THE chief concern of this story is with the beginnings of our English Testament. The Latin Vulgate was the only version of the Scriptures known in Europe until the early part of the sixteenth century.

The sack of Constantinople by the Turks in 1453, and the break-up of the old Greek Empire, had driven many learned Greeks to take refuge in Italy, where they became teachers, not merely of their own language, but of the subjects that had long been taught in the schools and colleges of Constantinople.

But the key to these various branches of knowledge lay in the Greek tongue, and this gradually became known at the different universities of Europe, through those who learned it in Italy, and thus it became the insignia of the new learning.

Among those who studied under the Greek masters in Italy was Erasmus, a young Dutchman, who had been so disgusted with what he was compelled to see and hear among the drunken, brutal monks, his companions in the monastery where he was a novice, that he was glad to leave and become secretary to the Bishop of Cambray. He had already distinguished himself as a Latin scholar but the Greek tongue opened a new world of learning, which he was not slow to conquer.

He became a tutor at the University of Paris, and had several English pupils, through whose influence he came to Oxford, where he met another famous Greek scholar, Grocyn, who was most anxious that the new language and learning should be extended in England.

A little later Erasmus became a lecturer on Greek at Cambridge, while at the same time he laboured industriously at the work of translating the ancient Greek authors into modern Greek or Latin.

At last he gave the world the New Testament in Greek and Latin, that men might judge for themselves in the matter of priestly pretensions founded on the Vulgate. It was essentially a book for the learned, but prepared the way for that which was to follow—the English New Testament.

Going back to the original fount of knowledge, it soon became apparent to the seekers after truth in this direction, that the Latin Vulgate had been adapted to give authority to the corrupt doctrines of the Romish Church, and so this Greek New Testament everywhere created a ferment in men's minds, for while some saw in it the light of God's truth revealed to men, others saw only a danger to the Church and the established order of things in general. These defenders of the old order chose to call themselves "Trojans" in Oxford, as opposed to the "Greeks," or followers of the new language and learning.

It is curious to note that the Vulgate itself had its origin in a desire for reform, similar to that which prompted Erasmus to translate the New Testament direct from the Greek language. In the year 385, Jerome commenced the translation of the Scriptures from the Hebrew into the Latin tongue, because he found that the Itala, or version in general use, contained so many inaccuracies when compared with the original MSS. The new translation, however, was not received by the Church with any degree of thankfulness, and even St. Augustine himself viewed it with suspicion, and was inclined to join in the cry of heresy taken up against Jerome; and it was not until two hundred years had elapsed, that it became the recognised version of the Christian Church, for many still clung to the old Itala version which it had superseded.

It can be easily understood that copyists of Jerome's version, who still preferred the meaning given in the Itala, could introduce some of these renderings from time to time, so that at last it was deemed advisable about the eleventh century to have this translation of Jerome's revised, owing to these and other causes.

This new revision was undertaken by the Archbishops and Cardinals, but by the time our story begins, whatever its original purity may have been, it was so manipulated by its copyists as to give authority to every corrupt doctrine and belief in the Church of Rome; and these were all intended to give power to the priests and monks, to hold men's minds and consciences in bondage. It was carefully instilled into the people that the Scriptures was a dangerous book in the hands of the laity, or common people, and therefore must only be read with an approved commentary, written by a priest, or received from the mouths of the clergy with such comments and explanations as they might deem necessary to impart.

This being the condition of things in England, and all over the Continent of Europe at the dawn of the Reformation, it can be easily understood what a stir was created by the new translation of Erasmus, while the publication of the Scriptures in English would arouse alike the fear and hatred of bishops, priests, and monks, to say nothing of those whose trade or interests were also threatened by the reform of old abuses and corrupt practices. By the introduction of a simpler mode of worship, and the abolition of Masses for the dead, which was such a fruitful source of gain, not merely to the clergy themselves, but to the various trades who profited by supplying candles and trappings. These were deemed necessary to purge away the sins of the departed, and by this means widows and orphans were often reduced to poverty, if they were rich, and to absolute starvation if they were poor, through the cruel perversion of their love for the dear one, imposed upon them by the Church of Rome and her clergy.

If my readers will bear these facts in mind, they will understand how great an event in our history as a nation was the translation of the Scriptures by Tyndale into the English language.

AT THE

SIGN OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE.

[CHAPTER I.]

OXFORD FAIR.

"WHAT d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? Here's Flemish cloth. Here's—"

"What d'ye lack?" screamed a louder voice. "Here's Sheffield knives." But the cries of both pedlars were drowned in the increasing din, for this was the first day of Oxford Autumn Fair, and the students from the different colleges were pouring into the market-place, some to buy cloth for winter doublets, or knives, or books, while others came for the mere fun, and, after purchasing a few cakes or wastrel bread for their midday meal, pushed and jostled and chaffed the crowd, and were cuffed and joked in turn with merry laughter. But all at once a cry arose above the general din of pedlars and buyers. "A Greek! a Greek!" was shouted, and then another answering cry of defiance rang out, "A Trojan! a Trojan!" while, as if by magic, sticks were suddenly flourished, and angry words of defiance were bandied about, and the wrathful cry, "A Greek! a Greek!" resounded from all points, to be drowned the next moment in a louder shout, "A Trojan! a Trojan!" and then the fight began.

The pedlars ceased to shout, and gathered their wares closer on the stalls, and the townspeople sought refuge in tents or any place of shelter at hand, for pedlars and people alike would have a sorry time of it during the fray. So they drew closer together for mutual protection, and left the more open spaces for the combatants, who used sticks and missiles against each other without mercy, Trojans beating Greeks, and Greeks belabouring Trojans.

"This all comes of the new learning," said one of the pedlars to his neighbour, who was hastily gathering up his rolls of cloth and replacing them on the mule's back, before the angry crowd should stumble over them.

"The new learning?" repeated the other. "Why, where hast thou been the last two years not to know what a stir it has made in the world, and like to make more since these hot-headed lads have taken to fight over it?"

As he spoke two of them came tearing through the fair, closely followed by two or three others, flourishing stout sticks, without much regard as to what or who was felled by their blows. As the cloth-merchant was reached the cudgel of a pursuing Trojan struck down one of the retreating Greeks, who had lost his weapon of defence.

The lad was stunned, and would have fallen under the legs of the mule if he had not been rescued by the pedlar, for his assailant swept on in search of the other Greek, and did not stop to see what mischief he had done.

