“Look!” Ebenezer had unscrewed the seal, was showing the crucifix to Faithful Unto Death.

“A Papist witch!”

Campion was past caring. She wept. She was sliding into the abyss again. She dimly heard Faithful Unto Death intoning the 23rd psalm, heard her brother call for the guards, and then, mercifully she fainted. They wrapped her in a blanket, unwilling that Colonel Fuller’s soldiers should know what they had been doing, and Campion was carried down to the travelling coach which had been prepared.

Ebenezer smiled at the Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey. “You were right, brother.”

“God has been good to us.”

“He has, he has.”

Faithful Unto Death shook his head solemnly. “She must be tried, brother.”

“She must, she must.” Ebenezer smiled. He walked to the window and stared down to where Goodwife followed Campion into the coach. From now on, Ebenezer reflected, they could deal respectably with his sister. The law would be relentless, properly conducting her to either fire or scaffold. He looked at Faithful Unto Death.

“She must be a witch.”

“She is.”

Ebenezer shrugged and limped back into the long gallery. He waved a hand at the decorated pagan plasterwork, at the curtains, the rugs, the paintings and the fine, inlaid furniture. “She must have used witchcraft to come here. Why else would they welcome her?”

He did not listen to Faithful Unto Death Hervey’s reply. He stared instead at the richness of the room and he hated it. It was beautiful and that was an anathema to him. It had belonged to privileged people and that was a further cause for hatred. Ebenezer had always hated the privileged.

He was now one of them. He was, since Scammell’s death, the legal holder of the Seal of St. Matthew. He would now receive the monies of the Covenant. He would be rich. Yet, he decided as he fingered a lace tablecloth, he would use his riches toward a better end than they had been used here. He would work for an England that was disciplined under God, devout under the law, and he knew that such a country would need harsh, far-seeing masters. God’s Kingdom would come and he would be one of its regents. He had discovered, in this last year, that he had the gift of leadership, though he still feared the older men of more power and experience. Those he was careful to flatter and copy.

He turned back to Faithful Unto Death, seeing in his erstwhile minister a future follower. Ebenezer’s voice was grating and harsh, befitting a conqueror. “I believe a word of thanks might be in season, brother?”

“Indeed.”

They knelt beneath the pagan plasterwork and thanked Almighty God for his mercies, for this signal providence that had brought them to this great victory.

“Amen,” said Faithful Unto Death, “and amen.”

Nineteen

“‘Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.’” Lady Margaret, listening to the Reverend Perilly’s words, thought it had not been true. Sir George had not been full of misery. He had been full of worry, yet he had known much happiness.