“Certes,” said Sibyll, quickly, “if my father would seek the poor captive, I will be his messenger to my Lord Hastings. But oh, sir, as thou hast known my father’s boyhood, and as thou hopest for mercy in the last day, tempt to no danger one so guileless!”
Hilyard winced as he interrupted her hastily,
“There is no danger if thou wilt obtain the license. I will say more,—a reward awaits him, that will not only banish his poverty but save his life.”
“His life!”
“Ay! seest thou not, fair mistress, that Adam Warner is dying, not of the body’s hunger, but of the soul’s? He craveth gold, that his toils may reap their guerdon. If that gold be denied, his toils will fret him to the grave!”
“Alas! alas! it is true.”
“That gold he shall honourably win! Nor is this all. Thou wilt see the Lord Hastings: he is less learned, perhaps, than Worcester, less dainty in accomplishments and gifts than Anthony Woodville, but his mind is profound and vast; all men praise him save the queen’s kin. He loves scholars; he is mild to distress; he laughs at the superstitions of the vulgar. Thou wilt see the Lord Hastings, and thou mayst interest him in thy father’s genius and his fate!”
“There is frankness in thy voice, and I will trust thee,” answered Sibyll. “When shall I seek this lord?”
“This day, if thou wilt. He lodges at the Tower, and gives access, it is said, to all who need his offices, or seek succour from his power.”
“This day, then, be it!” answered Sibyll, calmly.