The lad groaned as he was dragged to the shelter of one of the stalls, and they saw there was a deep cut on his forehead, but there was a barber-surgeon close at hand, who had set up his tent here in the fair, and the lad was carried to him to have the wound dressed, for he was unconscious, and continued so until his friends came in search of him an hour later.

The fight was over then. It had run its course, and Greeks and Trojans were looking up their friends who had fallen in the fray. Several of them lay here in the barber's tent, some with broken heads and various wounds and bruises about their bodies, but one poor Greek it seemed had broken his leg in falling.

"And all over this fellow Erasmus, who is no Englishman either," said one.

"Aye, but he's worth fighting for," said the young Greek who had been carried in by the pedlar; "if you could but read the Greek New Testament of Erasmus, my masters, you would say a new light had dawned for the world." *

The pedlar shrugged his shoulders and touched his forehead as he looked significantly at the barber, but the lad saw it, and murmured faintly, "I know what I am talking about. Is that you, Standish?" he said, as another student pushed his way in.

* See Preface.

"Aye. What! are you hurt, Miles Paton? Where is the damage?" he asked.

"My head and my leg," replied his friend.

"I don't think it's broken now," said the barber, "but he can't stand."

"We'll carry him home," said the other, and he fetched a companion, paid the few pence charged by the barber for dressing the wound on his head, and then, lifting the patient in their arms, bore him through the crowd to his college room, which was little more than a bare cell, with a table and stool, chest and bed, and a few books.

They carried him through the streets as gently as they could, but the fair had drawn many strangers into the town, and it was full of bustling, jostling crowds, and the roadways at that time having no proper footpath, they had to dodge horses and foot passengers as best they could as they carried their friend from the fair.

The poor fellow was almost fainting with pain when they at last laid him on the bed. The two friends looked at him helplessly for a minute or two. "That barber said there was nothing amiss with your leg," said one, as he noticed how white and drawn his face was.

"I suppose there ought not to be," said the patient, "but—" And then the stout oak door was pushed open, and an elderly man said, in a cheery voice, "Doth Master Miles Paton dwell here?"

In a moment the colour returned to the pale face of the lad on the bed, and he tried to raise himself as he said, "Aye, aye, Roger. It is our reeve," he said to his companions, "the one I was in search of when they began the fray at the fair."

The man, who was dressed in a well-made leather jerkin, stepped to the bedside, but he looked very much alarmed when he saw the pale face of Miles; for the effort to sit up had cost the lad dearly, and he now lay fainting on the hard straw pillow upon which he had fallen back.

His friends were scarcely less alarmed, as they explained to the steward what had happened at the fair.

"And why should he call himself a Greek, and another lad a Trojan? Ye all be English, I trow," said the man, sharply.

"Yes, yes, we are all English, but some of us are for the new learning, and some would have things go on as they are. Miles now has got a Greek New Testament which he reads every day, and so, of course, he is a Greek, but there are just as many who say the new learning will bring nothing but trouble, and turn things upside down at Oxford," said one lad.

"Well, it is a pretty quarrel," said the steward, "but lads of twenty, like my master there, might leave such questions for greybeards to settle, and not seek to do it with cudgel and stones. Poor lad! poor lad! as if there was not trouble enough before. How am I to get him home to Woodstock?" he asked, looking at his friends, who were staring helplessly at the fainting lad.

Miles Paton was a favourite among his companions, and the news that he had been hurt in the fray at the fair had spread from one to another, and now they began to arrive to make enquiries as to how the patient was going on.

One of these young fellows, when he came into the little room and saw how things were, dashed off at once to his own cell to fetch a cordial to revive the exhausted patient. He had learned something of the healing art from his uncle, who was a monk at the monastery where he went to school; and under his care Miles soon began to revive. "It was us Trojans who did it, I trow," he said, as he proceeded to examine his friend's leg. "It is badly sprained, and he will have to stay here for a month at least," said the young surgeon.

"Nay, but I want him to journey home with me to-morrow," said the steward in some alarm. "I came to the fair for plenishings, but my chief errand was to bid Master Paton here journey homeward with all speed."

"But he could not ride on horseback, and he cannot walk; and since the world was made there hath been no other fashion by which a man can move from place to place," said the young surgeon.

"No!" slowly uttered one of the group. But at last it was proposed that a duly qualified doctor should be fetched, and the young surgeon volunteered to go for him and tell him the state of the case, that he might bring such bandages and medicines with him that he would be likely to require; and with him went several others, leaving the steward alone with his master at last, and as soon as he saw this the young fellow turned and looked at the elder man, and said, "What is it, Roger? What hath happened? Is my father well?"

"Aye, he is well, and the Lady Jane, thy mother, too."

"Then I care not what the news may be. Tell it, Roger, I can bear it, though I hope our little Margery is no worse."

"Nay, Mistress Margery is better, but a sore mischance bath befell thy brother, Mr. John,—and —and—"

"A mischance to Jack? Why, he hath not been married a year!"

"Aye, the bridal marchpane hardly eaten before—" but there he stopped, for Miles had grown deathly pale again, and he gave him some of the medicine left by his friend to restore him.

"Don't say it, Roger," murmured the young fellow, feebly. "I quarreled with Jack the last time I was at home, and it was over this new learning too. Tell me he is only hurt a little, or ill a little, for we loved each other, Roger, though he was the eldest, and the Hall and all that belongs to it would go to him, and leave the rest of us poor."

But at this point the old man hid his face in his hands, and groaned.

"He suffered little pain, my master, less than you are suffering now; and 'twas said if he lived he would ever be a helpless cripple, so we may not wish him back," he moaned.

"Oh, Jack, Jack! my brother Jack! And is he really dead?" and, overcome with grief, the lad burst into tears in spite of his twenty years and the honours he had gained at the University. But he and the old family retainer were by themselves, and by degrees he learned all about his brother's accident, how he was thrown from his horse while riding after a gang of thieves that had lately infested the neighbouring woods, and how his young wife had come to the hall as soon as she heard of her husband's death.

"My mother will comfort her," said the young fellow, "but who will comfort my father?"

"Aye, there is none can do that but you, my master, and therefore am I come hither to seek ye. It was my lady's last command, 'Bring the lad back with you, Roger,' she said; and how shall I tell her of this fray, and that you cannot come?"

"I must go," said Miles; "my wounds are nought, and—"

But the new doctor arrived at this point, and the steward told him at once how needful it was that Miles should set off early the next morning on his journey to Woodstock.

"It is not many miles," commented the doctor, and then he proceeded to examine his leg, which was much swollen, and would keep him in bed a month at least, the doctor said.

