“Could we forbear dispute, and practise love,

We should agree as angels do above.”

—Edmund Waller.


The churchyard, which during Norton’s visit had looked so peaceful, had become, before the Colonel had ridden halfway back to Canon Frome, the scene of an extraordinary gathering. With bewildered astonishment the Vicar saw the villagers hurrying in from all directions—men in their smock frocks, women fresh from their household work in cap and apron, and eager children pressing to the front that they might the better see the soldiers in their glittering steel helmets and corslets, their buff coats and orange scarves. A cornet carried the blue banner of the Parliament, with its motto, “God with us,” and the Captain brought up the rear. The Vicar, glancing at him, saw that he was young, slight and alert-looking; but his attention was quickly drawn away to Waghorn, who, springing up on the steps of the cross, turned with a vehement gesture towards the leader of the detachment.

“There it stands, Captain, just as I told you!” he cried. “There is the accursed Popish idol! Down with it! Down with it! even to the ground! So may all Thy enemies perish!”

Anything more violent and frenzied than his manner it was impossible to conceive; his dark eyes blazed, his sombre face was transformed.

But the ludicrous inappropriateness of his quotation tickled Gabriel’s sense of humour, and under the violence of the attack he grew restive.

“Your text seems to me ill-chosen,” he said. “But if this be indeed an idol, then by all means let it come down. An idol is a visible object which men bow down to or worship. Do any of you people of Bosbury bow down to this cross?”

There was a quiet force in his tone which instantly arrested the villagers’ full attention.

“No, sir,” they cried, unanimously.

And at that the Vicar hastened forward, courteously greeting the young Parliamentarian, and exclaiming eagerly, “Sir, the answer of the people of Bosbury is true. None of my people are so foolish as to bow to sticks or stones. I humbly hope that they have learnt better than that.”

“’Tis a lie!” shouted Waghorn. “A lie! How about old Jock? How about Billy Blunt?”

“Old Jock,” explained the Vicar to the Captain, “had been brought up a Papist, and I admit that he did superstitiously nod his head when he passed the cross; he is now bedridden. As for Billy, he, poor lad, is an idiot, and ’tis impossible to reason with him.”

But explanations could not satisfy Waghorn.

“Down with all idolatrous symbols!” he shouted. “Down with the cross!”

And his vehemence and excitement proved infectious, for now the soldiers and a few of the spectators caught up the cry, and the churchyard rang with shouts of “Ay! down with it! down with it!” while the villagers began to press forward in an uncertain way, scarcely knowing what to think.

The Vicar rushed between the cross and the soldiers as though to guard it from attack, and turned with outstretched arms to his parishioners.

“I tell you, good people,” he said, in his ringing, manly voice, “that this cross was set up by early Christians. Beneath it there lies buried the ancient stone which was worshipped in heathen times. This is no idol, but a witness to the truth.”

“Don’t heed the Vicar! Obey the word of God!” shouted Waghorn. “Break it in pieces like a potter’s vessel!”

Again the contagion of the fanatic’s excitement spread, and elicited yet fiercer shouts of “Ay! Pull it down! Break it in pieces! Remember Smithfield!”

Gabriel saw that a serious riot would ensue unless action were quickly taken.

Shouting an order for silence, which was promptly obeyed by the soldiers, he said to the Vicar, “Sir, ’tis true enough that Parliament hath ordered the destruction of images and crosses. In many places the people truly did bow down to them. We wish that God alone should be glorified, and we dread homage to symbols. I fear that it will be my duty to carry out the Parliamentary order.”

“In truth, sir,” pleaded the Vicar, “I assure you that I dislike acts of homage to the cross as much as you do. I merely plead with you for our right to keep the ensign of our faith. What is that blue banner yonder officer holds?”

“’Tis the banner of the Parliament, sir,” said Gabriel.

“Well, sir, you do not worship your flag, but you would not lightly part with it. That cross, sir, is my flag, and, unless your looks belie you, I think you will refuse to destroy the witness of our common faith.”

Gabriel had listened with respect and deep attention to this earnest appeal. The long years of controversy and strife had accentuated every religious difference. Hard words had been remorselessly hurled on both sides; but here was a man who boldly appealed to “our common faith.”

