“Do you take me for a fool, both of you?” said she. “Or for worse—a traitor? If I be a Catholic, yet am I a woman, not a stone. I told him you dwelt on the thither side of Lambeth. You have nought to fear from me. If all the Gospellers in the world were wrapped up in thy single person, Isoult, none should ever lay hand on an hair of thine head by means of Philippa Basset. Yea, though mine own life were the forfeit,—’tis not worth much to any now.”
“I thank thee dearly for thy love, sweet Philippa,” said Isoult, “but I hardly know how to thank thee for lying.
“’Twere a venial sin, I am assured,” said she, lightly. “Why, dear heart! James would burn thee in Smithfield as soon as eat his dinner!”
About a fortnight passed uneventfully—a rare occurrence in the year 1555. But as it was growing dusk on the 21st of May, there was a quick rap at the door, and Mr Underhill hastily entered.
“Coming from the light, I may scantly see who is here,” said he; “but I wish to speak quickly with Mrs Rose—Mrs Thekla, I mean.”
Mrs Rose and Isoult were sitting in the little chamber. The latter rose to call Thekla.
“What for Thekla?” asked her mother, earnestly. “Can you not tell me, Mr Underhill? Is there some evil news for me?”
“I knew not you were here till I heard you speak, Mrs Rose,” he answered, in the gentle manner in which he always spoke to her. “Well, I suppose you may as well know it first as last. Your husband is ordered to Norwich for examination, and shall set forth this even. He shall pass the postern in half an hour, and I came to tell Mrs Thekla, if she desired to speak with him, she should come at once with me.”
Thekla ran up-stairs to fetch her hood.
“To Norwich!” cried poor Mrs Rose, “what for to Norwich?”