“Messire!” cried the faint voice of the poor woman. “Messire is good as an angel from Heaven! But surely Messire has not demeaned himself to carry burdens—and for us!”
She seemed nearhand frightened at the thought.
“Nay, good woman,” saith Jack, merrily—“no more than the angel that carried the cruse of water for the Prophet Elias. Well-a-day! securely I can carry a fardel without tarnishing my spurs? I would I might never do a worse deed.”
“Amen!” said I, “for both of us.”
We bade the woman and Hilda good even, and went forth, followed by blessings till we were in the very street: and not till then would I say—
“Jack, thou art the best man ever lived, but I would thou hadst a little more care for appearances. Suppose Sir Edmund or Master de Oxendon had seen thee!”
“Well?” saith Jack, as calm as a pool in a hollow. “Suppose they had.”
“Why, then should they have laughed thee to scorn.”
“Suppose they did?”
“Jack! Dost thou nothing regard folks’ thoughts of thee?”