes high on horse willeth ride

In glitterande gold of great array,

Ipainted and portred all in pride

No common knight may go so gay;

Change of clothing every day,

With golden girdles great and small;

As boisterous as is beare at bay."

But now John Ball was seen making his way through the throng. As the people pressed together to let him pass, benedictions and glances of true affection followed him; and he, catching sight here and there of some known face, nodded cheerily, first on one side and the other. For the people loved him, and called him "Saviour"; it was only the Churchmen that spoke of him as "the mad priest of Kent."

In the centre of the square stood a great tall cross of stone with the head very beautifully carved with a crucifix in the middle of leafage work, and with wide stone steps, octagonal in shape, leading to it. When Ball reached these steps, he mounted to the very top and stood there looking down with a quiet smile upon the upturned faces before him. He stood there, a powerfully built, tall, big-boned figure in the well-known, reddish brown, coarse garb of his order, a veritable tower of strength physical as well as spiritual, and looking as if he knew his own strength and gloried in it. A ring of dark hair surrounded his priest's tonsure; his nose was big, but clean-cut and with wide nostrils; his shaven face showed a longish upper lip and a big but blunt chin; his mouth was big and the lips closed firmly. A face not very noteworthy but for the gray eyes, well opened and wide apart, at times lighting up his whole face with a kindly smile, at times set and stern, or now and then resting in that look as if they were gazing at something a long way off, as do the eyes of the poet or enthusiast.

Shout after shout broke from the throng as he stood there calmly looking down upon them. When at last there was silence, he was not suffered to speak, for of a sudden a man standing immediately next to the cross unfurled a banner which swung out in the breeze. Only a smallish banner with a peculiar device upon it: merely a picture of a man and a woman rudely clad and with bare legs and feet seen against a background of green trees, the man holding a spade, the woman a distaff and spindle, rudely enough drawn, yet with great spirit and meaning. Underneath were the written words:—

"When Adam delved and Eve span

Who was then the gentleman?"

A tremulous murmur arose that soon swelled into a great huzza. The thrill of enthusiasm ran like threads of fire from man to man. Again and again, Huzza! Huzza!

A prosperous merchant, stopping curiously on the edge of the crowd, pointed to the banner. "That comes," he said, "of putting Holy Writ 'twixt the fingers of every swineherd."

His companion, an alderman from Norwich, smiled. "Ah, can one wonder that they cry Ball with Book and Bell? If they press the gospel into daily life, there's no telling what will happen!"

Annys, coming from the dim twilight of the Cathedral, looked about him at first in bewilderment. He stood on the outer edge of the throng, apart and gazing with interest at the scene. He felt himself not yet attuned to the bright picture before him, full of color and light and life. But slowly the true significance of it all sank into him. The very brightness and color of the scene was in itself symbolic. Here all took place in the open air; the sun, although near the end of its course, yet threw into sharp contrast the dark fringe of trees that encircled the outskirts of the cross-roads. The air was pure and fresh and smelled of the sea and the salt marshes, awakening every faculty with a tingling sense of life and activity. It was so different, ah, how different, from the heavy, incense-laden air of the dim Cathedral! That was an atmosphere which dulled one's senses and soothed them to sleep. The gay mass of moving color as the people swayed this way and that, the goodly brown soil, the living green of the earth,—how good it all was! He could look up and see, from where he stood, the stately tower of Ely and the smaller tower of the Lantern etched grandly against the sky. Beautiful as the proud Minster was, even as he looked at it, he felt that its power must wane from the moment that this new religion of the poor priests took firm hold of the people. The Cathedral stood for a religion of secluded cloisters, a standard of living for monks and priests; but Ball stood for a religion for the whole broad earth, a standard of living for the men and women who did the work of the world.

And Ball spoke and said:—

"Fellow-men, a price is on my head. Well wist I that even at this moment the Archbishop's men are awaiting until I come into their power to clap me into Maidstone gaol."

A threatening murmur ran through the crowd, and many a man fingered his bow, and such as had them, clapped hand to sword or studied the points of their daggers fondly.

