yard, followed by a long train of young girls, all in white with blue favours—not fewer than seventeen of them carrying banners of blue, embroidered with devices. The lady’s gift was a small Bible, of great antiquity. Monmouth would not receive this by proxy, but stooped from his saddle to take it, kissing the lady’s hand as he did so, and declaring aloud, as he placed the volume in his bosom, that he had come to defend the truths contained in that book, and, if needful, to shed his blood for them.
As the lady drew aside, with brimming eyes, to make way for the young girls, and while she was explaining that they were of high and noble Nonconformist names, and confided to her for education, a sort of scream of delight was heard from the midst of them, and one—the youngest and smallest of them all—sprang to Christopher’s side, and used his oustretched arm to reach his neck, to which she clung, though a loud laugh rang from one side of the street to the other. Christopher laughed too; and neither he nor his little sister—for it was Joanna—was ashamed. He lifted her gently down, however, and told her she must go now; he would try to see her again, but could not promise. Monmouth, however, promised everything she could wish. He told her he was jealous; for he was afraid she cared to see her brother more than him; to which she answered, “Yes,” so simply as to excite another laugh. After this, as she looked as if she had something more to say, the Duke bent down to her again; and she explained that by-and-by, when she had talked a great deal with Christopher, she should be more glad to have seen King Monmouth than anybody else in the world. And here, at a sign from her brother, she stopped, blushing deeply.
The Duke actually remembered the child again. In the evening he sent a coach for her. She was in bed; but no difficulty was made about dressing and despatching her, duly attended, to the mansion occupied by the Duke and his staff.
“Did I say wrong to King Monmouth?” was her first question when she and her brother were by themselves. They sat in a deep window of the reception-room; but Monmouth with his own hand drew the curtains so that they were as completely alone as if they had had the room to themselves.
“No, Joanna; it was not that you said anything wrong; only that his Grace had not time to listen to little girls.”
“But he asked me!”
“True. Be easy, child; there is no harm done.”
It was the rule of the house among the Battiscombes, not to be demonstrative to the young children; but, if the eldest of the family dutifully restrained his speech, his tone and manner were perhaps all the more tender. Joanna remembered every look and tone and word of this short conversation to the last day of her life.
It did not matter her getting up from her bed to come; for she could not have slept for thinking of the glories of the day. She evidently understood that there was an element of danger in the triumph; and even in this child Christopher found a sympathy which did him good. She thought it would be a finer sight to see King Monmouth actually crowned king, with the whole nation, instead of only the Taunton people, to rejoice at it; but she did not think even that so fine AS seeing saints carried to heaven in a chariot of fire, with angels to guard them, as Enoch and Elijah were, and Faithful and Hopeful, after they were burnt alive. Might some people really be killed,—really be burnt alive for being glad to see King Monmouth? Was it likely that anybody would be?
“I think it is very likely,” Christopher answered.
“Who? You, yourself, Christopher? Not King Monmouth!”
“His Grace is in the most danger of anybody. But we are all in danger,—I, and you, and everybody.—‘Father and mother?’—Yes, everybody, of all opinions. If, like our father and mother, they pause to think and consider, the victorious party will suspect them; and it is always easy to punish us Puritans, whether we declare for one king or another. But you will understand these things better when you are older. Now—”
“O! I understand,” she replied quickly. “Our governess tells us of the children of God who have gone through the fire to Him; and of the followers of Christ who have borne the cross for his sake; and she says that we are living in the glorious time which must settle whether the true religion or that wicked Popery, or prelacy, which is almost as bad, is to conquer.”
“That is quite true, I believe, Joanna.”
“And,” she went on, “that it all depends on whether King Monmouth prevails.”
Christopher did not undertake to say that he believed this was quite true; so he said,—
“Then you would not be very miserable if it all ended in terrible affliction?—Suppose the enemies of religion were to kill you for saying such things as you have just been saying?”
“O, I wish they would! But perhaps it is being too proud to say that.”
“I think it is. No,—I do not say it because of the pride, but because I do not feel it. I had rather that we succeeded, and lived to help to restore the Church; but it does not follow that I am afraid. All that we have to do with it, child, is to remember that our days may be pleasant or very painful, and to be ready and willing to take what God sends. If I should be killed—”
“Why, then, you will get over Jordan as well as anybody, I dare say; and when we come, it will be so pleasant that you will be there, waiting for us!”
“Mind you remember that!” said Christopher, drawing her to him tenderly. “Never forget that we agreed about this, on this day, and in this place! And if I should be killed, in battle or afterwards, you must be sure and tell father and mother and sisters that you and I agreed not to be afraid of dying, in any way whatever, for this cause.”
“I will remember,” Joanna promised.
“Now we must not stay much longer,” Christopher said; “but I want to know about Madam Lisle.”
“And I want to know,” observed Joanna, “about Mistress Elizabeth Bankshope.”
