It was the year of grace 1556, the third year of the reign of Queen Mary.

The forebodings of evil with which her reign had been ushered in were bitterly fulfilled.

The headsman's axe had oft-times been in use on Tower Hill: Northumberland had gone to his doom with no man to pity him; his son Lord Guildford Dudley had followed him to the block, perhaps equally unlamented.

But men were moved to deeper pity and compassion when the young, innocent, and hapless Lady Jane suffered for her kinsmen's crimes!

The Reformation had found its "witnesses unto death" in the persons of Cranmer, Ridley and Latimer, and the flames of Smithfield aroused the horror of the people; the great "Marian Persecution" had begun, and already over a hundred victims had been offered up.

Mary had married her Spanish husband, and England had witnessed the feeble and ineffectual rebellion of Sir Thomas Wyatt—a protest against the marriage which did not commend itself to the mass of the people.

Amid all these scenes of turmoil and confusion, of terror and distress, the family of the Jefferays at Chiddingly were left unmolested and undisturbed.

In many a quiet country village the Services of the Church, as they had been appointed at the Reformation, were duly performed; the Prayer Book was not superseded by the Missal, and the parish priest was not dispossessed. Their obscurity sheltered them—as yet.

The Vicar of Chiddingly was William Tittleton, who had been appointed to the benefice in the reign of Henry the Eighth. He had been at Magdalen College, Oxford, with Sir John Jefferay, where the two young men had formed a strong and enduring friendship.

Thus it happened that in due time Sir John presented his friend—now in Holy Orders—to the benefice of Chiddingly, and the Vicar had returned the good service by acting as tutor to the young people of Chiddingly Place. He was a very able scholar, and between him and his pupils a strong affection subsisted.

But a change was at hand for the parish of Chiddingly—its peace and quietude came suddenly to an end. The "Marian Persecution" had begun, and the lurid flames of Smithfield had aroused horror and indignation in many English hearts—especially in Sussex, where the Reformation had taken deep root.

At this critical moment the Vicar of Chiddingly preached a sermon at Mayfield which brought him under the censure of the Government, and an apparitor was sent to make inquiry into the ecclesiastical position of the little parish.

The ill-omened visitor attended the simple services of the parish church, and took copious notes of the Vicar's sermon, to the dismay of the rustics of Chiddingly.

The fires of Lewes in the month of June this year had excited their fierce animosity, and the appearance of the apparitor in their midst gave birth to a sudden outburst of wrath.

It was at the close of a lovely day in July—a Sunday—when their anger found vent.

They had marked the presence of a stranger at the morning service—a stern-looking, middle-aged man, garbed in black, and as they came out of church the men gathered in groups to discuss the object and purpose of his visit.

The man was sojourning at the village inn (the "Six Bells"), and thither he was allowed for the present to retire unmolested, although a strict watch was at once instituted upon his doings.

In the afternoon the visitor again attended service, and an ominous murmur among the rustics became distinctly audible as they observed that he was again busily taking notes of all that he saw and heard.

The service over, the man left the church with the intention of proceeding to the inn, where his horse was stabled; but he was not to be allowed to leave the village thus quietly.

Hard by the church was the horse-pond—at this period of the year about half full of dark slimy water; in the centre of the pond the depth would be about four or five feet.

Suddenly the visitor found himself surrounded by a band of determined, angry-looking Sussex men.

"What does this mean?" he asked sternly. "Do you men know that I am about the Queen's business?"

"Aye, we thought as much, and that's about the reason of it all," answered the spokesman of the rustics. "Gie us them papers which we saw thee so busy with in the church instead of minding thy prayers! Gie us them—we see them sticking out of thy pocket, and we means to have them—or it will be the worse for thee!"

"Fools!" snarled the man, without quailing before the coming storm, "fools! do you not know that it is a hanging matter to lay a hand on me?"

"It's very likely," said the bold rustic; "but it strikes me some one else will be hung, or drownded, before any of us are sent to join the Lewes martyrs."

The angry group was now just beside the horse-pond—and each moment it grew more excited and threatening. Suddenly a voice cried—

"He's fond of fire, let's see how water suits him!"

Thereupon the rustics hustled the hapless apparitor to the edge of the pond; then he found himself lifted from the ground, and the strong arms of his foes swung him to and fro in the air.

"One, two, three, in he goes!" cried a raucous voice.

A scream of terror was sent forth by the man, and he struggled violently.

It was all of no avail.