"Yea, that wist I—there be but little time left me to talk to you, so I must hasten. The men of Kent have sent for me, and I am on my way to them, although I doubt if I can have speech with them before the gaolers have me in irons. Yet the men have need of me, and I go. I am not the first preacher of God's word to be hunted by tyrants. Was not our dear Lord, Jesus Christ, summoned again and again to appear before the authorities to defend Himself on the charge of disturbing the public peace? Was not likewise the Apostle Paul persecuted? And there were others, but it is not of them that I came to speak to you to-day. I come to tell ye wherein I am a disturber of the public peace, wherein I am justly dubbed a 'pestilent fellow,' as Ananias the high priest dubbed Paul. Yea, verily, I am a pestilent fellow of the sect of the Nazarenes, going about the land sowing the seeds of discontent and rebellion. And I take glory unto myself for the name. For surely if ye bide content with such a lot as yours—if ye remain satisfied with homes of wattled reeds and mud, and do not rebel that oxen and horses should be better cared for than such as were made in the image of God,—then would ye not deserve the name of Men. The people are growing tired of calling upon the high priests of the Church to reform themselves. My brethren, the time hath come when Reform must come from below and not above, must come from the people and no Pope. The people are not schismatic, the people are not over-luxurious."

A sardonic grin swept over many faces, and some broke out into loud guffaws at this sally.

"The people are not covetous, nor greedy, nor lustful, nor ever grasping for new powers. Nay, verily, I ask you to listen to the words of the Apostle Paul, and tell me who come nearer to the ideal held up therein—the priests or the people?

"'And behold, we live; as chastened and not killed; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things.'"

"The people, the people," they shouted lustily.

"Ha!" cried one fellow to another, "of the priests we may well say—they live, as unchaste and lively; as rich, yet making others poor; as having everything, and yet wishing more."

"In truth!" answered his companion; "but stay, he begins again."

"The people," went on Ball, "seek Christ, but they are a-weary of seeing Religion walk in the market-place, a buyer among buyers, a ruler among rulers, a tyrant among tyrants."

"That's true as Holy Writ," shouted one great fellow, enthusiastically, and many took up the cry:—

"As true as Holy Writ!"

"The people desire priests who will come among them and work among them, even as did the Apostles. Why am I put beyond the pale of the Church save that, instead of concerning myself with unravelling the tangles of canonical lore, I seek to unravel the tangles of life? Sure all that is needed to do priestly service is to love much, for hath not St. John said:—

"'He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him'?

"And what is love, I ask ye, but good-fellowship? Ah, cherish that word fellowship, my brethren, for without fellowship be assured Christ cannot enter among you: for without fellowship every one standeth for his own lusts, and the strong wax yet stronger, and the weak are pressed to the wall and grow yet weaker and die. But where fellowship entereth among you there entereth Christ also—the strong shares his strength with the weak, and the oppressed arise and lift up their heads. We are told much, fellow-men, of the states of heaven and hell, we are told of the blessings of heaven and the horrors of hell; but lay it well to heart what I tell you,—friendship is heaven and lack of fellowship is hell—fellowship is life, and lack of fellowship is death. In hell, one shall cry on his fellow to help him, and shall find that therein is no help because there is no fellowship, but every man for himself. Therefore I tell you that the proud, despiteous rich man, though he knoweth it not, is in hell already, because he hath no fellow."

And his voice sank solemnly away and the people brooded in silence over what they had heard. And perhaps there came over the speaker a sudden thought of the cold, dark dungeon where he would soon lie chained, away from his people whom he so dearly loved, away from the open air and the sunlight and the shadows of clouds sweeping over the fields. And his head sank for an instant upon his breast, and as he spoke again there was a slight tremble in his voice, though he tried hard to throw it off:—

"Had I but kept my tongue between my teeth I might have been some personage, if but a parson of a town, and men would have spoken well of me; and all this I have lost for the lack of a word here and there to some great man, and a little winking of the eyes amidst murder and wrong and unruth. Now it is too late, the hemp for me is sown and grown and heckled and spun."

"Nay, nay," a strong voice cried, "we shall march upon the gaol and demand you of the Archbishop himself. We shall come fifty thousand strong, and we shall burst down the gaol if he refuse us."

"His head shall yet decorate a post and you shall live to see it," shouted another daring soul. His remark was greeted with cheers.

Ball held up one hand for silence, a great light of love irradiating his face.

"Ay, fear not that I have wrought all these years in vain. For while the great tread down the little, and strong beat down the weak, and cruel men fear not, and kind men dare not, and wise men can not, the saints in heaven bid me not forbear. I wot well because of fellowship it will not fail, though I seem to fail when the Archbishop lays his hands on me. But in the days hereafter shall I and my work yet be alive, and men be holpen by them to strive again and yet again."