In a sudden flash he seemed to realise how overwhelmingly great was this faith they shared. All lesser differences were dwarfed. He no longer saw the stone cross, the buff-coated men-at-arms and the villagers—he saw instead a jeering rabble, and Roman soldiers and the Eternal Revelation of God’s great love to the world. All that he had known from childhood, and honestly striven to carry into practice, was flooded by one of those inspiring gleams which make us understand how much nearer is the Unseen than the Seen; so that for the time there seemed to him nothing in the whole universe save that perfect Revelation of Love.

He was recalled from his Mount of Transfiguration by the urgent need of help down below. Like a false note in a symphony, Waghorn’s voice broke the silence which, to his violent zeal, had seemed unendurable.

“Don’t heed him, Captain! Don’t heed him! Down with the accursed idol! So let all Thine enemies perish, O Lord!”

Gabriel strode towards him.

“Silence!” he cried, sternly. “The devil, as we all know, can quote Scripture. Sir,” he continued, turning to the Vicar, with a look that told of genuine respect, “your words stir my heart strangely. If you will promise to have graven on the cross these words


Honour not the cross,

But honour God for Christ,


no man shall touch what you rightly call the witness of our common faith.”

The Vicar grasped his hand with grateful warmth.

“I thank you from my heart, sir, and I promise right willingly. Zachary! Go fetch Tim the mason, and bid him carve the words without delay. And, good people,” he added, as the villagers crowded round him, two little children plucking at his sleeve till he put his kindly hands caressingly on their shoulders, “let us never allow the emblem of Divine Love to become the target for bitterness and division. Above all the unhappy strife of to-day, there is one thing which may yet unite us—it is love, the bond of peace.”

All this time Hilary had obediently waited in the garden, but the garden was separated from the churchyard only by a low hedge of clipped yews, and in one place the trees had been allowed to grow higher and had been cut into a sheltered arbour. Here, quite hidden from view, she had seen and heard all that passed.

For a minute or two she had not recognised Gabriel, for his face had been turned from her and she had only once before seen him with short hair and in uniform. But when he stepped forward and spoke to the people her heart gave such a bound of joy that in reality all her perplexed musings as to the answer she should make to Colonel Norton were solved.

When she heard the word of command given to the soldiers to march from the churchyard, and saw the crowd beginning to disperse, she hastened from the arbour, and was just approaching the little gate in the hedge when she saw the Vicar drawing near, and heard him warmly pressing the Parliamentary Captain to dine with them.

“Uncle!” she said, opening the gate, “you do not know our old friend, Mr. Gabriel Harford.”

Gabriel looked in amazement at the dear familiar face in the grey and pink hood, at the trim erect figure in the old grey gown, outlined against the arch of dark yew. Surely that white hand holding open the gate was an emblem of hope? Surely he could read signs of love in the bright eyes and in the glowing cheeks?

“Hilary!” he cried, with a choking sensation in his throat. “Are you here?”

He bent down and kissed her hand, and they were both relieved when the Vicar came to the rescue.

“Captain Harford! Why, this is excellent hearing. I had no notion, sir, what your name was, but if aught could make my rejoicing greater, it would be the knowledge that this kindly deed was done by one well known to my dear sister now at rest, this child’s mother,” and he took Hilary’s hand caressingly in his.

“I will see if dinner is ready,” she said, nervously.

“No, child, I must myself go in, and will speak to Durdle. Do you entertain Captain Harford. You were children together and will have many a matter to talk over, I’ll warrant.”

He went into the house, and Gabriel drew a little nearer to Hilary.

“Your uncle does not know, then, that we were ever more to one another than just playmates?” he said; and as for an instant she glanced at him, she saw how much he must have gone through since their last parting.

“No,” she replied, shyly. “He never heard about it. So much has passed since then. You had tidings of my dear mother’s death, Gabriel?”

“Yes, I heard of it at Bath, before the fight at Lansdown. My thoughts have always been with you, but you never replied to my letter.”

“No letter ever reached me,” she said.

“This miserable war too often makes writing useless,” said Gabriel, with a sigh. “For nigh upon two years I have been hoping against hope for an answer. Ah! here comes Mrs. Durdle.”

“Dinner is served, mistress,” said Durdle. “I hope I see you............