She shivered a little, looking down, then whispered hoarse:
“Well, I am well answered. Yet you look like a noble. O, Harry, speak like one!”
“God forbid it, Jane! I will speak like Harry Shore.”
“He loved me once.”
“Aye; he is risking death to prove it.”
She looked up quickly; but before she could speak the door opened, and a little boy peeped into the room. He was caught away in a moment by an unseen hand, and the door closed; but in that instant the woman had snatched her drapery about her nakedness, shamed as she had never been yet.
“A wretch!” she said, her face on fire.
“Saw’st thou his blue eyes and pretty curls?” said the goldsmith. “He is son to my master-setter, whose house this is. I had dreamed once of such a babe, mine own and thine.”
She rose and crept to him, looking in his face. It was a bronzed and honest one, though drawn with pain.
“Harry,” she whispered, “find me clothes and bid me begone—in memory of our once kisses, Harry.”