Part 19 (1/2)

I saw now her wise and kind care of me, in that she had not put me into the danger she was in herself. It seemed too that she must escape, seeing that there was none to give witness against her.

And then the truth came out, that the villain himself, tempted by the offer of the King to pardon those rebels that should betray their entertainers, had gone of his own accord and bought his safety at the cost of her life that had sheltered and fed him.

When the time came that he must give his evidence, the villain stepped forward with a swaggering impudence that ill-concealed his secret shame, and swore not only that Elizabeth Gaunt had given him shelter, but moreover that she had done it knowing who he was and where he came from.

And so she was condemned to death, and, in the strange cruelty of the law, because she was a woman and adjudged guilty of treason, she must be burnt alive.

She had no great friends to help her, no money with which to bribe the wicked court; yet I could not believe that a King who called himself a Christian--though of that cruel religion that has since hunted so many thousands of the best men out of France, or tortured them in their homes there--could abide to let a woman die, only because she had been merciful to a man that was his enemy. I went about like one distracted, seeking help where there was no help, and it was only when I went to the gaol and saw Elizabeth herself--which I was permitted to do for a farewell--that I found any comfort.

”We must all die one day,” she said, ”and why not now, in a good cause?”

”Is it a good cause,” I cried, ”to die for one that is a coward, a villain, a traitor?”

”Nay,” she answered, ”you mistake. I die for the cause of charity. I die to fulfil my Master's command of kindness and mercy.”

”But the man was unworthy,” I repeated.

”What of that? The love is worthy that would have helped him; the charity is worthy that would have served him. Gladly do I die for having lived in love and charity. They are the courts of G.o.d's holy house. They are filled full of peace and joy. In their peace and joy may I abide until G.o.d receives me, unworthy, into His inner temple.”

”But the horror of the death! Oh, how can you bear it?”

”G.o.d will show me how when the time comes,” she said, with the simplicity of a perfect faith.

[Sidenote: Death by Fire]

And of a truth He did show her; for they that stood by her at the last testified how her high courage did not fail; no, nor her joy either; for she laid the straw about her cheerfully for her burning, and thanked G.o.d that she was permitted to die in this cruel manner for a religion that was all love.

I could not endure to watch that which she could suffer joyfully, but at first I remained in the outskirts of the crowd. When I pressed forward after and saw her bound there--she that had sat at meals with me and lain in my bed at night--and that they were about to put a torch to the f.a.ggots and kindle them, I fell back in a swoon. Some that were merciful pulled me out of the throng, and cast water upon me; and William Penn the Quaker, that stood by (whom I knew by sight--and a strange show this was that he had come with the rest to look upon), spoke to me kindly, and bid me away to my home, seeing that I had no courage for such dreadful sights.

So I hurried away, ashamed of my own cowardice, and weeping sorely, leaving behind me the tumult of the crowd, and smelling in the air the smoke of the kindled f.a.ggots. I put my fingers in my ears and ran back to the empty house: there to fall on my knees, to pray to G.o.d for mercy for myself, and to cry aloud against the cruelty of men.

Then there happened a thing which I remember even now with shame.

The man who had betrayed my mistress came disguised (for he was now at liberty to fly from the anger of the populace and the horror of his friends) and he begged me to go with him and to share his fortunes, telling me that he feared solitude above everything, and crying to me to help him against his own dreadful thoughts.

I answered him with horror and indignation; but he said I should rather pity him, seeing that many another man would have acted so in his place; and others might have been in his place easily enough.

”For,” said he, ”your friend Windham was among those that came to take service under the Duke and had to be sent away because there were no more arms. He was sorely disappointed that he could not join us.”

”Then,” said I suddenly, ”this was doubtless the reason why he fled the country--lest any should inform against him.”

”That is so,” he answered; ”and a narrow escape he has had; for if he had fought as he desired he might well have been in my place this day.”

”In Elizabeth Gaunt's rather!” I answered. ”He would himself have died at the stake before he could have been brought to betray the woman that had helped him.”

”You had a poorer opinion of him a short while ago.”

”I knew not the world. I knew not men. I knew not _you_. Go! Go! Take away your miserable life--for which two good and useful lives have been given--and make what you can of it. I would--coward as I am--go back to my mistress and die with her rather than have any share in it!”

He tarried no more, and I was left alone. Not a creature came near me.