"Very well; I will stay in bed a month when I reach Woodstock, but I cannot stay here another day. But, as I seem to be somewhat chickenhearted with this pain, I will ask you to give me some elixir that shall keep me steady on my horse until I reach Paton Hall, and then I care not what they do with me," said Miles.

The doctor tried persuasions to turn him from his purpose, and then tried to frighten him into obeying his directions, but it was all of no use, and at last it was arranged that some of his friends should come and see him off the next morning, and make what arrangements they could with the saddle and stirrups for his comfort during the journey. Two of them offered to stay with him through the night, and after some persuasion the old reeve agreed to go to an inn to secure a night's rest for himself, and look after the two servants he had brought with him.

Miles and his friends slept but little during the night. He was going to take his Greek New Testament home with him, and so his two visitors sat up the greater part of the night reading it while they had the chance, for they were only poor scholars, and unable to buy a copy for themselves. Miles was going to leave his room and the rest of his books in the charge of these two friends for the present, but he could not spare his precious Testament, though he was leaving them the works of Jerome translated by Erasmus, which was in itself a most notable book, and, being dedicated to Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and greatly admired and recommended by him to other scholars, could not be objected to by anybody.

But the priests and monks had already began to denounce this Greek Testament, for it was altogether different from the Latin Vulgate, which was the only translation hitherto known, and from which all others had been copied.

But Erasmus had gone to the original Greek for his translation, and he had based it on the literal meaning of the original text, without any reference to any of the dogmas of the Church; and behold it was altogether a new book, for Christ Himself was set in the place occupied by the Church in the Vulgate, and the whole book was designed to call men's minds from theologians to the Founder of Christianity Himself. Christ was the central figure in this Greek Testament, and all the need for mediæval superstitions and image worship seemed to fade away as the vivid picture of the living Christ presented in this book grew upon them, in this year 1520.

No wonder the lads looked at each other in wondering amazement as they sat holding the book between them, and slowly reading the Greek characters which were the key to open such divine knowledge to their wondering eyes. One of the lads was to be a priest, and, after reading one of the Gospel stories, he said, "I shall teach that it is no longer needful to deck statues of the Lord Jesus Christ, for this is a better way to worship Him than through any image of wax or wood, for we can see into His very heart of love here in His tenderness for the multitude of poor folk who followed Him hungry and footsore."

"Let us read on while we can," said his friend, for the further he read the more eager was he to learn. And so they sat until their poor tallow candle burnt itself out, and then stretched themselves on the floor to get an hour's sleep before it was time to waken their friend and help him to prepare for his journey.

They were up before it was quite daylight, and had roused Miles Paton from his uneasy slumber, and proceeded to help him to get into his clothes. As soon as his cloth doublet was fastened he asked for his precious Testament. "There are a few old monkish books at Paton Hall, but I shall sorely miss the life and stir the new learning bath brought to Oxford, and my only light will be here," he said, as he securely fastened his treasure close to his side.

They managed to carry him out to the college gates, which were just being opened as they reached them, but a horse, with one of the family servants in attendance, was already waiting outside, and they helped Miles into the saddle, though it was evident that every movement was agony to the lad.

It was a dull, grey morning, and anything more uninviting than the streets of Oxford then presented cannot well be imagined. The road was cut up into ruts and holes, and the horse had to be led by the servant, so as to avoid these as much as possible to spare the rider pain. The high-gabled houses, with their stories built to project one beyond the other, left but a narrow space between them at the top, so that only a narrow rift of sky could be seen from below, just enough to light up the open sewer that streamed down the middle of the street. There were no footpaths for passengers walking, but they had to do their best to dodge the horses and laden mules, as well as to avoid having the refuse of the houses and shops thrown over them as they passed, for all was thrown into the street, which was thus plentifully spread with all sorts of offal and refuse.

In some of the streets poles were stretched across from house to house, and here the dyers and fullers hung their cloth to dry; and Miles had to duck his head more than once as he rode towards the inn, to avoid a slap in the face from the wet cloth flapping in the wind.

They found the reeve waiting for them at the door, with the welcome news that breakfast was ready for them; they had not waited for the regular college breakfast, and the morning air or the night's reading had made two of the party hungry, though Miles declared he could not eat more than a morsel of pasty and drink a horn of ale.

But the rest managed to clear the board in a very short time, for the reeve was eager to set out on his journey, that they might reach home safely before nightfall, and thus avoid meeting the bands of beggars that roamed the country and usually plundered any unfortunate traveller that might come in their way.

So they pushed on with all possible speed when the town was left behind, but the rutty bridle path—for the road was little better—could not be traversed very quickly, for Miles' horse had to be led, that he might avoid stumbling, which would have caused his master such pain as almost to unfit him for continuing the journey. This was not the only peril of this main road to Oxford, for while the horses and baggage mules stepped cautiously along, master and servants had to keep a sharp eye on the trees and undergrowth of the surrounding wood, for thieves and beggars found a convenient shelter in the tall bracken, and might spring out upon them at any moment.

[CHAPTER II.]

AT PATON HALL.

MILES PATON had not been home for nearly two years, and during that time there had been changes which, if he heard of, he soon forgot, but which startled him now even in the midst of his pain and weariness.

They were close to the village, and Miles was looking round for some recognition from the villagers, who were generally standing about their doors at this hour, when he was struck with the quietness of the place. Even the alehouse had a deserted look, and there were no children to be seen playing about in the roadway. Most of the cottage doors were closed too; and weeds were growing in the path that was usually trodden hard.

"Roger, Roger," he called at last, forgetting even the anguish of his foot in his alarm at the condition of the neighbourhood. "Roger, have you had the plague here?" he said, in an anxious whisper, that the other servant should not hear.

"The plague?" repeated the reeve, crossing himself as he uttered the word of horror.

"Yes. How is it the houses are empty? Where is Diggory Bunce and all his family?" asked Miles.

"Gone, sir, gone," said the reeve, shaking his head sadly.

"Yes; I can see they are not here," said the young fellow, impatiently. "But where have they gone? Why, the Bunces were all born on the land, and have held the village as long as we have held the Hall, and now I don't see one of them."

"Well! there is just one, old Granf'er Bunce, but he don't often get out of his door now, for he's doubled up with the stiffness in his limbs. The master let him stay on, and the neighbours give him a bite and sup, but there was no more work for the rest of the men or their families either, when the squire took up with the new way of letting the land."

"The new way of letting the land?" repeated Miles.

"Yes; the world is full of new ways now it seems, and it all comes of the new learning you was talking about last night, I expect."

