“Perhaps I have.  In sooth, I scarce know how I feel about such matters.  I know there is peril.  I love not disobedience, nor scorn those set over us; but yet I feel for those who desire more, and would fain drink of the water of life out of new cisterns.  But what I meant was that it grieved me that any should hold such men in reprobation, or should betray them into the hands of their enemies, should they be in any peril.”

“It is what we are bidden to do sometimes,” spoke Arthur gravely.

“I know; but I could not do it.  I should shrink from any man who could obey such a mandate as that.”

He looked at her long and earnestly, then he turned and took her hands in his, and stood facing her for a while in silence.

“And what would you do for the man who should, instead of betraying, warn, such conspirators of their peril, should he know that they stood in need of warning?”

She thrilled somewhat beneath his touch.  There seemed a purpose in his words.  The colour rose in her face.

“I should look upon him as a friend.  I should call him noble.  I should put my trust in him.  Our Lord has promised His blessing to the merciful.  Surely He would count that an act of mercy which should save those in peril from the hands of their foes.”

She spoke with great earnestness and with kindling eyes.  His clasp upon her hands tightened.

“And what reward would you give to such a man?” he asked; but then, seeming, as it were, to feel shame for these words, he added hastily, “It is thus, sweet lady, with me.  Mine uncle is the proctor in Oxford—­proctor for the south.  Through him I ofttimes glean news unknown to other students.  If I should hear of any peril menacing those who hold these new opinions, for which you, I can see, have such tenderness, I will not fail to warn them of it.  If I know, they shall know likewise.  Will that satisfy you?”

“It will,” she answered, with a glance that thrilled him to his heart’s core.  “I thank you from my soul.”

Chapter VI:  For Love and the Faith

“Yes, Anthony, I love thee, and one day I will be thy wife!”

The words seemed to set themselves to joyous music in the ears of Anthony Dalaber as he hastened homeward through the miry and darkening streets towards his lodging in St. Alban Hall.  He trod on air.  He regarded neither the drizzling rain overhead nor the mire and dirt of the unpaved streets.

He had come from Dr. Langton’s house.  He had heard Freda pronounce these words, which made her all his own.  For some months he had been feeding on hope.  He knew that she loved him up to a certain point.  But until today she had never openly declared herself.  Today he had ventured to plead his cause with a new fervour, and she had given him the answer his heart so craved.

“I love thee, Anthony; one day I will be thy wife!”