In another moment he was hurled headlong into the slimy waters of the pond! And there he might have been drowned, but for the help that came to him from an unexpected quarter.

Susan Jefferay had been in the congregation, and her attention had been arrested by the unwonted spectacle of a stranger in the church.

The service was over, and the Vicar had withdrawn into the vestry; Susan awaited him in the church, for he was to accompany her home to the Place.

The wonted silence of the Sabbath-day was broken by the angry voices of men, and Susan hurried out of the church to ascertain the cause—a dreadful suspicion arising in her mind.

A glance at the tumultuous scene at the pondside revealed to her the catastrophe which was being enacted. Instantly she flew to the vestry where the Vicar was unrobing, and seizing him by the arm, she cried—

"Oh, come, Vicar, come this instant, the men are murdering the stranger!"

Then she and the Vicar hurried towards the pond. The enraged rustics had thrown a rope over the unhappy apparitor's shoulders, and having secured their victim in a noose, were dragging him to and fro in the water.

"Hold, in God's name!" shouted the Vicar. "What madness possesses you, men?" he continued; "are you not ashamed of yourselves? Here, give me the rope," he cried, as he grasped the situation.

"Let me help you, Vicar," pleaded Susan, anxious to have some part in the matter.

So the two rescuers drew the half-drowned apparitor to land, and Susan, stooping down, undid the rope which was choking the man.

He showed no sign of life now, his face looked unnaturally pale in contrast to the dull green slime which besmeared it.

"Run to the vicarage and bring some strong waters, Robin," he cried to a youth who stood looking on.

"Nay, rather run to the 'Six Bells'; it is nearer," suggested Susan, and the boy dashed away to do their bidding.

Meanwhile, Susan had loosed the man's garments around his throat, while the Vicar placed his hand upon his heart.

"I fear he is dead!" said the Vicar, in tones of anguish.

"Nay," cried Susan, as she observed a green froth gurgling at his mouth, "see, he is breathing!"

By this time Robin had returned from the "Six Bells" with a bottle of brandy in his hand.

Susan took it from the lad and began carefully to moisten the man's lips with the strong spirit, then to pour a small portion down his throat.

Presently a colour flushed into the man's pallid cheeks, and a moment later he opened his eyes and looked wonderingly around.

Then, leaving Susan to attend to the sufferer, the Vicar rose to his feet and looked round upon his parishioners.

"Now tell me, men, what all this means," he said somewhat sternly.

The men looked shamefaced, but their chief spokesman answered the Vicar promptly.

"The man is a Government spy," he said; "he meant mischief to all of us, and especially to you, Vicar. We saw him taking notes of all that you did and said in church, and he warned us that he was a Queen's officer, and that to touch him was a hanging matter; so we just 'touched' him, and if you had not come along with Miss Susan we should have drawn his fangs, and he would never more have wrought mischief to innocent and harmless people."

The Vicar still preserved a stern countenance, but he had not been human if he had not been secretly touched by this proof of the devotion of his people, however recklessly given.

"And these said notes," he said, "they may have been quite harmless; what did you do with them?"

"We took them from his pockets, Vicar, then we wrapped them round a big stone and threw them in the pond; they won't do much harm there!"

The Vicar's features relaxed into a momentary smile; then he became pensive again, as he said—

"Thank God that I and Miss Susan came in time to frustrate your reckless intention; you might have brought down unutterable evils on our parish; and remember, men, there is One who hath said, 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay!' What right had you to snatch the judgment from His hand?"

At this moment Susan touched the Vicar on the arm, and said—

"He is fast recovering consciousness: let the men carry him to his lodgings at the 'Six Bells,' and at once; he needs rest and refreshment."

"Yes," replied the Vicar, "I will see to it: and do you, Mistress Susan, go home without me; I will soon follow you."

The Vicar turned to one of the men, who had not been actively engaged in the late proceedings.

"Hal," said he, "take that gate off its hinges and bring it here"—pointing to a garden gate near at hand.

The man readily obeyed, the gate was brought, and the semi-unconscious apparitor was placed thereon.

Then the Vicar and three of the men conveyed their burden to the "Six Bells" Inn, the man was carried to his room, and before he left him the Vicar saw him safely placed in bed.

"Take care of him, Giles," he said to the landlord. "Let me know how he is to-night; I will call and see him in the morning."

That evening the Vicar had a long and very serious conversation with his old friend William Jefferay.

All the family had supped together in the dining-hall, and now the two men were conferring on the event of the day in the library.

