“Charles Doe, a distinguished nonconformist, visited him in his confinement.  ‘When I was there,’ he writes, ’there were about sixty dissenters besides himself, taken but a little before at a religious meeting at Kaistor, in the county of Bedford, besides two eminent dissenting ministers, Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Dun, by which means the prison was much crowded.  Yet, in the midst of all that hurry, I heard Mr. Bunyan both preach and pray with that mighty spirit of faith and plerophory of Divine assistance, that he made me stand and wonder.’”

The sweet spirit of a minister is treasured and kept green in the memory of his flock, no matter how recalcitrant they may be.  This is shown by the reading once a year in Bedford Church of John Gifford’s letter to his parish people, written over two hundred years ago.  It says:  “Let no respect of persons be in your comings together.  When you are met as a church, there’s neither rich nor poor, bond nor free, in Jesus Christ.  ’Tis not a good practice to be offering places or seats when those who are rich come in; especially it is a great evil to take notice of such in time of prayer or the word; then are bowings and civil observances at such times not of God.”  It was the “holy Mr. Gifford” that was often in conference with John Bunyan; “the latter as the seeking pilgrim, the former the guiding evangelist.”  With such men as these the sweet spirit was kept aflame and eventually changed England and made her the great country she is.  But in those licentious days this sweet spirit shone from its impure surroundings like the ignis fatuus, and ’twas a great, wicked world that Mistress Penwick stood all alone in that early summer night.

A nightingale sung afar in some bowery of blossom, and for a moment she listened.

“’Tis an ode to the night he sings, ’tis too clear and high and full of cadence for a nuptial mass,—­nay, nay, I shall not marry to-night, I will go and see what dear father Constantine wishes and return to this home that has never seemed so fair to me before;—­and my lord is handsome and so, too, is Sir Julian and I’m fond of their Graces of Ells wold and Janet,—­Janet, I love her best of all.  Nay, nay, I’ll not be married.  I will go and see and return.  Janet will not look for me above stair before eleven at least.  I shall be home again ere I’m missed.”  She thought thus as she hurried on through the courtyard and beyond, where waited Father Dempsy.

In a second, it seemed, they were galloping away, Mistress Penwick throwing back a long, sweeping glance at the great, stone pile behind her.  The train of her brocade skirt hung almost to the ground; her fair, sloping shoulders, her exquisite face framed in a high roll of amber beauty, made a picture,—­a rare gem encircled by a gorgeous June night.

On they rode without converse; Dempsy was a brave man, yet he feared and justly, too, that Mistress Pen wick might be taken from him before they reached the monastery, therefore he enjoined silence, and the best speed of their horses, and kept a hand upon his sword.