"Yea, but there are deeds you never could have done."
"By God's grace I trust not; but hear me out, wife. Mine errors, nay, my crimes, would not do away with the duty owed to me by my sons. How, then, should any sins of this poor Queen withhold her daughter from rendering her all the succour in her power? And thou, thou thyself, Susan, hast taken her for thine own too long to endure to let her undertake the matter alone and unaided."
"She would not attempt it thus," said Susan.
"I cannot tell; but I should thus be guilty of foiling her in a brave and filial purpose."
"And yet thou dost hold her poor mother a guilty woman?"
"Said I so? Nay, Susan, I am as dubious as ever I was on that head."
"After hearing the trial?"
"A word in thine ear, my discreet wife. The trial convinced me far more that place makes honest men act like cruel knaves than of aught else."
"Then thou holdest her innocent?"
"I said not so. I have known too long how she lives by the weaving of webs. I know not how it is, but these great folks seem not to deem that truth in word and deed is a part of their religion. For my part, I should distrust whatever godliness did not lead to truth, but a plain man never knows where to have them. That she and poor Antony Babington were in league to bring hither the Spaniards and restore the Pope, I have no manner of doubt on the word of both, but then they deem it—Heaven help them—a virtuous act; and it might be lawful in her, seeing that she has always called herself a free sovereign unjustly detained. What he stuck at and she denies, is the purpose of murdering the Queen's Majesty."