“October!” said Robin, still smiling. “I fancied it earlier. It is January, then, now? I thought we were not past Christmas. Well, through the City went we, and into Newgate, where, as afore, I was lodged alone.”
“Newgate!” cried Mr Underhill. “And how doth mine old friend Alisaunder, and my most gentlest mistress his wife?”
“I saw not her,” replied Robin; “but to judge from his face, I should say he doth rarely well. Here, then, in Newgate, I lay, marvelling that I was never sentenced and burned; but I knew nothing of the cause nor of what passed, until this even all the doors were unlocked, and we prisoners all were bidden to go forth, whither we would, for Queen Elizabeth reigned, and this was her Coronation Day. How strange it was to be free!”
“I marvelled what thou wert suffering, Robin dear,” said Isoult, “but we never thought of Little Ease. We took thee for dead.”
“So I thought you would,” said he. “And now that I am returned to men’s life again, tell me, I pray you, what day is this—of the month and week?”
“’Tis the 15th of January,” said she, “and Sunday.”
“And the year,” he resumed, pausing, “I suppose, is Fifteen Hundred and Fifty-Eight?” (By the old reckoning from Easter to Easter.)
“It is so, dear heart,” answered Isoult.
“It seemeth me,” said Robin, “a little picture of the resurrection.”
“Come, friends!” cried Mr Underhill, springing up, “I must be going, and I will not be balked of my Te Deum. Jack, thou promisedst it me.”