I was kept in Fleet Prison for wellnigh two years, and during the first year of that time I scarce ever spoke to a fellow-prisoner. Moreover, none of my gaolers ever had speech with me. So silent were they when they brought me my meals that I judged they had been commanded to be silent. It was easy to divine a meaning in this, for if the king had bidden that no man should speak to me he would be obeyed. And I believed that he had done this, else why was I treated differently from all others who were immured within those grim walls? Moreover there was a reason why he should give the command. He did not desire that his marriage with Lucy Walters should be known; he did not wish that the boy James Croft should be spoken of as the future King of England.

Of my sufferings during that year I will say but little. It is but little to a man's credit that he should make known his tale of woe, rather should he endeavour to make the best of his lot, and think of what comforts he had. And yet if I would tell my story truly I must e'en remark on the dark days I spent there, for they were dark days. For a time I almost wished that I had no hope that Constance loved me, for it seemed to make my burden harder to bear. But it was only for a time. I could not help being glad because of the lovelight I had seen in her eyes, even though the thought of it brought me pain; For bring me pain it did. How could it be otherwise? I remembered the words of the king, and I knew that he meant what he said. All nights have I lain awake, heedless of the vermin that swarmed the cell, thinking of what had become of her, and how she fared. For not one word did I hear. Whether she was dead or alive I knew not. Whether she had escaped from the king's power, or whether he cruelly persecuted her no one could tell me. And this made my burden hardest to bear. If I knew she was dead I think I could have borne up better, for I should know that she had died thinking of me. Ay, I knew that, for no woman could look at a man as she looked at me without thinking of him always. Even as I lay in the darkness I remembered that look, and rejoiced. My imprisonment I would not have minded one whit, if I knew she was safe. I did not even fear her being a hunted refugee as she was when I had seen her first of all. Nay, it was the thought of what was in the king's mind that drove me wellnigh mad, and many a time while I was in prison had I wished that I had seized his fleshy neck and strangled the life out of him, even although I suffered the tortures of hell as a consequence.

But I could do nothing. Day succeeded day, and week succeeded week, and I heard not so much as a breath of a whisper. Besides I could do nothing, for my prison door was safely locked, and not a vestige of chance to hear aught of the outside world came to me.

Thus a year passed away. During that time I had grown as weak as a child. Each morning as I awoke a great nausea mastered me, and my mouth was full of bitterness, until one day one of my gaolers watched me as I was retching, and saw how faint and giddy I was afterwards, and then a change was made in my condition. I was allowed clean clothes, a big tub was brought to me so that I could bath myself, and a better cell was given me.

It was just after this that I heard something which set me thinking. Two gaolers were outside my door, and I heard them talking.

"Young Master Rashcliffe is better, eh?"

"Ay, he is better. I am told he is to have more liberty."

"What, mix with the other prisoners?"

"Ah, why the change? Know you?"

"No, I know not. For my part I am glad. It was fair sad to see him. He was mad at one time."

"Ay, that he was. Well, the prisoners be treated more harshly now than in Old Nol's time."

"Ay, and there are far more of them too. Have you heard about the king's oath?"

"Nay, I have heard of no oath save that he is going to stamp out the Dissenters."

"Nay, it hath nought to do with that, although the place is full enough of them. It is about the black box."

"What black box?"

"Have you not heard? One of the big lords, I know not which, said that an old man had shewed him the marriage certificate between the king and that pretty Welsh wench, Lucy Walters."

"Ah, no, I had not heard."

"But it is so. Well, the king hath taken an oath that, while the lad of whom there hath been so much talk is his son, he never wedded Lucy. I hear the king was wellnigh angered to death when the thing got noised abroad."

"And what hath become of the old man who shewed the great lord the thing?"

"I know not; but the strange thing is that he claims to be Lucy Walters' father."

"And the king says it is a forgery?"

"Ay, that is his oath."

"That will end in the old man being caught and hanged."

"Ay, they will have to hang him, for of a truth every prison in England is full."

