A cousin of his, a man not unknown in Parliament, had recently defied the King; had refused, being armed and at the head of his tenantry, to pay the ship-money, that being a tax (one of many) levied by the King without the consent of the people of England, Parliament being in abeyance; and this country gentleman had appealed to the laws, asking, "By what authority?" and when they said, "the King,"--had answered, "that was not sufficient, for the laws and the nation were above the King, and alone he could enforce nothing." Which statement made men stare, for it was near treason, and the speaker of these words was now on his trial, and his cousin, fighting through his own tribulations, thought of him and of the issue that hung upon the verdict pronounced upon his case. If the judges found the ship-money tax illegal, then had civil liberty won indeed a victory! If they found that the King was above the laws and could by his sole authority do what he pleased in Church and State, why, where was England and those poor few within her borders who truly sought the Lord? Yet not so much even this tremendous issue touched the soul of the melancholy Calvinist as the thought--What he did, could not I do, ay, and more? If one, a gentleman of good repute, may thus challenge even the sacred authority of the King, may not another, of the same good blood and stalwart faith, the Lord bidding him, accomplish something? The thought was like a tiny ray of light penetrating his deep melancholy; he moved from his cramped position, shook his frieze cloak on which the drops of moisture hung thick, and looked about him. Something to do--something to labour for--something to save and guard for the Lord in this old realm where all had gone so crooked of late.... The fire that never lay very deep beneath the stagnation of his melancholies mounted clear and bright in his soul. He turned about to where he knew the church stood, and, stately Englishman as he was, he flung out his hands wide with the unconscious gesture of strong passion, and, looking upwards through the drizzling mist with that inner eye which perfectly beheld the choired rows of Paradise and the multitude about the Throne, he cried out aloud-- "Lord, wilt thou not choose _me_ also for this service?" The little light in his soul increased into a gleam of hope; he turned his back on the fens and Erith Bulwark, and retraced his steps towards St. Ives, crossing the lands of Slepe Hall, which he rented, and coming soon again in view of the quiet, sombre little town, and of the garden wall enclosing his own riverside house. The mist now began to waver and lift, and to be over-coloured with a play of light, and when he reached the church the day was almost normal fair. In his soul, too, was the struggle stilled; a curious apathy, a pause in spiritual experience, enveloped him. He stood motionless for a moment, for he felt physically weak and his legs trembled under him.