His heart was hot within him as he pushed along, choosing the most unfrequented lanes and paths.  This was not the first time he had been hunted, and he had acquired some of the instincts of the quarry.  He knew how to lie hidden awhile in some sheltered nook, listening and watching, himself unseen.  He knew how to avoid notice, and how to pass through public places with the quiet air of confidence which drew no sort of attention towards himself.  His priest’s gown and hood would be a protection to him after he had shaken himself clear of the pursuit which might be set afoot by the proctors.  He had Anthony Dalaber’s letter in his wallet, and bread sufficient for the day’s needs.  He could fearlessly present himself at any religious house when he had reached another county, and he was certain of being well received and cared for by the monks, who received all travellers kindly, but especially those of the “household of faith.”

He spoke the words half aloud, and then a strange sound broke from his lips, half a laugh and half a groan.

“The household of faith!  O my God!  What would they say if they knew that he who came to them as one of the faithful, was flying an outcast from the wrath of the cardinal, branded as a dangerous heretic?  O Lord, be with me, and guide me right.  Am I not faithful?  Do I not love Thee, O Lord?  Am I not sworn to Thy holy service?  O Thou who judgest the hearts of men, and knowest all from the beginning, teach me what I should speak and do.  Teach me whither I should bend my steps.  I am ready to suffer persecution and death for Thy sake and the truth’s.  Only make me to see what Thou wilt have of me, that I may know whether Thou hast set before me an open door elsewhere, and art driving me thither, or whether Thou wouldst that I should return whence I came, and abide there whatever may befall me.”

For the farther Garret travelled, the more fearful did he become that he was doing wrong in taking flight after this sort.  To fly before his persecutors was one thing—­his conscience did not upbraid him for that; but to go into Dorsetshire, to present himself to Anthony Dalaber’s brother under a false name, to become curate to a man whose own brother termed him a “rank Papist”—­was that indeed his bounden duty?  Was that a right or righteous course to pursue?  But if he gave up that purpose, what next?  He knew not whither to turn, or where he might go with safety.  The arm of the cardinal was long.  He had eyes that reached far and wide.  All Garret’s own haunts were likely to be closely watched.

The man felt the fire of zeal burning hotly within him.  He looked up into the heavens above him, and he felt as though a great work yet lay before him.  He broke out into songs of praise and thanksgiving.  It seemed to him as though he saw written in the sky glorious promises for those who should endure steadfastly to the end.