"Perhaps the king will hang the Dissenters instead, and yet I should be sorry. They cause no trouble in prison, even although there are so many. The only thing for which I do not like them, is that they look at one so mournfully if he should happen upon oath, or say something that is not over pious."

"Ha, ha! Then must they often look mournfully on you. But I do not like their pious talk. I would rather have to do with prisoners which ought to be here. As it is, the place is full of these pious people who were preaching and praying in barns instead of in the parish church, and singing their own hymns instead of abiding by the Prayer-book, while the blackguards who used to be clapped into prison in Old Nol's time are allowed to go free. Then prisoners were real prisoners—drunkards, and wife-beaters, and thieves, and wizards, and witches; but now we have hardly any but these pious people, who are guilty of nought worse than singing hymns and preaching."

"Still law is law, and the king is king. Besides, what would you, if the king and the bishops will have everybody pray according to the Prayer-book, what right have these Dissenters to pray in their own way?"

After this they went away, and I heard no more of them. For several days moreover there was no change in my condition, except that my prison was clean and my food a little more wholesome. At the end of a week, however, I found myself at liberty to move freely around among my fellow-prisoners, and it was then that I understood the meaning of the conversation I have recorded. For in truth the place seemed full of men who were sent hither because they had disobeyed certain Acts of Parliament, the which, as I understood it, meant that if any number of people worshipped God in any other way than that prescribed by the Prayer-book, or in any other place than the parish church, their meetings could at once be pounced upon by the constables, and the offenders haled before the magistrates, and sentenced to imprisonment. I was also told that these Acts prohibited any person who had been guilty of preaching the Gospel, other than those empowered by the laws of the country, living within five miles of the town where they had preached. With this news there came to me also the information that about two thousand clergymen, most of whom were pious Godfearing men, were ejected from their parishes because they could not obey laws which they believed were contrary to the laws of God. Moreover, many of these clergymen, believing they were called of God to preach, had continued to minister to their flocks, with the result that the prisons of England were full of them.

In addition to this, the law, having regarded not only Nonconformist preachers but Nonconformist worshippers as equally guilty, meetings were broken up, and the guilty people were clapped into gaol without more ado.

I had never taken any considerable interest in such matters, yet now that I saw these people in gaol, and heard their stories, I realized that what the squire and vicar of the parish where I had seen such a strange sight in the county of Kent had predicted had come to pass.

One old man interested me greatly, for he spoke kindly to me, and inquired lovingly after my condition. He had, so he told me, married late in life, and had a family of a wife and five children. When the Act of Uniformity was passed he was cast forth from his parish because he would not be re-ordained, and then having been guilty of preaching the Gospel to a few of his flock, and praying with them, he was seized by the magistrates and cast into prison.

"And what hath become of your wife and family?" I asked.

"Ah, that is what grieves me sorely," he replied; "for myself I do not mind one whit, except that I can no longer proclaim the glad news which I was called to preach; but to think of my poor delicate wife wandering helpless and homeless with my dear little ones grieves me beyond words. I can do nought but pray for them, the which I do continually."

"But why could you not obey the law?" I asked.

"Obey the law! How could I? I had been ministering to my people for many years, and God had given seals to my ministry by enabling me to lead many to the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world. Then came this law, which said that I had not hitherto been ordained of God, and must be ordained according to priestly traditions. Now, how could I do that? If I did, it would be tantamount to confessing that my previous ordination was not of God. Then, again, I could not subscribe to every word of the Prayer-book, for it is riddled with popery. The question which the Apostle asked came to me—'Whether it be right to obey God or man judge ye,' and I could only answer it in one way."

"And be there many Nonconformists?" I asked.

"You can judge something of that by the number who preferred to obey God rather than man," he replied. "Two thousand and more have been ejected from their parishes, while thousands of the people belonging to their flocks are to-day suffering imprisonment for love of the true Gospel."

"And who do you blame for all this?" I asked. "The king?"