"What can the new learning have to do with the Bunces—with our village being depopulated?" said Miles, angrily, for he did not like to see the doors closed, and no merry shouts of children rolling about in the roadway. It was so unlike what he had expected to see that the sadness of the homecoming seemed to meet him even here. "You are my father's steward; tell me what you mean by the new way of letting the land," he said, after a pause.

"Well, Master Miles, I suppose everybody looks out to do the best he can for himself, and get as much as he can out of the land he owns, and this land have belonged to the Patons for hundreds of years now I have heard."

"Yes, yes, of course, go on," said the lad, "I want to hear what you can tell me before I see my father."

"It can't make no differ now," said the reeve, with something of a sigh, "but it's this way as far as I can understand the business: wool is steadily going up in price, for they Flemish folk can't get anything so good as our English wool, and, as they are always wanting more and more of it to keep their looms going, why, of course, it gets dearer and dearer. So your father, hearing of this, says he will take in a good deal of the land for himself that he has let for small farms, and buy more sheep for the sake of the money he can make by the wool. But sheep don't need the 'tendance that corn does. There is far less work to be done when there is only pasture, for a couple of shepherds and a hind or two can do the work of three or four farms; and so, of course, when the farmers had to give up their little bit of land here and there about, there was nothing left for the Bunces to do, for they had always been labourers working on the land."

Miles made no answer, for at this moment they came in sight of the Haugh,—a piece of common land large enough to give pasture to the villager's cows and few sheep,—but now, instead of being open to all corners, it was enclosed with a stout fence on three sides, and joined to the squire's land on the fourth, and sheep were grazing here as well as in the field to which it had been thrown open.

"It was the squire's land," said the reeve, in answer to the lad's look of enquiry.

"It was the people's land by right of long usage. It was common land for the use of all in the village," said Miles, "my father has told me this many times; no new learning or new ways could make such a wrong right," and as they had reached the entrance to the park now he urged forward his horse, for he had almost forgotten the sad circumstance that had brought him home just now, in his anger at the changes that had taken place since he had been away.

But, as he rode up to the porch of the house, his father came out to meet him, and one look at his grief-stricken face made him forget everything else but the pain in his foot and leg, for he moved it suddenly to reach over and greet his father, and then, overcome by the long hours of pain, the sudden anguish made him feel sick and faint, and he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen if his father had not caught him in his strong arms.

"Ah, woe is me! for here is another son struck down in my very arms," said the old man, with a groan, as he supported Miles until the servants could come and help to carry him into the house. Miles heard the words, although to his failing senses they seemed a long way off, for he felt as though he was sinking, sinking away into nothingness; and yet this "Woe is me! woe is me!" kept ringing in his ears while he sank farther and farther away from life and hope into the depth of its woefulness.

There was great consternation in the household when Miles was carried into the hall helpless and unconscious, and although their anxiety was somewhat relieved when the reeve told them about the students' fray at the fair, still, to see their second son in such a condition just after the death of the first, was sufficiently alarming to both his parents.

A monk surgeon was sent for from a neighbouring monastery, and when he had heard the reeve's account of what had happened before they left Oxford, and how excited the lad became over the depopulation of the village, he said the fatigue and pain he had suffered, added to this excitement, was sufficient to account for his present illness.

But, although it was sufficient for the doctor, there were whispers in the household the next day that the family misfortune had been caused by witchcraft, and when it was known that Miles could not possibly attend his brother's funeral, these vague rumours became certainties in the minds of the panic-stricken servants.

Sir Thomas Paton and his wife were too fully occupied to pay much heed to the whispers that were abroad, but after the funeral of their eldest son, and when Miles began to recover, then there was time for the rumours to make themselves heard.

Three sons and four daughters had been born to Sir Thomas and Lady Jane Paton, but the bones of one son were whitening on the fields of France, and three girls had sickened and died within a month, and the fourth was a frail, delicate girl, who rarely went beyond her own rooms, which were in the sunniest and most pleasant wing of the house, looking out upon the park, and sheltered from every rough wind or disagreeable sight that could interfere with her comfort.

Margery's rooms, too, were more luxuriously furnished than any other portion of the house. The walls were hung with arras, and the floor plentifully supplied with green rushes; her casements were made to open that she might have the fresh air when she pleased, which was in itself a most unheard-of luxury in those days. Indeed, to please Mistress Margery was the business of the whole household, and little went on but the news of it reached her, either through her maid or one of the other servants who waited upon her.

And so at last Margery heard the whisper about her brothers being bewitched.

"Perhaps they think I am bewitched too, as I lie here so long, and get no stronger," laughed the girl, for her maid's long face provoked this merriment in spite of the sorrow she was suffering.

The girl stared at her with open lips and widely extended eyes. "Yes, yes," she uttered at last, with a sort of gasp, "it is! it is! I have heard before that Grannie Bunce has been known to have dealings with the Evil One."

"Now, Gillian, do not be such a foolish wench. Poor old Grannie Bunce has had trouble enough—"

"But—but—she was seen in the park looking up at these windows only—" but there the girl stopped and shuddered.

"Now, Gillian, go and see if my brother is ready to receive me this morning, and you shall help me to walk to his room," interrupted the young lady, for she did not want to encourage this notion about the old woman being a witch because she was poor and often cross.

Miles was still obliged to lie down, but he was comparatively well now, and glad enough to see his sister and have a chat with her, for there were several questions he wanted to ask her about the alterations that had been made on the estate during his absence.

But before he could say a word Margery exclaimed, as soon as her maid had closed the door, "That misguided wench thinks there is witchcraft abroad, Miles."

Her brother looked at her for a minute as though he was pondering the question, and then said slowly, "That must be it."

"Miles, you know I fell downstairs and hurt my back years ago; the only witchcraft about that was that I must have been wilful and disobedient," exclaimed his sister.

"I was not thinking about you, Margery. No one would lay their spells upon you, little sister," and he tenderly kissed the white hand that he held in his own. "No, no; it was of my father and John I was thinking. How is it there have been such changes here in the old home of late?"

"Changes? Of course there had to be changes when John married. We are not so very rich, my father says, and so he was glad when the lease was out of Farmer Rankin's holding, and he could take it for himself and put sheep upon it, for wool sells well now, and—"

"But Rankin's lease was not out, I hear, and he did not want to give up the land he and his forefathers had held under us for generations; only, when my father told him that the rent would be fifty instead of twenty pounds a year, as he had been paying, and there would no longer be free pasture for his twenty sheep, why, of course, the poor knave had to give up the farm and go in search of cheaper land. Here is the witchcraft, Margery. Who persuaded my father to do this injustice?"

