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 118 the field of religious teaching open to the deprived clergy; and they were eagerly listened to, and zealous to use their opportunity.

It was seven years since Dr. Pantlin had spoken from a pulpit, as he did not let his hearers forget. This time he preached from a stump, firmly planted under a spreading oak in the forest. It was as lovely a spring Sunday as could be seen: but a gloom overhung the people and the service. The preacher was in more or less danger: among his hearers were some who suffered under the suspension of the lawful services of the Church: lovers were waiting, angry and disgusted, for some one to marry them: there were many infants not yet baptised: and Dr. Pantlin had been heart-wrung, that very morning as often before, to be compelled to refuse the rites of burial to a departed brother who well deserved them. His theme was one which moved hearts ready prepared. He described in his discourse the terrible interdict under which the kingdom had suffered in the time of King John: he showed what the Papal tyranny was which inflicted such horrors; and thence it was easy to show that by dallying with the Papal faith, even the heretical government of England was renewing the old penalties. The waters flowed, but infants were not baptised: marriage was honourable for all, yet those who would be joined in holy matrimony could not obtain the rite: the promises of the gospel of departing saints were bright and sure: and yet the dead were buried like dogs. Such was the retribution brought on society by the rightful priests being scattered abroad, while there were none ready to occupy their pulpits in their stead. There never could be a worse moment for closing the churches. At the very time when every Sunday and other holy day should summon the whole people to worship, as one rallying point for men’s thoughts and wills, there was no chime of bells, no service, no exhortation; and the people sought out a word of advice wherever there was anybody who pretended to give it. Sometimes it was a necromancer in a wood, or in some dark hole in a city. Sometimes there was a resort to some barn where the blasphemous Anabaptists said and did worse things than the Pagans of old. Sometimes the unwary were led captive by the disguised Papists, whose toils were spread everywhere. Once drunk with the scent of incense, or lured to the secret chamber by the tinkle of the bell or the yellow light of the taper, the victim of the priests was lost, for this world and the next. While such were the horrors now going on in once merry England, there was no sign of repentance or godly sorrow. There was my Lady Go-fine in every neighbourhood, caring little for godly or ungodly arrivals on our coasts, provided only the latest fashion of attire came over too. No matter what Romish fox or Anabaptist hog was on board any smack from the Low Countries, provided there was a pair of silken hose, or a new adornment for the hair, or a special velvet for gentlemen’s cloaks. If there were such dangers from fantastical vanities everywhere, what could be said of Tutbury in particular? There had been a whole train of Lady Go-fines for weeks past, showing their mincing gait on the terrace, or sporting in the woods: and if they were gone now, they would come back: and, considering what was suspected of the sort of power employed by the chief witch of that strange company, there might be as much danger in hanging about the Castle in her absence as when she might be met at any turn. What he, the preacher, meant was that persons—and young men in particular—who wished to escape from blood and fire in this world and the next, would be wise to turn their backs on the Castle altogether. Or, if some must go as far as the gate,—as indeed provisions for the Earl’s household must be supplied,—all messengers should keep outside the threshold, and have no speech but with the porter. Of the porter there was no harm known; but that was more than could be said for everybody who might, at one time or other, be in the porter’s chamber.

The discourse was becoming interesting; for there were persons present who liked nothing so well as hanging about the Castle; and there were few of the hearers who had not secretly visited the Wise Man within a few months. Dr. Pantlin stopped while the interest was lively. After showing the contrast between the smooth order of daily life in former times and the disturbed state of men’s minds at present, he terrified the timid of his hearers by telling them that, having the very enchantress of the Papacy in their midst, they must expect, by and by, to have their pleasant abode made what the lair of an enchantress always is,—a place of blood, and bones, and perdition.

Among the timid hearers Polly could scarcely be reckoned. She was as capable as other people of dread; but she was not scared by pictures of blood and bones, nor intimidated by hints of dangerous mysteries. She actually stole away behind the trees during the stir which followed the close of the discourse; and by the time Dr. Pantlin had obtained silence enough for the concluding prayer, she was quite out of hearing, on the way to the Wise Man’s cottage.

“You have come to tell me about the child?” inquired the Wise Man.

“No. Mother told me, however, that she had shown him to you. He may be somewhat less pining these few days; but the neighbours may well say he is bewitched, seeing how he is, from week to week. What is it that ails him?”

“You would be no wiser if I told you the name of his disease. But he is not bewitched.”

“No, no. I am not one who fears that way of being ill. But will the child recover?”

“That is a question which I never answer.”

“You might tell me. I can be secret; and it may be best that I should know.”

“I think otherwise, if you have no more wit than to press for an answer to such a question. What can be done for the child’s ease shall be done; and I can say no more. What was it that you came to say; for it was not this?”

“You ask for the form’s sake,” observed Polly; “for you read thoughts, and know what is on my mind.”

“I can guess, Polly. You are in a difficulty with Sampson.”

“I am. I have no peace about it, night or day.”