Up and down his garden—or, to speak more accurately, his brother’s garden—strolled Mr Justice Roberts, his hands behind his back, on a mild afternoon at the beginning of December 1558. His thoughts, which of course we have the privilege of reading, ran somewhat in this fashion—
“Well, ’tis a mercy all is pretty well settled now. Nothing but joy and welcome for the Queen’s accession. Every man about, pretty nigh, looks as if he had been released from prison, and was so thankful he scarce knew how to express it. To be sure there be a few contradictious folks that would fain have had the old fashions tarry; but, well-a-day! they be but an handful. I’ll not say I’m not glad myself. I never did love committing those poor wretches that couldn’t believe to order. I believe in doing your duty and letting peaceable folks be. If they do reckon a piece of bread to be a piece of bread, I’d never burn them for it.”
By this reflection it will be seen that Mr Justice Roberts, in his heart, was neither a Papist nor a Protestant, but a good-natured Gallio, whose convictions were pliable when wanted so to be.
“I marvel how soon I shall hear of Tom,” the Justice’s meditations went on. “I cannot let him know anything, for I don’t know where he is; I rather guess at Shardeford, with his wife’s folks, but I had a care not to find out. He’ll hear, fast enough, that it is safe to come home. I shouldn’t wonder—”
The Justice wheeled round suddenly, and spoke aloud this time. “Saints alive! what’s that?”
Nothing either audible or visible appeared for a moment.
“What was that black thing?” said the Justice to himself. He was answered suddenly in loud tones of great gratification.
“Bow-wow! Bow-wow-wow! Bow-ow-ow-ow-ow!”
“Whatever!” said the Justice to the “black thing” which was careering about him, apparently on every side of him at once, leaping into the air as high as his head, trying to lick his face, wagging not only a feathery tail, but a whole body, laughing all over a delighted face, and generally behaving itself in a rapturously ecstatic manner. “Art thou rejoicing for Queen Elizabeth too? and whose dog art thou? Didst come—tarry, I do think—nay—ay, it is—I verily believe ’tis old Jack himself!”
“Of course it is!” said Jack’s eyes and tail, and every bit of Jack, executing a fresh caper of intense satisfaction.