“Metrusteth thou hast not been an ill lad?”
Will shook his curly head.
“Nay, what then? Is Mother sick?”
Another shake.
“Come, tell me what it is. Mayhap we shall find some remedy.”
“O Mistress Agnes!” came with a multitude of sobs.
“Nay, then, tell me now!” pleaded Agnes.
“O Mistress Agnes, they have ta’en him!”
“Ta’en whom, my lad? Sure, thy little brother Dickon is not stole away?”
“No!” sobbed Will. “But, O Mistress!—they’ve ta’en him to yon ugly prison, afore those wicked folk, and they call him an here—heretic, and they say he’ll ne’er come out again—nay, never!”