"But don't you tell!"
"Tell! Not I," responded the amused and good-humoured master: and little Roger scampered off.
An hour later, my Lord of March was summoned to be shriven. Having knelt down in the confessional, and gabbled over the formal prelude to the effect that he confessed his sins, not only to God, but to the most blessed Lady St. Mary, to my Lord St. John the Baptist, my Lords Saints Peter and Paul, and all the saints and saintesses in Heaven, little Roger added at the conclusion, all in a breath, as if it were part of the Confiteor,—
"Father, I begged Master Wynkfeld to have for supper a capon endored, with sauce Madame, by reason I knew you loved it thus."
"That shall scantly be amongst thy sins, my son," answered Friar Thomas, jovially. "I thank thee: but keep thee now to the matter in hand."
Roger was doing that much more strictly than was ever supposed by Friar Thomas, who was the most unsuspicious of men. He proceeded at once to the catalogue of his sins, satisfied that they would now receive small attention from the confessor. In silence, with as much rapidity and in as low a voice as he dared without exciting suspicion, Roger accused himself of having taken a key from the table and hidden it in the wall. What key it was, he was not careful to state; if the confessor wished to know that, he could ask him the question. But at this point Roger's heart gave a bound, for he was asked a question.
"Thou hiddest what in the wall?"
"A key," mumbled Roger.
"A pea!" repeated the Friar, misunderstanding him, and not having much care to investigate. "No need to confess such like small matter, my son. Didst thou name sauce Madame to Master Wynkfeld?"
"Oh yes, Father, twice over!" answered Roger eagerly.