"Injustice, Miles? Our father unjust? He could not be," said his sister, in a grave tone; "the land was his own to do with as he pleased."

"Ah! I thought the same at one time, little sister, but new light hath been given to the world of late upon that and many other things, and I have heard there are words in the Scriptures something like this: 'The earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof.'"

"Yes, but our father is the landlord, Miles," said his sister, stoutly.

"Then hath he taken the place of God the Provider, and before he sent forth Rankin and the rest, he should have assured himself that other land could be had upon which they could live, and not become beggars and thieves roaming about the woods as they are now."

"But—but they went to other farms," said Margery, with a gasp.

But her brother shook his head. "There are no other farms to be had, and my father has only followed the example of other landlords and turned the corn lands into pasture, because it costs less for labour, and the price of wool is high. But what is to become of the labourers? Is it strange they turn thieves, and that the King's highway is not safe to travel even by daylight?" Miles spoke very passionately, for he had heard that morning that his father had served notice upon another farmer to give up his land in a few months, and he wanted his sister to join with him to prevent any further eviction of tenants who had tilled the soil for generations, giving employment to the poor, and bringing up their families in comfort. Why, one of his own dearest friends at Oxford was the son of a farmer like Rankin, and his mother had sent a message to him by a pedlar, urging him to get a licence to beg before he left the university, as the law allowed a university student to beg his bread, but was very hard upon farmers and labourers who had been expelled from their homes. The pedlar told him that his father and mother were living in the woods, sleeping in a cave or wherever they could find a chance shelter, but they were glad they had sent their son as a poor scholar to Oxford, for the law would allow him to beg anywhere.

"Oh, Miles, it can't be true," said his sister.

"I said the same when I heard it," replied her brother. "I laughed at the pedlar for a clever story-teller, but I have learned since I have been home that it is true enough. Men are whipped at the cart-tail, and women too, for begging for a morsel of bread to save their children from starving, when landlords like my father have taken their farms and turned them adrift upon the world. Have you heard how Jack met with his death, Margery? Forgive me, little sister, if I hurt you, but we must do what we can to prevent further wrong, though we must learn first that it is wrong," he added.

Margery dried her eyes, and looked at her brother. "You know I will do what I can," she said, "but what can a poor witless girl like me do?"

"Only a little, perhaps, but the world is made up of little things. Now tell me about Jack," he said.

"His horse threw him while he was out hunting," said Margery. "Poor Jack! he and Lady Audrey were here only the day before, and they seemed so happy together."

"Poor Jack! he has paid with his life for the new way of managing the land," exclaimed Miles.

"What do you mean?—he was out hunting," said Margery.

"Yes, but what was he hunting?—the poor creatures who had been driven out of their homes in the village, and had taken refuge in the woods close at hand. Two or three sheep had been stolen, and Jack said they should not stay in the woods any longer—he would hunt them down—and it was while he was doing this that his horse stumbled and threw him over its head, and broke his neck. That is the story I have heard, and when I asked Father Francis about it yesterday he said he believed it was true, and that our father knew it, but did not wish us to hear of it. Now, Margery, I want to know who has bewitched my father like this. I have honoured him as a kind and just man, merciful and tender to man and beast—and—"

But poor Margery was too much overcome to hear more just now. She had loved her elder brother, and his young wife too, and she did not like to blame them, or her father either. Another thing, she could scarcely believe all that Miles told her now, for she knew nothing of the labourers being turned out of their homes and the village almost depopulated, for the servants had been warned not to tell their young mistress of all this, and so she simply knew that Rankin and one or two other farmers had given up their land and gone away, and that her father expected to make a good deal more money by keeping sheep and selling wool than he could by the renting of the land to the farmers. She had been glad of it for Jack's sake, for he could not have married the Lady Audrey unless he could provide her with a separate home, for her mother objected to her making her home with them at Paton Hall, although the house was quite large enough for two or three families, and her mother would have been glad to welcome the young bride, and would have given her her due place in the household. But if Lady Audrey herself would have been agreeable to such an arrangement her parents were not, and Jack pressed his father to follow the example of other landlords and turn off the old tenants unless they agreed to pay a much higher rent; and this had been done, and Jack had married and died; but wool was increasing in value, and brought a better price every year, and Sir Thomas Paton did not think he could do better than increase his wealth, even though he had to turn other tenants adrift to do it, and depopulate the village on the other side of the estate as well as that near the Haugh.

Miles might well ask whether something like witchcraft had not been at work to bring about such a change as this, but it was the witchcraft of greed, the desire to heap up riches, that could but bring the rust and moth of discontent and misery, rendering all such gains worthless. But how he was to prevent a further extension of this wrong was the problem the lad had set himself to solve, and the solution was nearer than he thought when he had his talk with Margery.

[CHAPTER III.]

FATHER AND SON.

IT is possible that if Miles had been able to go to his brother's funeral feast, and take his part in the business and bustle he was sent for to undertake, the changes that he had noticed in the village, and heard of since, would not have made so deep an impression upon his mind. But, as it was, he could only lie in bed for some weeks and think over all he had heard and seen, varied with reading his precious Greek Testament, until at last he began to make comparison between the teaching of Christ in its pages and the practice of the world as exhibited by his father in the disposal of the land.

There was no opportunity to discuss this with his father, and Margery was the first to whom he had unburdened his mind upon the subject, but, now it had once been spoken of, he longed to talk to his father about the matter, and a few days after he had his talk with his sister the opportunity occurred.

His father came, to his room one morning to pay his customary visit, but instead of leaving him a few minutes afterwards, he said, "I want a talk with you, Miles, for John's death has put some of my business into confusion, and as you are my only son now you must do what you can to help me."

"Thank you; I shall be glad enough to help you, for time passes slowly here, so if you can give me some scrivener's work to do I will be careful to follow all your commands," said Miles.

His father smiled. "I have not much scrivener's work for you, it is but to write your name a few times. Perhaps you have not heard of the usage among the Patons in the matter of the land, but it is necessary if any changes are to be made in the letting and leasing that not only the landlord himself, but his heir, be he son, or brother, or nephew, shall conjoin with him in all such signing. Now you may have heard that we can make a good deal more by the land now than letting it at a low rent to a few yeomen to grow wheat and rye and oats."

"Did they fail to pay the rent when it fell due?" asked Miles, with a tremble in his voice, for he had never heard of this custom before, but he began to see that he would not be so powerless as he thought.

