The Militants Stories of Some Parsons, Soldiers, and Other Fighters in the World   By: Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews (1860-1936)

"The sword of the Lord and of Gideon."

BOOKS BY MARY R.S. ANDREWS

PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

The Militants. Illustrated $1.50

Bob and the Guides. Illustrated $1.50

The Perfect Tribute. With Frontispiece $0.50

Vive L'Empereur. Illustrated $1.00

[Illustration: "I took her in my arms and held her."]

THE MILITANTS

STORIES OF SOME PARSONS, SOLDIERS

AND OTHER FIGHTERS IN THE WORLD

BY

MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1907

Published, May, 1907

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF A MAN WHO WAS WITH HIS WHOLE HEART A PRIEST AND WITH HIS WHOLE STRENGTH A SOLDIER OF THE CHURCH MILITANT.

JACOB SHAW SHIPMAN

CONTENTS

I. The Bishop's Silence

II. The Witnesses

III. The Diamond Brooches

IV. Crowned with Glory and Honor

V. A Messenger

VI. The Aide de Camp

VII. Through the Ivory Gate

VIII. The Wife of the Governor

IX. The Little Revenge

ILLUSTRATIONS

"I took her in my arms and held her"

"Many waters shall not wash out love", said Eleanor

He stared into the smoldering fire

"Look!" he said, and Miles swung about toward the ridge behind

"I got behind a turn and fired as a man came on alone"

"I reckon I shall have to ask you to not pick any more of those roses," a voice said

"You see, the boat is very new and clean, Miss," he was saying

I felt myself pulled by two pairs of hands

THE BISHOP'S SILENCE

The Bishop was walking across the fields to afternoon service. It was a hot July day, and he walked slowly for there was plenty of time with his eyes fixed on the far off, shimmering sea. That minstrel of heat, the locust, hidden somewhere in the shade of burning herbage, pulled a long, clear, vibrating bow across his violin, and the sound fell lazily on the still air the only sound on earth except a soft crackle under the Bishop's feet. Suddenly the erect, iron gray head plunged madly forward, and then, with a frantic effort and a parabola or two, recovered itself, while from the tall grass by the side of the path gurgled up a high, soft, ecstatic squeal. The Bishop, his face flushed with the stumble and the heat and a touch of indignation besides, straightened himself with dignity and felt for his hat, while his eyes followed a wriggling cord that lay on the ground, up to a small brown fist. A burnished head, gleaming in the sunshine like the gilded ball on a church steeple, rose suddenly out of the waves of dry grass, and a pink ginghamed figure, radiant with joy and good will, confronted him. The Bishop's temper, roughly waked up by the unwilling and unepiscopal war dance just executed, fell back into its chains.

"Did you tie that string across the path?"

"Yes," The shining head nodded. "Too bad you didn't fell 'way down. I'm sorry. But you kicked awf'ly."

"Oh! I did, did I?" asked the Bishop. "You're an unrepentant young sinner. Suppose I'd broken my leg?"

The head nodded again. "Oh, we'd have patzed you up," she said cheerfully. "Don't worry. Trust in God."

The Bishop jumped. "My child," he said, "who says that to you?"

"Aunt Basha." The innocent eyes faced him without a sign of embarrassment. "Aunt Basha's my old black mammy. Do you know her? All her name's longer'n that. I can say it." Then with careful, slow enunciation, "Bathsheba Salina Mosina Angelica Preston."

"Is that your little bit of name too?" the Bishop asked, "Are you a Preston?"

"Why, of course." The child opened her gray eyes wide. "Don't you know my name? I'm Eleanor. Eleanor Gray Preston."