The moment she did so she knew that one of the supreme moments of her life had come. Before the door stood Mr Maynard, the Bailiff of Colchester—the man who had marched off the twenty-three prisoners to London in the previous August. Everybody who knew him knew that he was a “stout Papist,” to whom it was dear delight to bring a Protestant to punishment. Elizabeth did not doubt for an instant that she was the one chosen for his next victim.
Just as Amy Clere put her head out of the window. Mr Maynard, who did not reckon patience among his chief virtues, and who was tired of waiting, signed to one of his men to give another sharp rap, accompanied by a shout of—“Open, in the Queen’s name!”
“Saints, love us and help us!” ejaculated Amy, taking her head in again. “Mother, it’s the Queen’s men!”
“Go down and open to ’em,” was Mrs Clere’s next order.
“Eh, I durstn’t if it was ever so!” screamed Amy in reply. “May I unlock the door and send Bessy?”
“Thee do as thou art bid!” came in the gruff tones of her father.
“Come, I’ll go with thee,” said her mother. “Tell Master Bailiff we’re at hand, or they’ll mayhap break the door in.”
A third violent rap enforced Mrs Clere’s command.
“Have a bit of patience, Master Bailiff!” cried Amy from her window. “We’re a-coming as quick as may be. Let a body get some clothes on, do!”
Somebody under the window was heard to laugh.