"Ay, I blame the king, but not him only. I blame the king because he promised us fairly. Had he not so promised he would not have been invited back. He promised that none of us should be disturbed, and that every man should worship God according to the dictates of his own conscience. As you know also the Act of Oblivion was passed, whereby all those who took part in the death of the late king should be forgiven. But what hath happened? His Majesty hath hanged many of those who thought it their duty to put that man to death, and not contented with this he hath dragged others from their graves and had their bodies degraded."

"Who among the living hath he hanged?" I asked.

He named some whose names I did not know, and then I heard the name of Master John Leslie.

"Master John Leslie!" I cried, "hath he been put to death?"

"Hanged at Tyburn," said the old man solemnly. "A good man and a faithful he was, although I agreed not with all his tenets. He was somewhat influenced by the Quaker doctrines of the man Fox, and would not allow himself to be called Sir John Leslie, although he was entitled to that honour."

"And his daughters," I cried, "know you aught of them?"

"They are both in hiding I am told."

"The wife of Sir Charles Denman hath never been captured then?"

"No, although how she hath escaped is a mystery, for Sir Charles hath fled out of the country."

"And the other sister?" I asked feverishly, for my heart was all aflame.

"Ah, the other sister. God only knows what hath become of her, for it is said that she found favour in the eyes of the king," he replied.

At this I could not speak another word, for it seemed to me that nought was left worth living for. But the old man did not heed my grief, instead he went on speaking.

"Not that I blame the king for all. The episcopal bishops and the popishly inclined clergy have allowed him no rest. My brethren have appealed for justice, but in order to please the clergy, Parliament hath passed one law after another, each more abominable in the sight of God than the other. Our greatest enemies everywhere have been those who have wanted the heresies of the Prayer-book. They have hunted us from place to place, they have given information to the magistrates, and have not been contented until the Nonconformists have either sworn allegiance to the Prayer-book or been thrust into prison. As for the king, he careth more for his pleasures than aught else."

"But if this is all for the good of religion?" I asked presently, although my heart went not with my words.

"Religion!" cried the old man. "Religion! where can we find it? Religion is laughed at on every hand. Those in high places live in open sin, and there are none to say them nay. The Court is turned into a pigsty. Obscene plays are in all the theatres, while vice and profligacy are actually boasted of in the streets of London. Even while we Nonconformists be imprisoned in stinking cells the very worst sins are condoned, excused, and in many places even praised, while the clergy openly proclaim that they would rather have open sin than Nonconformity. But this cannot be for long."

"Why, do you think the king will relent?"

"Relent! It is well known that he careth little for religion. How can he, seeing the life he lives? It is said by those who know him best, that he favours the Papist religion more than any other, and would bring it back if he could. His mother hath a host of intriguing priests from Rome with her every day; these priests are treated like great nobles, and the king allows it—nay, smiles upon it. I have been told that Charles Stuart doth not believe in our Lord Christ at all, and calls himself a Deist. Such is the state of religion. People live for carnal pleasures, while the virtue of maidens is laughed at as an idle tale."

Conversation like this I heard again and again during the next few months, and I judged from all that came to me from the outside world that it was true. Meanwhile the prison became more and more crowded with Nonconformists. Men, women, and even children were packed in this evil-smelling place, and as far as I could discover their only crime was that they desired to pray and to preach according to the dictates of their conscience.

Meanwhile, I learnt no more concerning Constance. I asked many questions, but no man could give me an answer except that the king regarded her with favour.

Not once did my father visit me, at the which I wondered greatly, for I knew that he loved me, and would not willingly allow me to remain here to die like a rat in a hole as I was like to do. One day, however, after I had been a long time here, my heart gave a great leap, for I heard his voice speaking to a gaoler, and shortly after we were alone together.

"I grieve much for you, Roland," he said presently, "and yet it is your own fault."

"My own fault, father?"

"Ay, your own fault."

"Why, what have I done?" I asked.

"You have opposed the king's will," he replied; "you have used your information like a fool."

