Arrived at the spot where they were to suffer, the prisoners knelt down
to pray: "but not in such sort as they would, for the cruel tyrants
would not suffer them." Foremost of their tormentors at this last
moment was Nicholas Clere, who showed an especial spite towards
Elizabeth Foulkes, and interrupted her dying prayers to the utmost of
his power. When Elizabeth rose from her knees and took off her outer
garments--underneath which she wore the prepared robe--she asked the
Bailiff's leave to give her petticoat to her mother; it was all the
legacy in her power to leave. Even this poor little comfort was denied
her. The clothes of the sufferers were the perquisite of the Sheriffs'
men, and they would not give them up. Elizabeth smiled--she did nothing
but smile that morning--and cast the petticoat on the ground.
"Farewell, all the world!" she said. "Farewell, Faith! farewell, Hope!"
Then she took the stake in her arms and kissed it. "Welcome, Love!"
Ay, faith and hope were done with now. A few moments, and faith would
be lost in sight; hope would be lost in joy; but love would abide for
ever and ever.
Her mother came up and kissed her.
"My blessed dear," she said, "be strong in the Lord!"
They chained the two elder men at one stake; the two women at another:
Elizabeth and Robert together at the last. The Sheriff's men put the
chain round them both, and hammered the other end fast, so that they
should not attempt to escape.
Escape! none of them dreamed of such a thing. They cared neither for
pain nor shame. To their eyes Heaven itself was open, and the Lord
Christ, on the right hand of the Father, would rise to receive His
servants. Nor did they say much to each other. There would be time for
that when all was over! Were they not going the journey together? would
they not dwell in happy company, through the long years of eternity?
The man who was nailing the chain close to where Elizabeth stood
accidentally let his hammer slip. He had not intended to hurt her; but
the hammer came down heavily upon her shoulder and made a severe wound.
She turned her head to him and smiled on him. Then she lifted up her
eyes to heaven and prayed. Her last few moments were spent in alternate
prayer and exhortation of the crowd.
The torch was applied to the firewood and tar-barrels heaped around
them. As the flame sprang up, the six martyrs clapped their hands: and
from the bystanders a great cry rose to heaven,--
"The Lord strengthen them! the Lord comfort them! the Lord pour His
mercies upon them!"
Ah, it was not England, but Rome, who burned those Marian martyrs! The
heart of England was sound and true; she was a victim, not a persecutor.
Just as the flame reached its fiercest heat, there was a slight cry in
the crowd, which parted hither and thither as a girl was borne out of it
insensible. She had fainted after uttering that cry. It was no wonder,
said those who stood near: the combined heat of the August sun and the
fire was scarcely bearable. She would come round shortly if she were
taken into the shade to recover.
Half-an-hour afterwards nothing could be seen beside the Lexden Road but
the heated and twisted chains, with fragments of charred wood and of
grey ashes. The crowd had gone home.
And the martyrs had gone home too. No more should the sun light upon
them, nor any heat. The Lamb in the midst of the Throne had led them to
living fountains of water, and they were comforted for evermore.
"Who was that young woman that swooned and had to be borne away?" asked
a woman in the crowd of another, as they made their way back into the
town.
The woman appealed to was Audrey Wastborowe.
"Oh, it was Amy Clere of the Magpie," said she. "The heat was too much
for her, I reckon."
"Ay, it was downright hot," said the neighbour.
Something beside the heat had been too much for Amy Clere. The familiar
face of Elizabeth Foulkes, with that unearthly smile upon it, had gone
right to the girl's heart. For Amy had a heart, though it had been
overlaid by a good deal of rubbish.
The crowd did not disperse far. They were gathered again in the
afternoon in the Castle yard, when the Mounts and Johnson and Rose Allen
were brought out to die. They came as joyfully as their friends had
done, "calling upon the name of God, and exhorting the people earnestly
to flee from idolatry." Once more the cry rose up from the whole
crowd,--
"Lord, strengthen them, and comfort them, and pour Thy mercy upon them!"
And the Lord heard and answered. Joyfully, joyfully they went home and
the happy company who had stood true, and had been faithful unto death,
were all gathered together for ever in the starry halls above.
To two other places the cry penetrated: to Agnes Bongeor weeping in the
Moot Hall because she was shut out from that blessed company; and to
Margaret Thurston in her "better lodging" in the Castle, who had shut
herself out, and had bought life by the denial of her Lord.
The time is not far-off when we too shall be asked to choose between
these two alternatives. Not, perhaps, between earthly life and death
(though it may come to that): but between faith and unfaithfulness,
between Christ and idols, between the love that will give up all and the
self-love that will endure nothing. Which shall it be with you? Will
you add your voice to the side which tamely yields the priceless
treasures purchased for us by these noble men and women at this awful
cost? or will you meet the Romanising enemy with a firm front, and a
shout of "No fellowship with idols!--no surrender of the liberty which
our fathers bought with their heart's blood!" God grant you grace to
choose the last!
When Mrs Clere reached the Magpie, she went up to Amy's room, and found
her lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall.
"Amy! what ailed thee, my maid?--art better now?"
"Mother, we're all wrong!"
"Dear heart, what does the child mean?" inquired the puzzled mother.
"Has the sun turned thy wits out o' door?"
"The sun did nought to me, mother. It was Bessie's face that I could
not bear. Bessie's face, that I knew so well--the face that had lain
beside me on this pillow over and over again--and that smile upon her
lips, as if she were half in Heaven already--Mother it was dreadful! I
felt as if the last day were come, and the angels were shutting me out."
"Hush thee, child, hush thee! 'Tis not safe to speak such things.
Heretics go to the ill place, as thou very well wist."
"Names don't matter, do they, Mother? It is truth that signifies.
Whatever names they please to call Bessie Foulkes, she had Heaven and
not Hell in her face. That smile of hers never came from Satan. I know
what his smiles are like: I've seen them on other faces afore now. He
never had nought to do with her."
"Amy, if thy father hears thee say such words as those, he'll be proper
angry, be sure!"
Amy sat up on the bed.
"Mother, you know that Bessie Foulkes loved God, and feared Him, and
cared to please Him, as you and I never did in all our lives. Do folks
that love God go to Satan? Does He punish people because they want to
please Him? I know little enough about it, alack-the-day! but if an
angel came from Heaven to tell me Bessie wasn't there this minute, I
could not believe him."
"Well, well! think what you will, child, only don't say it! I've
nothing against Bess being in Heaven, not I! I hope she may be, poor
lass. But thou knowest thy father's right set against it all, and the
priests too; and, Amy, I don't want to see _thee_ on the waste by Lexden
Road. Just hold thy tongue, wilt thou? or thou'lt find thyself in the
wrong box afore long."
"Mother, I don't think Bessie Foulkes is sorry for what happened this
morning."
"Maybe not, but do hold thy peace!"
"I can hold my peace if you bid me, Mother. I've not been a good girl,
but I mean to try and be better. I don't feel as if I should ever care
again for the gewgaws and the merrymakings that I used to think all the
world of. It's like as if I'd had a glimpse into Heaven as she went in,
and the world had lost its savour. But don't be feared, Mother; I'll
not vex you, nor Father neither, if you don't wish me to talk. Only--
nobody 'll keep me from trying to go after Bessie!"