Not one syllable of this eager torrent of words did the old shepherd comprehend; but be recognized the voice of friendship and comradeship in the unseen speaker, and he unfastened his rude door and bade the stranger enter.  As Garret stepped into the light in his priest’s gown the man gave a little start of surprise.

“Nay, fear not,” answered Garret; “I am God’s priest—­not the Pope’s.  If thou dost own the words of Holy Writ, perchance thou hast even heard the name of Thomas Garret.  It is he who stands before thee now.”

The shepherd gazed at him for a moment as one in a dream, and then he seized his hand and pressed it to his lips.

“It is he! it is he!  I see it now!  It is he whose words awoke my sleeping soul!  O sir, I heard you preach once in London town, whither I had been sent on a charge of sheep stealing, but was released.  And, indeed, of that offence I was innocent.  But my life had been full of other evils, and I might well have sunk into the bottomless pit of iniquity, but that I heard you preach; and those words of fire entered into my soul, and gave me no rest day or night.  Then I heard of the Christian Brethren, and they received and comforted me; and when I could earn the money for it, I bought this copy of the Holy Gospels.  I have had it these two years now.  I had learned to read by that time, and when I had bought it I wanted nothing so much as a quiet life, away from the haunts of men, where I could read and ponder and study the blessed Word without fear of man.”

“So you took to the life of a shepherd—­a calm and peaceful life, that reminds us of many holy things.”

“I had tended sheep in my youth, and in these parts, sir, before I took to those wilder ways which well-nigh cost me my life.  I came back; and some remembered me, and I got employment as shepherd.  And here I hope and trust to end my days in peace.  But there be whispers abroad that the cardinal and the abbots and priors will make search after the precious books, and rob us of them, and brand us as evildoers and heretics.”

“Alas, and that is all too true,” answered Garret, with a deep sigh.  “In me you see a fugitive from the wrath of the cardinal.  I left Oxford at dawn of day, and have fled apace through the wildest paths ever since.  I am weary and worn with travel, and seeing this light gleaming forth, I thought I would seek here for rest and shelter; but little did I hope to find one of the brethren in this lonely cabin, and one who may himself suffer in the cause of truth and righteousness.”

“We shall not suffer more than the Lord did,” answered the old man, with a sudden illumination of feature, “nor more than He sees good for us.  It may be that He wants His martyrs in all generations and in all lands.  Does it not speak somewhere in the blessed Book of being made perfect through suffering?”

It was wonderful to Garret to find such depth of comprehension and power of expression in this apparently illiterate and humble old man.  To be sure, his accent was rough and homely, but the thoughts to which he gave utterance were deep and pure.