"Nor as a martyr to principle, a victim of that most iniquitous and
tyrannical Act of Uniformity?"
"No."
"Nor as one of those whom they call Oliverians?"
"No."
The mender of nets tapped softly Against the table with his thin, white
fingers. Landless said coldly:--
"These are idle questions. The man who brought me here hath told you
that I am a convict."
The other looked at him keenly. "I have heard convicts talk before
this. Why do you not assert your innocence?"
"Who would believe me if I did?"
There was a silence. Landless, raising his eyes, met those of the
mender of nets, large, luminous, gravely tender, and reading him like a
book.
"I will believe you," said the mender of nets.
"Then, as God is above us," said the other solemnly, "I did not do the
thing! And He knows that I thank you, sir, for your trust. I have not
found another--"
"I know, lad, I know! How was it?"
"I was a Commonwealth's man. My father was dead, my kindred attainted,
and I had a powerful enemy. I was caught in a net of circumstance. And
Morton was my judge."
"Humph! the marvel is that you ever got nearer to the plantations than
Tyburn. Your name is--"
"Godfrey Landless."
"Landless! Once I knew--and loved--a Warham Landless--a brave soldier,
a gallant gentleman, a true Christian. He fell at Worcester."
"He was my father."
The mender of nets covered his eyes with his hand. "O Lord! how
wonderful are thy ways!" he said beneath his breath, then aloud, "Lad,
lad, I cannot wholly sorrow to see you here. Wise in counsel, bold in
action, patient, farseeing, brave, was thy father, and I think thou hast
his spirit. Thou hast his eyes, now that I look at thee more closely.
I have prayed for such a man."
"I am glad you knew my father," said Landless simply.
After a long silence, in which the minds of both had gone back to other
days, the mender of nets spoke gravely.
"You have no cause to love the present government?"
"No," said Landless grimly.
"You were heart and hand for the Commonwealth?"
"Yes."
"You mean to escape from this bondage?"
"Yes."
The mender of nets took from his bosom a little worn book. "Will you
swear upon this that you will never reveal what I am about to say to
you, save to such persons as I shall designate? For myself I would take
your simple word, for we are both gentlemen, but other lives than mine
hang in the balance."
Landless touched the book with his lips. "I swear," he said.
The man brought his serene, white face nearer.
"What would you have given," he asked solemnly, "for the cause for which
your father died?"
"My life," said Landless.
"Would you give it still?"
"A worthless gift," said Landless bitterly. "Yea, I would give it, but
the cause is dead."