The Militants by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews


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Page 1

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.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Thu 28th Mar 2024, 9:28