“Never a whit.”
“Nor you know not the writing?”
“It resembleth none hand of any that I know.”
There was another short pause, broken by Lord Monteagle’s query, “Thinks your Lordship this of any moment?”
“That were not easy to answer. It may be of serious import; or it may be but a foolish jest.”
“Truly, at first I thought it the latter; for how could the danger be past as soon as the letter were burnt?”
“Ah, that might be but—My Lord, I pray you leave this letter with me. I will consider of it, and if I see cause, may lay it before the King. Any way, you have well done to bring it hither. If it be a foolish jest, there is but a lost half-hour: and if, as might be, it is an honest warning of some real peril that threatens us, you will then have merited well of your King and country. I may tell you that I have already received divers advices from beyond seas to the same effect.”
“I thank your Lordship heartily, and I commend you to God.” So saying, Lord Monteagle took his leave.
The Sunday passed peacefully. Thomas Winter, in his chamber at the sign of the Duck, laid down a volume of the writings of Thomas Aquinas, and began to think about going to bed; when a hasty rap on the door, and the sound of some one being let in, was succeeded by rapid steps on the stairs. The next moment, Thomas Ward entered the room.
“What is the matter?” said Winter, the moment he saw his face.