"Oh, yes, the knaves paid well enough," said his father, carelessly, "but the rent was small, and I began to see that they got far more profit out of the land than I did. They managed to bring up sons and daughters, feeding them well while they lived at home, and giving them as much as five pounds when they married."

"But—but was this more than fair?" asked Miles.

His father fidgetted on his stool. "It is not needful to talk about that. I am only doing what other landlords have done. I told Rankin that I must double his rent or turn the land into a sheep farm."

"But was there nothing less than doubling the rent, father? That—"

"Now, Miles, you are a scholar, and know all about Greek and Latin Testaments I daresay," interrupted his father, "but they have nothing to do with English land, and you cannot be expected to understand it either, and I don't ask you to trouble your wits about the matter. You enjoy yourself as much as you can while you are at home, and if you like to go back to Oxford for another year you shall do so, but if you like to take poor Jack's place at once, why, you have the right to it, and there will be plenty of hunting and hawking by-and-bye."

"Thank you, father, but we were talking about the land, and you seemed to think that my Greek New Testament could have nothing to say about such a matter as English land. But we have in this new book not a set of dogmas, but the very teaching of Christ Himself, and He says that we should do to others as we would they should do to us if we were in their place. Now, father, if we were yeomen like the Rankins and the Clarks, who have been turned off the land, do you think we should like such treatment?"

Sir Thomas sat and gazed at his son with parted lips and widely opened eyes, as though he thought he was crazed. "Is—is this the new learning I have heard you talk about?" he managed to say at last, in a sneering tone.

"It is the new light God bath given to the world through the New Testament of Erasmus," said Miles, firmly.

"Then it will turn the world upside down, and must be resisted at all costs," said his father. "We owners of English land know nothing about this foreigner and his books, so you need not tell me anything about them."

"Father, father, but you call yourself a Christian man," said Miles, in a tone of protest.

"To be sure I am a good Christian. See what it hath cost me for candles for poor Jack's funeral; why—"

"But buying candles for Jack's funeral is altogether another matter," said Miles, quickly. "The Lady Audrey and her family would probably require that that should be done."

But Miles found that the Lady Audrey and her family were a disagreeable topic to his father just now, for he fumed, and fretted, and swore a good many oaths before he grew calm again, and then it was to say, "I have promised to pay a hundred pounds to the holy Fathers at the monastery to say Masses for him. What more would you have? If I am not a Christian man I should like to see one."

"My father, people in olden time were called Christians because they tried to follow the example of the Christ and live as He taught them they should, and the first commandment he gave them was to love, or do to, their neighbour as they would have the neighbour do to them if they could exchange places. This is to be a Christian man, and I have resolved to make this the rule of my life."

"Then I shall have to build an iron cage for you as they do for madmen," said his father, with a mocking smile, and yet there was a threatening look in his eye that made Miles recall the horror he had once seen, of a madman confined in such a cage in an outhouse on his own estate. It was the ordinary treatment dealt out to maniacs in that age, and it warned him to be careful how he acted just now, for, above all things, he must be able to prove that he was perfectly sane, and no madman, if he was to do anything to help those who had always been dependents of the Paton family.

So after a pause he said, quite calmly, "I think you will find I am no madman, father, but—"

"Tut, tut, lad, I want no further talk on these matters; the scrivener will be here anon, and then I shall require you to affix your name to some parchments concerning matters that were to have been settled before John died."

"May I see these writings, and know what they are?" asked Miles.

Sir Thomas drew himself up, and looked angrily at the lad. "Am I to be dictated to by you?" he demanded.

"Nay, nay, father, but as you said the custom of the Patons was to make the heir responsible—"

"I take that responsibility," interrupted his father, loftily, "you do my bidding, I will see to the rest."

"Nay, but I cannot in this matter, father; since the law of this estate requires that I assent to what is done before it can be legally performed I must know whereof I—I am called upon to assent."

His father swore a good many oaths over this, but as Miles was rather singular in having given up this custom of the day, it did not hurt or surprise him much, though he hoped the matter might be settled amicably; but he began to fear that his refusal to sign parchments that would drive the tenants from their holdings would bring trouble upon him, and so he waited with some anxiety the coming of the scrivener from the monastery, for one of the monks drew up all the legal documents that were required in the management of the estate.

He did not see his father again that day, but his mother had evidently been told something of what had passed, for she was tearfully tender over him when he went down to her room the next morning. "Miles, I hope you will remember how much sorrow and trouble we have had of late," she said, plaintively.

Miles took her hand, and bowed his head as he raised it to his lips with all due reverence, not venturing to sit down in her presence until she bade him. But when he had seated himself upon the stool to which she pointed, he said, "My mother, I am sorely grieved for you and my father, and the more so that I can do so little to spare you."

"Yes, it bath fallen out sorely awry that you should be hurt at this time, and perchance some of those witless knaves may have had a hand in it."

"No, no, it was a fellow-student who struck me down," said Miles, quickly.

His mother waved her hand in deprecation of the interruption.

"It is not seemly to speak thus to me," she said. "Hear what I have to say. There is talk of witchcraft being at work, for it is passing strange that you and my poor John should both be struck down. But I shall pay little heed to such talk if you prove to us that you are not bewitched."

"How can I prove this, my mother?" asked Miles, seeing she waited for him to answer.

"How? By acting as an obedient son should to a loving father and mother. You know what I mean, Miles; John's signature would have been affixed to these parchments if he had lived a day longer. It was only the illness of Father Ralph that delayed their being signed a month before, and therefore I desire that you shall do without question what your brother would have done gladly."

"Will you tell me what these parchments are, and all about them?"

But the lady was saved from doing this by the announcement that Father Ralph had come, and was waiting to see Sir Thomas.

"Send him in here," said Lady Paton, and at the same moment she rose and went out of the room.

Miles bowed to the holy father as he took his seat at the table.

"My lady has bidden me read these parchments to you," said the monk, with scant ceremony, and the next minute he began mumbling over the legal phrases of a lease. But before he had read far Miles said,—

"Who is this Giles Morpeth who is to have three farms, and expel the present holders on so short a notice?"

"A citizen of London, I believe, who bath a mind to make money in wool. Is there aught to be said against that?"

"Yea, indeed! a good deal," said Miles, with a flash of anger, for the monk spoke in a sneering tone which he would not have used to his brother John. "In the first place these yeomen, who are to be driven forth, have done naught to deserve such treatment at our hands. They have dwelt on the land as long as we have, and wherefore should they be driven to the trade of thieves and beggars?"

"Is not the land your father's, and may he not do as he will with his own?"

