“Not at this present,” made I answer.
“Then hearken me,” saith he. “Can you do a deed in the dark, unwitting of the cause—knowing only that it is for the King’s honour and true good, and that they which ask it be true men?”
I meditated a moment. Then said I,—“Ay; I can so.”
“Will you pass your word,” saith he, “to the endeavouring yourself to keep eye on the Queen and my Lord of March this even betwixt four and five o’ the clock? Will you look from time to time on Sir John de Molynes, and if you hear either of them speak any thing as though they should go speak with the King, will you rub your left eye when Sir John shall look on you? But be you ware you do it not elsewise.”
“What, not though it itch?” said I, yet laughing.
“Not though it itch to drive you distraught.”
“Well!” said I, “’tis but for a hour. But what means it, I pray you?”
“It means,” saith he, “that if the King’s good is to be sought, and his honour to be saved, you be she that must help to do it.”
Then all suddenly it came on me, like to a levenand (lightning) flash, what it was that Sir William and his fellows went about to do. I looked full into his eyes. And if ever I saw truth, honour, and valour writ in man’s eyes, I read them there.
“I see what you purpose,” said I.