"It is no light matter in these evil days to have a Queen's apparitor to spy and report, as this man intended to do," said Jefferay. "This man may return to his masters before twenty-four hours have passed, and no man can say what will then happen; to-day's uproar will make matters all the worse for us. Take my advice, Vicar, you have neither wife nor child to detain you in England: spend the next six months in Holland! Do you need money? I shall be proud to be your almoner. Oh, take my advice and go, ere the storm bursts!"

"And leave my flock at the very first intimation of danger—perhaps to suffer in my place," replied the Vicar warmly. "Oh no, it cannot be done; and while I thank you, friend Jefferay, with all my heart, I beg you to abandon the thought of so base desertion—it would be a lack of faith in God; I cannot do it."

William Jefferay sighed, and the matter dropped.

That night the landlord of the inn came to the vicarage with bad news: the apparitor was moaning in pain, and seemed to be light-headed.

Like many of his clerical brethren, the Vicar had some knowledge of medicine, and he now hastened to the sick man's side, taking with him some simple remedies.

Susan had preceded him thither, for among her many beneficent offices she had constituted herself the "parish nurse" of Chiddingly, and in every case of trouble or sickness she was the first to be sent for.

As the Vicar entered the room, Susan rose from her seat at the bedside and greeted him.

"He is very feverish," she said. "I am afraid he is going to be very ill: I have sent to Hailsham for the doctor."

"You did well," answered the Vicar. "I hope he will soon be here."

Just before midnight the doctor arrived, and ere he saw his patient the Vicar related to him the circumstances of the case.

The doctor listened with some amazement.

"You and Mistress Susan are very good to this man, considering the errand upon which he came to Chiddingly," said the doctor.

"We do not, perhaps, know all the circumstances of the case," replied the Vicar, "for his papers were destroyed by my people; perhaps he is no foe of mine at all, but if it were so, we remember that it is written, 'If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.' Much more, surely, should we succour him if he be sick."

"Yes, yes, you are right, doubtless, and I honour you for it," replied the doctor—"but come, let us visit the patient."

The visit paid, the two men met again in the inn parlour down-stairs.

"He is in a high fever," said the doctor, "and he will need great care and attention. It is too much for Mistress Susan—I will send you a nurse to-morrow. For to-night, Giles's wife can do all that is necessary."

But Susan would not hear of this arrangement, declaring that she would remain at her post till the nurse arrived.

Three weeks later two men sat upon a seat on the vicarage lawn.

Again it was a Sunday evening, and the two men were the Vicar and the apparitor.

"And you are sure that you are able to travel to-morrow?" said the Vicar.

"Yes, I shall take it by easy stages—resting for a night at East Grinstead, and so reaching London on the evening of the second day."

"London," said the Vicar; "then you go to make your report to the Government?"

"No, Mr. Vicar, I have resigned my office of apparitor—I take up work of another sort in London."

Then, in answer to a look of amazement, perhaps of inquiry, which the man saw depicted on the Vicar's countenance, he suddenly seized Mr. Tittleton's hand and shook it warmly.

"Oh! Mr. Vicar," he cried, "how could you think it possible that I could again take up the accursed work which brought me hither? Do you know that each time that I saw you by my bedside, each time that I felt your cooling hand on my feverish brow, whensoever I listened to your soothing voice, my whole soul was moved with contrition and remorse. For I came hither on an evil errand—may God forgive me!

"My report of Chiddingly might have brought about your death warrant. Oh, I thank Heaven that it was destroyed ere the mischief was done! And as I lay on my sick-bed, I surmised that you must have suspected all this; yet you and Mistress Susan watched over me with unwearied tenderness and patience—you snatched me from the jaws of death! And the thought of all this broke my hard heart!

"Now I wish you adieu, my dear Vicar; but ere I go, let me leave with you a word of counsel. It is known to me that dangerous reports of you have reached London, and though I abandon the office of apparitor another will take it up, and your life may be in danger. Therefore, I beseech you to take refuge abroad, as so many of your brethren have done. Soon the clouds may roll by, but for the present hour of stress and trouble seek safety in flight, I beseech you."

The Vicar shook his head sadly.

"It may not be, my dear friend—the shepherd may not flee and leave his flock in danger."

"Yet," urged his visitor, "it is written, 'If they persecute you in one city, flee ye into another'—is that not so?"

"Yes, that is the Divine counsel," answered the Vicar, "and the hour may come when I may feel the monition to be addressed to me; but for the present I abide in Chiddingly!"

"God's will be done," said the man solemnly—and so they parted.