"Nay, but it is not wholly his own, or the law would not give me a share in its disposal; and wherefore should I strip myself of my right to the disposal of the land for forty years, and give it to a stranger? Nay, I will have no hand in such robbery," said Miles.

This aspect of the case had not struck him before, but he saw at once that he was much more likely to be able to help the tenants if he made common cause with them. And, indeed, as he spoke, the look on the monk's face changed, and he said, "I thought it was this accursed Erasmus and his New Testament that made you unwilling to obey the command of Sir Thomas."

"Then my father hath told you of my objection to expel these poor people?"

"Nay, he told me you had gone mad over this new learning that threatened to turn the world upside down."

"Well, I am not so mad as to affix my name to that which will deprive me of all power over my own land for forty years. My father is an old man now, and worn with his service in the King's wars, and that he is not likely to live many years longer. Why then should he want me to do this thing?"

"Because he would fain see you a wealthy man. It was your brother's desire above all things, and this knight of the shambles—this London butcher—offered him a goodly rent for the land."

"I would not part with the land if the King himself offered me double what this butcher is offering," said Miles. "Not a rood shall be cut off from the rest with my assent," concluded Miles.

The monk sighed. "Wilt tell me what it is about, this New Testament side of the question?" he said, in a wheedling tone.

"Aye, and you can read it in your own Scriptorium, I doubt not,—'Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.' Hast heard this before?"

"Yes, but this command is for the Church, that thou shalt not rob her of her dues, or be chary of help to her servants,—holy brethren like myself and brethren of the monastery."

Miles shook his head, but his father's words about the iron cage had warned him to be cautious what he said, and so, pointing to the roll of parchments, he asked, "Did these dispose of all the land but what my father holds for the pasture of sheep?"

"Yea; it is less trouble and expense to use the land so," said the monk.

"And where are we to buy corn if none is grown on our own English land?"

As he spoke, the monk watched Miles closely.

"I have nought to do with that, nor have you, Master Miles. It is your duty to obey your father, and not consider questions of State,—how the nation is to be fed."

"Nay, but I may consider how I am myself to be fed by-and-bye, I trow. Of what use is a goodly store of wool if there is no corn to make bread?"

"Corn can be bought in the Low Countries, whither we send our wool; but that is not the question we have to consider, but the signing these parchments for Master Morpeth, who is in haste to take possession."

"I have told you what I think of the matter: that I will not sell my birthright for a sack of wool or gold either. It will be mine own inheritance in a few years' time, and I may then sorely sorrow over it if I should give mine inheritance to a stranger now."

"And is this the answer I am to take to Sir Thomas?" asked the monk.

"Nay, I will talk with my father over the matter, but I shall not alter my present will about it."

"Nay, Sir Thomas will not talk again with thee upon this matter, but he bade me warn you that he should go to Diccon, the blacksmith, without delay," and as he spoke the monk watched Miles closely, to see what effect this threat had upon him.

Try as he would the lad could not keep the look of horror out of his eyes, or his cheeks from paling as he sat and looked at the rolls of parchment, which the monk deliberately put up while he watched the effect of his words upon the lad.

The result seemed to satisfy him, for, with a low chuckle, he said, as he bade Miles good morning, "You will sign these to-morrow."

Miles made no reply to this, but as soon as the monk had left the house, and he saw him striding back to the monastery, he went up to his sister's room—not to trouble her with what had passed—but to have one more talk with her, for when the monk said, "You will send for me again to-morrow," he resolved to go back to Oxford while he was able to do so, for he feared his father might carry out his threat in his anger and disappointment at his refusal to sign the parchments.

Fortunately he had a good sum of money that his father had given him the day before, and so he went to his sister's room first, and then to the stable to tell his servant to have the horses ready in a few minutes, as he intended to ride to the town of Woodstock.

He made no secret of this intention, and, meeting his mother, he told her of it, and bade her good-bye with all the affectionate deference she would permit.

As he rode through the park he looked back at his sister's window, and waved his hand to her in token of farewell, and then bade his servant ride on with all speed possible, as he hoped to reach Oxford by nightfall.

"Oxford?" queried the servant in a tone of amazement.

"Aye; did'st ever hear of mad Sir Philip Warren and his cage?" said Miles.

"Aye, I have, master," said the young fellow, with a shudder.

"Well, Oxford must save me from that fate. My father will have it that I am mad over some matters in which we cannot agree, and so I must leave home until his anger cools or his purpose changes, for I know not but they might drive me mad, and then put me in such a cage."

"And is that the business Diccon the blacksmith was to see about in such haste, Master Miles?"

"Then my father hath seen Diccon?" said the lad.

"Aye, he went to the forge while the monk was at the Hall," said the servant, and then both of them urged their horses into a canter, fur they must push on with all speed possible that the shelter of the college might be reached with as little delay as possible.

[CHAPTER IV.]

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES.

IT is possible that if Miles and his servant had not been so intent upon gaining the shelter that would be afforded by the university, they might have noticed the rustling of twigs and the movement in the bushes bordering the lane down which they were travelling, but, as it was, they were taken wholly by surprise when a party of men sprang out upon them. While two seized the heads of their horses and brought them to a standstill, others seized Miles and his servant, dragged them to the ground, and proceeded to pinion their arms behind, though they fought and struggled, and kicked and swore, and made every effort to throw off their captors. The party was too large for them to do anything beyond giving the robbers a few ugly blows that did but madden them the more, while they bound their captives and carried them into the shelter of the adjacent wood before other travellers should come along and try to effect a rescue.

Miles had tried to shout while he was being bound, but his efforts were effectually stopped by a rag of some sort being thrust into his mouth, and his servant was treated in the same way when he tried to help his master.

The whole affair had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that it had passed in comparative silence; and they were being carried like trussed poultry into the heart of the wood before Miles had time or thought to notice very particularly who his captors were, but, after the first shock of the capture was over, he began to notice some of these particulars, and the sight was not reassuring. The whole party were evidently robbers, who would stick at nothing in carrying out their purpose, and whether he would ever see the walls of Oxford again was very doubtful, he thought, for, having stolen the horses, they would very likely murder their prisoners on the principle of dead men telling no tales.

As he caught sight of the face of his servant, Reuben Patter, he saw from the white, terror-stricken look in it that the same thought had occurred to him, but neither could speak, they were both too effectually gagged; and so they were half-carried, half-dragged, over the briery ground until they were suddenly met by a scattered crowd, who had evidently been out begging in spite of the rigorous laws against this practice, and were making their way to some common centre by different woodland paths that converged near this place.

