Free The Captive Bride by Gilbert Morris Page A

under a dull covering of dead leaves that crunched briskly under the feet of the three men marching down the long lane from the main road.
    John Bunyan glanced at his companions, then lifted his gaze to the house which lay in the circle of a serpentine drive. “I wish your uncle were here with us, Matthew. He’s used to talking with lawyers and government people.”
    â€œThere’s not much even he could do this time, John, even if he were able to come,” Pastor Gifford responded. “I have no hope of any mercy from Twisten. He’s always hated our faith.”
    Bunyan scraped the mud off his feet on the brick steps and grimaced as he gave the brass knocker a loud blow. “No, I suppose that’s true. How is he, do you know, Matthew?”
    â€œVery poorly.” Anger flew across Matthew’s face as he thought of his uncle jammed into a common jail in London. “He has weak lungs and that cold cell could be the death of him.” The Winslow blood flared up and he struck the moss-covered bricks with a clenched fist. “Curse them! An old man like that who’s served his country all his life!”
    â€œBut they’ll never forget he served Cromwell,” PastorGifford reminded them. “I hear the jails are packed with Fifth-Monarchy men and Separatists, but—” He broke off as the door opened and he announced, “We are called to see Justice Twisten.”
    â€œHe’s waiting for you,” the tall, thin man who answered the door said. He led them across a large open room, down a broad corridor lined with a series of portraits of stern-faced men. “In here, please.”
    The three men stepped into a large book-lined study, dominated by a massive desk behind which sat Justice Simon Twisten. He was a large, portly man with a neck of a bull, his small eyes buried in the folds of fat lining his face. He offered no greeting.
    Pastor Gifford waited for a moment, then seeing that the man was not going to speak, said, “You sent for us, Justice Twisten?”
    Still he waited, the antagonism in his piggish eyes gleaming; then he said abruptly, “You know why you’ve been sent for, Gifford. We’ll have no discussion!” His high voice rose, incongruous in such a bulky form, and his fat face flushed as he added, “You are lawbreakers, and I’ll have none of it in this country.”
    â€œSir, if I might—”
    â€œNone of your smooth talk, I said! You have been told of the Conventicle Act, and you can spare me your pleas for mercy. The law is plain; it forbids the assembly of more than five people for any religious gathering.” He glared at Bunyan and spat out maliciously, “You, John Bunyan, are a known felon!”
    â€œI am no felon!”
    â€œQuiet!” Twisten roared. He heaved his bulk out of the chair and stood there, massive and dangerous, “You have been preaching at night to groups of people—we have information on this. And I warn you, Bunyan, if you are apprehended, you are subject to the full weight of the law!”
    â€œSurely, Justice Twisten,” Gifford objected, “you would not classify a few simple preachers with murderers and thieves!”
    â€œThe law, Gifford, the law does the classifying!” Twisten shot back as he leaned forward like a huge bear, resting his fists on the desk and glaring at the three of them.
    â€œThe same law that throws an old man like my uncle in jail with common murderers?” Matthew raised his voice and took a step toward the justice in a move so unexpected that Twisten straightened up and stepped backward, alarm on his face. “You call that law? I call it cowardly tyranny!”
    â€œMatthew!” Gifford warned, taking a firm grip on the young man’s arm, but he was too late.
    Twisten wheeled and moved across the room surprisingly fast for such a big man. He threw open the door and shouted, “Matthew Winslow, is it? You