“One word, Augustine,” said Mrs Rose, drying her eyes. “Whither shall they take him over seas?”
“In your ear, then,” said he. “To Calais, to Mr Stevens, whence he shall be passed again through France, until he reach Geneva.”
“Then I go thither,” answered she.
“Softly, Mrs Rose!” said Austin, doubtfully. “You must not, methinks, stir out of the realm; a great mischief might ensue. They should guess presently that whither you went would he go.”
“But what can I do?” she said plaintively.
“‘Wait on the Lord,’” softly answered Isoult.
July brought a little respite to the horrible slaughter. In the beginning of August, came Austin, and with him Mr Underhill.
“There is somewhat merry news from Norwich,” cried Mr Underhill. “My Lord the Bishop, returned thither, summons Rose afore his saintly presence: who is no whither to be found. Whereupon my Lord sendeth for a wizard, and in his holiness biddeth him consult with the infernal powers touching the whereabout of the prisoner. Who answereth that Rose is gone over the water, and is in keeping of a woman. Wherein he spake sooth, though maybe he knew it not; for Rose at that very minute lay hidden in the mean cottage of a certain godly woman, and had to ford more rivers than one to win thither. So my Lord the Bishop, when he gets his answer of the Devil, flieth at the conclusion that Rose is gone over seas, and is safe in Germany, and giveth up all looking for him. Wherefore, for once in our lives, we may thank the Devil.”
“Nay, good Ned,” said Jack; “we will thank the living God (this phrase was another symbolum hereticorum), that did overrule both the Bishop and the Devil.”
“And what of Robin?” said Isoult.