"Men reckon time by days; God by endurance," said Mr Rose, mournfully. "And this boy hath borne, these three years, more than you or I wot of. The sword is too sharp for the scabbard. It may be we have hardly known how to rate his true worth; or it may be that his work is over. Either way, it shall not be long now ere he enter into God's rest and his. Ay, I know it is a woeful saying, yet again I say it: King Edward is worn out at fourteen. We may not seek to keep him; but this I am assured-- the angel's call to him shall be the signal for a fearful contest in the realm he leaveth. God defend the right! and God strengthen and comfort us, for I warn you we shall need it." "Alack! when shall all this end?" sighed Isoult. "When Christ cometh again," answered Mr Rose. "No sooner?" she cried. "No sooner," said he. "There may be gleams of light before then; but there can be no full day ere the Sun arise. There may be long times of ease and exemption from persecution; but there can be no stable settlement, no lasting peace, till He appear who is our peace. He that is born after the flesh must persecute him that is born after the Spirit. `If ye were of the world, the world would love his own.' It is because we are not of the world that the world hateth us. Sister, let us comfort ourselves and one another with these words. Christ will not fail us; see we that we fail not Him. We may yet be called to go with Him, both into prison and to death. It may be that `the Lord hath need of us' after this manner. If it be so, let us march bravely in His martyr train. We must never allow His banner to fall unto the dust, nor tremble to give our worthless lives for Him that bought us with His own. If we can keep our eyes steady on the glory that shall follow, the black river will be easier to cross, the chariot of fire less hard to mount. And remember, He can carry us over in His arms, that the cold waters touch not so much as our feet." When Mr Rose was gone, John said, his voice a little broken,--"Will _he_ be a martyr?" "God avert it!" cried Isoult. "Child!" said Dr Thorpe, solemnly, "'tis of such stuff as his that martyrs be made." But the King's work was not yet quite finished. He recovered from his double illness. The Londoners were terrified in the beginning of June by what they regarded as a fearful sign from Heaven--a shower of what is commonly known as "red rain." In their eyes it was blood, and a presage of dreadful slaughter. The slaughter followed, whatever the shower might mean. The last year of rest was at hand. "What say you to my Lord of Northampton?" suddenly inquired John Avery of Mr Rose, one morning when they met in the Strand. It was an odd and abrupt beginning of conversation: but Mr Rose understood its meaning only too well. The thoughts of the Gospellers were running chiefly now on the dark future, and their own disorganised condition.