"But perchance you do not know all that hath taken place," I said; "you do not know what the king would have had me do?"

"Ay, I have heard all. Not that the news hath long come to me, for I have only but lately arrived from France, where I have been at the behest of James of York. Had I known earlier I would have been to see you before, but I never dreamed that you would have been such a fool."

My heart grew cold at these words, for my father spoke, as I thought, strangely.

"I went away with a light heart," he went on, "for I believed that you had wit enough to make good use of whatever you should find out. I left you enough money for all needs, and I believed that when I came back I should find you in high favour with the king. Instead, I find that you have espoused the cause of the daughter of a regicide, that you have refused to obey the king's commands, and that you have acted like a fool in relation to the discovery which you made."

"What would you have had me do?" I asked.

"Do!" he replied. "Did I not tell you from your earliest childhood that no man would do aught for you, except that which would help forward his own plans? And did I not trust you to make a wise use of your knowledge? That is why I laid down no plan of action for you when we met at Dover. I said 'the boy hath all his wits, and will be able to act wisely when the right time comes,' Why, having once obtained the ear of the king, thou shouldst have gone to him after what thou didst find out, and thou shouldst have appeared before him as one anxious to serve him. He would then, in his own interests, have rewarded thee with some fair demesne and a wealthy dame's hand. Instead, what dost thou do? Thou dost become the aider and abettor of this daughter of John Leslie, and when obedience to the king would have found his favour, thou didst like a fool refuse to do his bidding. Ay, and what happened then? The king, being desirous of keeping his marriage with Lucy Walters a secret, and knowing that thou wert a dangerous fool, clapped thee into prison."

"And you, father," I said, "what have you done?"

"I have done what I meant to do," he replied. "If the son is a fool there is no reason why the father should be. I have so managed the king, through His Grace of York that I have got my old lands back, so that in spite of thine own foolishness thou wilt no longer be a landless Rashcliffe. The king's marriage with Lucy Walters was not the only card I had to play, so when my time came I played it, and I took the trick too."

At this I was silent, for somehow I felt my father to be a different man.

"If ever a man had his chances you had," my father went on. "I had known for years that Katharine Harcomb had been trying to find out through Lucy Walters' mother where the old madman Walters was, and I knew that when she found out she would come and tell me."

"How did you know?" I asked.

"Because I had power over her. Because in her young days she had done that which, if I had chosen to make known, would have sent her to the gallows. Because I had made her promise that if ever she found out where old Solomon, as he called himself, was, she dared do no other than to tell me. She knew that he had got hold of the marriage contract; the question was, where the old man was hiding." And then my father told me a long story which I will not here set down, because it hath no real bearing on my history.

"You have disappointed me greatly," he went on presently. "You had a chance such as few men have, and you spoiled it; you have gained the king's enmity, and you have allowed yourself to be mewed up here in this stinking hole with a lot of psalm-singing Nonconformists. Besides, you have done no good by it all. The story hath come out, and the king hath taken an oath that he did never wed Lucy. Therefore your knowledge doth avail nothing."

"But I saw the contract," I cried.

"Ay, but the king hath taken his oath," he laughed.

"What, to a lie!" I said.

"The oath of Charles Stuart!" said my father. "What was his father's oath worth? What is the son's oath worth? But you have spoiled your chance. What matters whether the thing is a forgery or no? Now that the thing hath come to light it doth not matter. That is what angers me. The son in whom I trusted to have clever wits hath acted like a Puritan."

"And am I to remain in gaol?" I asked.

"As to that, no," he replied. "Now that the thing hath come to light nought matters. Had I come back earlier I had set you at liberty long ago. As soon as I discovered how matters stood I took steps to gain your freedom."

"Then I may leave this place?" I cried.

"Ay, be thankful that your father is not a fool. You can e'en return to your old home to-morrow."

"And know you aught of Mistress Constance Leslie?" I asked.

"Ay, I do," he replied.

"What? Tell me!" I cried.

My father turned and looked around him before speaking, as though he feared some one was listening.