"Well, then," rejoined Seymour, "the good act blots out the bad one. You have my forgiveness freely, Sir Thomas; and I may well assure you of my dear wife's also; for she it was who wrote to tell me you had done so, with words of kindness and gratitude."
"God's blessing upon her!" cried the captive; "but I would fain do more. You are aware, sir, doubtless, that a permission in due form, under the King's own hand, was given for the lady's marriage to a subject. Why not use it for a justification?"
"It has been urged already," replied Seymour; "but the King heeds it not. It was given to the Lady Arabella by the Countess of Shrewsbury; and we have demanded, all of us, if we have been guilty, that a public trial should take place. But the laws are now the common mockery of every idle fellow at the Court."
"It is so, indeed," replied Sir Thomas Overbury, in a sad tone; "I know it but too feelingly. So, that is vain," he added, after a moment's thought, "then, you have nothing left but flight."
"How can it be effected?" asked Seymour, in a doubtful tone.
"By you--as easily as the wind waves yonder flag," replied the Knight. "Oh, had I but your liberty to walk about unwatched, I would place the seas betwixt myself and England ere three days were over."
"But how--but how?" demanded Seymour. "If you show me how, I will thank you indeed."
"In a thousand ways," answered the captive. "Why not, in a workman's dress, at some unsuspected hour, take yonder barrow, and wheel it through the gates? Who would stop you--who would ask a question? I have seen it done a dozen times at least.--Why not, habited as a carter, follow some empty waggon that has brought billets or merchandize into the fortress?"
"The plan is not a bad one, in truth," said Seymour; "perhaps, if driven to it, I may execute it."
"Driven to it!" exclaimed Sir Thomas Overbury. "Is not every man, who is detained a captive here unjustly, driven to take measures for his own deliverance? Or do you expect that the King will be mollified, and give his kind consent to your re-union with your fair wife? Ah, my good sir! you do not know the man. Were you aware of all that I could tell, you would entertain no hope. Dark and dreadful, sir, dark and dreadful are the secrets of that palace at Whitehall. But, if they mind not what they do, and continue this persecution of an innocent man, those secrets shall be told, let them affect whom they may."