The summer twilight was fading into night. The moon, hidden at her
rising by a bank of clouds, had now climbed high above them, and shone
down, a golden lamp from the clear evening sky. It was already dusk
when the Shepherd of Pendle disappeared with his flock into the dewy
valley. It was already light again, with the pallid light of the moon,
when at length George Fox descended old Pendle Hill. Heavily he trod
and slowly. Wrapped in thought was he, as a man who has seen things
greater and more mysterious than he can express or comprehend. Only as
he descended the slope of the hill did he remember that he was bodily
weary, having eaten and drunk little for several days. A short
distance from the summit, his ear caught the tinkle of falling water;
and guided by its gentle music he came to where a tiny spring gushed
out of the hillside, and went leaping on its way, gleaming like a
thread of silver. Fox knelt down upon the soft turf, and dipping his
hand, cup-wise, into the water, he carried with difficulty a few
shining drops to his parched lips. The cool freshness of even this
scanty draught revived him. He looked round, his glance roaming over
the wide landscape that lay, mist-filled and moon-filled, beneath him,
but as yet scarce seeing what he saw. Then, rising and quickening his
steps, he hastened down the hill to the place where, hours before, his
companion, Richard Farnsworth, had promised to await his return.
Even faithful Richard had grown weary, as time passed and the night
drew on apace. He had been minded to chide his friend for his
forgetfulness and long delay, but as the two men met, something
stopped him, or ever he began to speak. Maybe it was the moonlight
that fell full upon George Fox's countenance, or maybe there was in
truth visible there some faint reflection of the radiance that
transfigured the face of Moses, when he too, coming down from a far
mightier revelation on a far loftier mountain, 'wist not that the skin
of his face shone.'
At any rate Richard, loyal soul, checked the impatient words of
remonstrance that had risen to his lips. Silently putting his hand
through his friend's arm, he led him a mile or two further along the
road, until they came to the small wayside inn where they intended to
spend the night.
No sooner were they within doors than Richard was startled afresh by
the pallor of his companion's countenance. The glory had departed now.
Nothing but utter weariness remained. In all haste Richard called for
food and drink, and placing them before Fox he almost forced him to
partake. Fox swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread, and drank a little
clear red wine in a glass. Then as he set the glass down, he noticed
the inn-keeper who was standing by, watching his guest's every
movement with curious eyes.
A rough, plain countryman, he seemed, mine host of the ale-house, to
most of those who had dealings with him. But Fox, in spite of his own
bodily hunger and physical weariness, discerned that the spirit of the
man before him knew the cravings of a yet keener need: was fainting
under the weight of a yet heavier load. Instantly he recognised the
seeking soul within, even as the Shepherd of Pendle a few hours
previously, out on the hillside, had recognised his master's mark on
the straying sheep. Forgetting his own weariness, even for the time
putting aside the remembrance of the visions he had seen, he set
himself to win and satisfy this humble soul at his side.
'I declared Truth to the man of the house,' so runs his Journal, 'and
wrote a paper to the priests and professors declaring "the day of the
Lord and that Christ was come to teach His people Himself, by His
power and spirit in their hearts, and to bring people off from all the
world's ways and teaching, to His own free teaching who had bought
them, and was the Saviour of all them that believed in Him." And the
man of the house did spread the paper up and down and was mightily
affected with Truth!'
The inn-keeper went out full of gladness to 'publish Truth' in his
turn. Henceforth he was a new man in the power of the new message that
had been entrusted to him. A new life lay before him.
But when the two friends were once more alone together, and the
immediate task was done, Richard Farnsworth perceived the strange look
that had silenced him at the foot of the mountain returning to his
companion's face. Only now the weariness was fading, it was the glory
that returned.
Pushing away the table, George Fox rose to his feet, and stretched
both his arms out wide. He and Farnsworth were alone in the narrow inn
parlour, lighted only by one flickering rushlight. So small was the
room that the whitewashed walls pressed close on every side. So low
was the ceiling that when Fox arose and drew himself up to his full
height the black oak beams were scarce a hand's breadth above his
head.
Yet Richard, as he looked up, awed and silent, from his stool by the
table, felt as if his friend were still standing far above him on the
summit of a high hill, with nothing but the heights of sky beyond his
head and with the hills and valleys of the whole world stretching away
below his feet.
'I see,' said Fox, and, as he spoke, to Richard too the narrow walls
seemed to open and melt away into infinite space on every side: 'I see
a people in white raiment, by a riverside--a great people--in white
raiment, coming to the Lord.'
The flickering rushlight spluttered and went out. Through the low
casement window the white mists could be seen, still rising from every
bend and fold of the widespread valleys that lay around them, rising
up, up, like an innumerable company of spirit-filled souls, while the
moon shone down serenely over all.