The Armourer's Prentices. Yonge Charlotte Mary

smiled in his arms, but the middle-aged fought against his scythe.

      The contemplation had a most depressing effect on the boy, whose heart was still sore for his father.  After the sudden shock of such a loss, the monotonous repetition of the snatching away of all alike, in the midst of their characteristic worldly employments, and the anguish and hopeless resistance of most of them, struck him to the heart.  He moved between each bead to a fresh group; staring at it with fixed gaze, while his lips moved in the unconscious hope of something consoling; till at last, hearing some uncontrollable sobs, Tibble Steelman rose and found him crouching rather than kneeling before the figure of an emaciated hermit, who was greeting the summons of the King of Terrors, with crucifix pressed to his breast, rapt countenance and outstretched arms, seeing only the Angel who hovered above.  After some minutes of bitter weeping, which choked his utterance, Ambrose, feeling a friendly hand on his shoulder, exclaimed in a voice broken by sobs, “Oh, tell me, where may I go to become an anchorite!  There’s no other safety!  I’ll give all my portion, and spend all my time in prayer for my father and the other poor souls in purgatory.”

      Two centuries earlier, nay, even one, Ambrose would have been encouraged to follow out his purpose.  As it was, Tibble gave a little dry cough and said, “Come along with me, sir, and I’ll show you another sort of way.”

      “I want no entertainment!” said Ambrose, “I should feel only as if he,” pointing to the phantom, “were at hand, clutching me with his deadly claw,” and he looked over his shoulder with a shudder.

      There was a box by the door to receive alms for masses on behalf of the souls in purgatory, and here he halted and felt for the pouch at his girdle, to pour in all the contents; but Steelman said, “Hold, sir, are you free to dispose of your brother’s share, you who are purse-bearer for both?”

      “I would fain hold my brother to the only path of safety.”

      Again Tibble gave his dry cough, but added, “He is not in the path of safety who bestows that which is not his own but is held in trust.  I were foully to blame if I let this grim portrayal so work on you as to lead you to beggar not only yourself, but your brother, with no consent of his.”

      For Tibble was no impulsive Italian, but a sober-minded Englishman of sturdy good sense, and Ambrose was reasonable enough to listen and only drop in a few groats which he knew to be his own.

      At the same moment, a church bell was heard, the tone of which Steelman evidently distinguished from all the others, and he led the way out of the Pardon churchyard, over the space in front of St. Paul’s.  Many persons were taking the same route; citizens in gowns and gold or silver chains, their wives in tall pointed hats; craftsmen, black-gowned scholarly men with fur caps, but there was a much more scanty proportion of priests, monks or friars, than was usual in any popular assemblage.  Many of the better class of women carried folding stools, or had them carried by their servants, as if they expected to sit and wait.

      “Is there a procession toward? or a relic to be displayed?” asked Ambrose, trying to recollect whose feast-day it might be.

      Tibble screwed up his mouth in an extraordinary smile as he said, “Relic quotha? yea, the soothest relic there be of the Lord and Master of us all.”

      “Methought the true Cross was always displayed on the High Altar,” said Ambrose, as all turned to a side aisle of the noble nave.

      “Rather say hidden,” muttered Tibble.  “Thou shalt have it displayed, young sir, but neither in wood nor gilded shrine.  See, here he comes who setteth it forth.”

      From the choir came, attended by half a dozen clergy, a small, pale man, in the ordinary dress of a priest, with a square cap on his head.  He looked spare, sickly, and wrinkled, but the furrows traced lines of sweetness, his mouth was wonderfully gentle, and there was a keen brightness about his clear grey eye.  Every one rose and made obeisance as he passed along to the stone stair leading to a pulpit projecting from one of the columns.

      Ambrose saw what was coming, though he had only twice before heard preaching.  The children of the ante-reformation were not called upon to hear sermons; and the few exhortations given in Lent to the monks of Beaulieu were so exclusively for the religious that seculars were not invited to them.  So that Ambrose had only once heard a weary and heavy discourse there plentifully garnished with Latin; and once he had stood among the throng at a wake at Millbrook, and heard a begging friar recommend the purchase of briefs of indulgence and the daily repetition of the Ave Maria by a series of extraordinary miracles for the rescue of desperate sinners, related so jocosely as to keep the crowd in a roar of laughter.  He had laughed with the rest, but he could not imagine his guide, with the stern, grave eyebrows, writhen features and earnest, ironical tone, covering—as even he could detect—the deepest feeling, enjoying such broad sallies as tickled the slow merriment of village clowns and forest deer-stealers.

      All stood for a moment while the Paternoster was repeated.  Then the owners of stools sat down on them, some leant on adjacent pillars, others curled themselves on the floor, but most remained on their feet as unwilling to miss a word, and of these were Tibble Steelman and his companion.

      Omnis qui facit peccatum, servus est peccati, followed by the rendering in English, “Whosoever doeth sin is sin’s bond thrall.”  The words answered well to the ghastly delineations that seemed stamped on Ambrose’s brain and which followed him about into the nave, so that he felt himself in the grasp of the cruel fiend, and almost expected to feel the skeleton claw of Death about to hand him over to torment.  He expected the consolation of hearing that a daily “Hail Mary,” persevered in through the foulest life, would obtain that beams should be arrested in their fall, ships fail to sink, cords to hang, till such confession had been made as should insure ultimate salvation, after such a proportion of the flames of purgatory as masses and prayers might not mitigate.

      But his attention was soon caught.  Sinfulness stood before him not as the liability to penalty for transgressing an arbitrary rule, but as a taint to the entire being, mastering the will, perverting the senses, forging fetters out of habit, so as to be a loathsome horror paralysing and enchaining the whole being and making it into the likeness of him who brought sin and death into the world.  The horror seemed to grow on Ambrose, as his boyish faults and errors rushed on his mind, and he felt pervaded by the contagion of the pestilence, abhorrent even to himself.  But behold, what was he hearing now?  “The bond thrall abideth not in the house for ever, but the Son abideth ever.  Si ergo Filius liberavit, verè liberi eritis.”  “If the Son should make you free, then are ye free indeed.”  And for the first time was the true liberty of the redeemed soul comprehensibly proclaimed to the young spirit that had begun to yearn for something beyond the outside.  Light began to shine through the outward ordinances; the Church; the world, life, and death, were revealed as something absolutely new; a redeeming, cleansing, sanctifying power was made known, and seemed to inspire him with a new life, joy, and hope.  He was no longer feeling himself necessarily crushed by the fetters of death, or only delivered from absolute peril by a mechanism that had lost its heart, but he could enter into the glorious liberty of the sons of God, in process of being saved, not in sin but from sin.

      It was an era in his life, and Tibble heard him sobbing, but with very different sobs from those in the Pardon chapel.  When it was over, and the blessing given, Ambrose looked up from the hands which had covered his face with a new radiance in his eyes, and drew a long breath.  Tibble saw that he was like one in another world, and gently led him away.

      “Who is he?  What is he?  Is he an angel from Heaven?” demanded the boy, a little wildly, as they neared the southern door.

      “If an angel be a messenger of God, I trow he is one,” said Tibble.  “But men call him Dr. Colet.  He is Dean of St. Paul’s Minster, and dwelleth in the house you see below there.”

      “And are such words as these to be heard every Sunday?”

      “On most Sundays doth he preach here in the nave to all sorts of folk.”

      “I must—I must hear it again!” exclaimed Ambrose.

      “Ay, ay,” said Tibble, regarding him with a well-pleased face.  “You are one with whom it