"Ay," he replied, "in truth I have. For what could I do? Could I be silent when God had commanded me to preach? 'Woe is me if I preach not the Gospel.' I know now what our brother John Bunyan felt, although a year ago I did but little sympathize with him. The Word of God was like fire in his bones, and he could not help declaring it, so he was cast into prison. After I was ejected from my parish I still preached, and I was cast into prison, and kept there for three months; but I still preach, and, thank God! I still comfort those who are distressed. But for the Word of Life I could not bear my troubles, and who am I that I should keep it from others?" "But what was the occasion of your being imprisoned?" I asked. "Oh, we had met, a few of us, in a barn, some half a mile from the king's highway. We met to read God's word and for prayer. As we read I was mightily moved upon to expound the meaning of God's word, and while I was in the act of expounding and exhorting, the constables came, and dragged three of us to gaol. One of the magistrates who judged me was Master Gilloch, who is now the minister in my old parish, and, as I say, I was kept three months in the company of the worst men and women I ever met. But God had use for me, for while there I was the means of leading more than one to accept the Gospel." "And what did your wife and children do while you were in prison?" I asked. "Oh, a godly farmer gave them a home, until the squire, Master Graystone, a man who had often eaten bread at my table, came and told the farmer that if he did not drive them from his house he should e'en take his farm from him. Nevertheless, the Lord mercifully provided for them. Since I came out of prison I have been able to provide bread for them by selling my books, and by writing a few letters for those who knew not the craft of writing." "And have you no special friend now?" I asked, for, as may be imagined, Constance was in my mind all the time. "Ay, but that friend hath to help in secret," he cried. I wanted to ask more concerning this, but I saw he turned away his head as he spoke, and seemed desirous of being silent. "Perchance the hearts of the squire and the vicar may grow softer," I said. "Ay, young master, there seems but little chance of that. Why, only last night a few pious souls were met together for prayer, and as they prayed the constable entered, and they were dragged away to gaol. The trial is to be held to-morrow, but they will get no mercy." "To-morrow?" I said. "At what time?" "At such time as it may suit the magistrates, but it is given out for ten o'clock." "And what will you do to-night?" "I know not what to do--ah! praise God, here are my wife and children coming!"