Some of these were strong, stalwart men, unkempt and ragged, whose faces were stamped with misery and despair rather than vice. There were blind men being led by snappish little curs, and others who bore on their cheeks the cruel marks of the searing iron, branding them for ever as beggars and vagabonds and rogues, from force of circumstances if not from choice. The motely throng gave a faint cheer at the sight of the prisoners, for although they might not be of so much use to the hungry crew as a good fat sheep or a couple of hogs, still they knew their captors well enough to feel assured that they would not be allowed to escape without a good stiff ransom being paid, and so they stepped on more cheerfully and briskly.

From the muttered words and oaths that were uttered by the party who had captured them it was evident to Miles that this meeting with the beggars and less determined rogues of the band was by no means welcome to their captors, and a hasty parley was held, but Miles could not make out much of what was said, for it was conducted in thieves' and beggars' language. But the outcome of it was that their eyes were bandaged the next minute, and, as it seemed to them, the course of their journey was altered.

But before they had gone far they were met by another party of beggars returning with what they had been able to beg, steal, or earn by plying the trade of tinkers, and they kept with these to the great relief of Miles.

Judging by the sound rather than by what they could see, they were carried into a large cave a few minutes later, and deposited at the back of it, both helplessly bound still, but the bandages were taken off their eyes, and the dirty rags out of their mouths, and, for the first time, Miles was asked his name and where his friends might be found.

"My name is Miles Paton, and I am the son of Sir Thomas Paton of Woodstock," said Miles.

Something like a hush fell upon the group that was near him as he said this. Miles was sensible of it although no word was spoken, and he wondered whether these were some of the villains who had killed his brother, and would only be too glad to kill him now they had got the chance. But he would not let them see his fears. He asked them in a calm voice to loosen the rope round his wrists, for it was cutting sorely into the flesh, and caused him great agony. But they paid no attention to his request. That he was a son of Sir Thomas Paton was a fact that needed a good deal of discussion it seemed; and the men turned away and left their captors to consider among themselves what their next step should be.

Miles groaned aloud, for the pain and strain of wrists and arms wrung this from him, while poor Reuben, giving himself up for lost, bellowed aloud for his poor old father and mother.

"Don't, don't, Reuben—be a man," said Miles, when, just as he spoke and before he could say another word, there came a stealthy hand out of the darkness at the back, and, to Miles' intense surprise, began untying the knotted rope.

"Cry—groan—make a noise," were the whispered words spoken in his ear by a woman's voice, and Miles felt sure he had heard that voice before somewhere.

He gave the requisite groans, while Reuben indulged in a low, half-suppressed howl, that was sufficient to let the rest of the party know that they were having an uncomfortable time of it, and so give the woman a chance of loosening their bonds.

They found that she did not dare to leave them untied, but the slackening of the thongs was an intense relief, and when she had finished her task he asked her name.

"Patty Bunce," answered the woman, "and my husband worked for Farmer Rankin until we were all turned off the land to make room for the sheep, and now we are all beggars here, or worse." The poor woman then burst into tears in spite of her efforts to keep calm and still for fear she should be discovered.

She made haste to leave that part of the cave, and Miles heard her voice calling to one of her children the next minute.

As he lay now he managed to see more of this motely crew. Men, women, and children of all ages seemed to have found a shelter here, for there was a dull fire of sticks burning in the middle of the cave, and here such primitive cooking was done by one and another as their means would afford.

There were a few decent folks like the Bunces and Rankins who tried to keep the boys and girls close round them when the rougher dwellers of the cave came to take possession, but it was evident the younger ones were getting used to their surroundings, and liked listening to the ribald tales and coarse jokes, and joined in the laughter that rang through the place.

There were several cripples as well as blind men in the company; old soldiers who had lost a leg in the wars between France and England, and, escaping death on the battlefield, had been brought home and turned adrift, maimed and almost helpless, eking out a miserable existence with the tales they could tell for a piece of bread or a jug of mead, and finding a refuge with other outcasts during the night.

Miles lay and listened, and watched the various groups. Some were thieves from choice there was little doubt, but many alas! were decent farmers and farm labourers, who, with their families, had been driven from the land, and whose number his father wanted to increase.

By-and-bye he saw Rankin himself enter the cave, but he was greatly changed from when he had last seen him. Instead of the bluff, hearty manner of the old days, he walked with a slouching step, and had a furtive hangdog look about him. But when someone whispered a few words, and pointed to the back of the cave, evidently telling him where the son of his greatest enemy lay helplessly bound, a look of anger came into the man's face, and he clenched his fists. Miles saw that there was little mercy to be expected from his old neighbour, and his heart almost died within him.

Reuben also saw the look, but he was more hopeful than his master, if he could only get a chance of speaking to Rankin, and so it was a great relief to him when he heard one of their captors say, "Now, Rankin, I give them into your charge; you have no cause to love a Paton or any of the brood. If we can make a little money of him we will, but we must hear about the horses first," and from what followed Miles learned that these had been taken in different directions to be sold, and if they could make a similar bargain for the release of Miles and his servant with Sir Thomas, his father, they would.

The prospect thus opened before the young fellow made him groan aloud in despair, and when Rankin came and took up his post as gaoler he said, impulsively, "Kill me outright if you like, Rankin, but don't sell me to my father."

"Then you know who I am, sir," said the man, in a surly tone.

"Yes, I know you, and know you have no cause to show mercy to a Paton."

"Perhaps not," said Reuben, "but I never harmed Master Rankin, and so I hope he'll spare my life, and hear what I've got to say, before he goes to tell Sir Thomas where you may be found."

"Well, speak out, man," said Rankin, "my temper ain't got any sweeter while I have been here, and I curse the Patons every day of my life."

At the "Sign of the Golden Fleece"

"Master Clark hath chosen an over-bold messenger," said Wolsey.

AT THE

"SIGN OF THE GOLDEN

FLEECE"

A Story of Reformation Days

BY

EMMA LESLIE,

Author of "Elsie's Scholarship,"

"For France and Freedom," &c.

London

GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;

AND EDINBURGH.

PRINTED

AND BOUND BY

GALL AND INGLIS

LUTTON PLACE

EDINBURGH

Contents.

List of Illustrations.

Preface.

AT THE

SIGN OF THE GOLDEN FLEECE.

[CHAPTER I.]

OXFORD FAIR.

[CHAPTER II.]

AT PATON HALL.

[CHAPTER III.]

FATHER AND SON.

As he spoke, the monk watched Miles closely.

[CHAPTER IV.]

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES.