“But how so, Master? It’s only giving up an opinion.”
“Maybe so, with some: but not with us. They that have been taught this way by others, and never knew Christ for themselves—with them, as you say, it were but the yielding of opinion: but to us that know Him, and have heard His voice, it would be the betraying of the best Friend in earth or Heaven. And we cannot do that, Jane Hiltoft—not even for life.”
“Nay, that stands to reason if it were so, Master Ewring; but, trust me, I know not what you mean, no more than if you spake Latin.”
“Read God’s Book, and pray for His Spirit, and you shall find out, Jane.—Well, Hiltoft?”
“Wastborowe says you may see Mistress Bongeor if you’ll give him a royal farthing, but he won’t let you for a penny less. He’s had words with their Audrey, and he’s as savage as Denis of Siccarus.”
“Who was he, Hiltoft?” answered Mr Ewring with a smile, as he felt in his purse for the half-crown which was to be the price of his visit to Agnes Bongeor.
“Eh, I don’t know: I heard Master Doctor say the other day that his dog was as fierce as him.”
“Art sure he said not ‘Syracuse’?”
“Dare say he might. Syracuse or Siccarus, all’s one to me.”
At the door of the dungeon stood the redoubtable Wastborowe, his keys hanging from his girdle, and looking, to put it mildly, not particularly amiable.