And with his voice and demeanor grown solemn once more with the thought of the long wait which must be endured before they could come together again, he uttered over them the same beautiful benediction which had arisen centuries before on the lips of Paul:—

"Now I beseech you, brethren, through the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that there be no divisions among you. Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong. Let all that ye do be done in love."

Strong men were bowed in grief, and their broad shoulders shook with sobs. The women and children straggling about the outer edge of the throng wept openly and long. But Robert Annys rushed forward and, making his way to the foot of the cross, flung himself there on his knees and cried out passionately:—

"Nay, nay, John Ball, beloved master, fear not, neither shall your work fail now, nor shall it seem to fail. For from this moment I give myself to it, body and soul. And I pledge myself to stand in your place and do whatsoever you would have me do while you are gone from us."

An astonished silence greeted these words, for it had been pretty freely rumored that the archdeaconate of Ely had been offered to the young poor priest, and that he would never be able to withstand the temptation to throw off the russet sacking and don the albe and stole. When it was realized that the bribe of high office had not caused him to desert the cause of the people, the enthusiasm knew no bounds; men wrung their neighbors' hands, and tears of joy ran down bronzed cheeks. John Ball knew well that Robert Annys was a man of great power and eloquence, and he smiled gladly when he heard his earnest words. He raised the young priest to his feet, and clasped his hands warmly, and gazed long and earnestly into his face. And the people there assembled looked up at those two strong souls standing united before the cross. And because of that sight, they bade farewell to their leader less sorrowfully than if they had none other to look to for help and guidance.

VI

Into the Bishop's chamber the Legate entered, smiling. There were many things in the turn of events that went to make up his scarce concealed satisfaction. To be sure, the times were troublous, and a grave uneasiness was over the land, yet to Pietro Barsini the end in view ever justified the means, and there was no denying that the old enemies of the Church, the Barons, were becoming wonderfully meek and approachable under the pressure of their present difficulties.

The discontent and threatened rising of the people against their overlords had thrown the Aristocracy—Bishops and Barons—into a union, or semblance of union. Both were landowners, and were absorbed in the problem of putting a man behind the plough and keeping him there. Untilled lands and rotting corn became of more importance than Rights of Mortmains, Spiritualities, Peter's Pence, Rights of Investiture, or other trifling matters over which Churchmen and Barons had quarrelled.

Thus it came about that at that time for a brief instance the lion lay down with the lamb. A true Churchman, such as was Pietro Barsini, could find much indeed to relish in the situation. Not only was the mighty English Baronage turned from an enemy into an ally, but there was the unregenerate past to do penance for. Therefore rich gifts and many altars and chantries and noble additions to cathedrals began to find their way to the Church from the repentant sinners. Many and profitable were the Plenary and Special Indulgences granted to undo the direful Past; and if perchance to the contrite purchaser redemption seemed to come a trifle high, a sight of his rotting corn, or bleating sheep, or distressed kine, speedily brought him to terms.

The Cardinal could find it in his heart almost to love some of those hardy, obstinate Barons, his new-found friends, but for the Bishop of Ely he had only unmitigated scorn. He could understand an out and out enemy, but these half enemies and half friends, these Churchmen who are ever prating of reform from within, and who one minute are as fiercely denouncing the head of the Church, as the next they are anathematizing the heretics and would-be robbers of the Church,—these he frankly could not understand at all. Thomas of Ely was his special detestation; he had no patience with his absurd strictures regarding the conferring of benefices only on worthy and pious Churchmen. The Hierarchy in the eyes of the Nuncio was a vast and powerful machine of intricate workings. If one delicate part of the machine refused to work, there must be plenty of oil to lubricate it,—oil in the shape of emoluments was vastly more important to the usefulness of the machine than such abstract qualities as piety or chastity. There were certain crowned heads to be soothed, certain fierce Barons to be placated, certain wily Counts to be won over, here and there a Queen to be flattered, or a rival to be disposed of at a safe distance; therefore there must be benefices to bestow with wise discrimination, here one in Sicily, there one in Burgundia, there one in Flanders or in France, or maybe in England.

The Cardinal inquired most considerately into the Bishop's state of health. His greeting was as smooth and affable as ever, yet the Bishop could read the malicious triumph that bubbled beneath the calm surface.