“I believe you,” he said. “Well, I will buy it and send a letter with it, but promise me that no one else shall see you give it to her.”
“You know the old cat too, then, do you?” said Margrove, a little off his guard.
“Mistress Mowbray, you mean,” said Ian. “Well, I know about her; and in these days least said is soonest mended.”
“Yes, we dwell in strange times,” the packman responded, “the land has passed through sad experiences,” and then, fearing he might have said too much, he added, “Maybe it is all right, but I have no fancy to see human flesh fry.”
“Nor I either,” said Ian. “I saw them burn George Wishart, and I shall not forget that on this side of my grave.”
“It’s my belief,” said Walter, “that the church does itself more harm than good by the burnings; it does not have the effect that they expect.”
“I believe your sympathy is with those who are burned,” said Ian, looking at him keenly.
“Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t; but anyway I say that Mother Church does not always see where her own interests lie. But my business is chaffering and I do not meddle in these matters, see you there.”
“Tut, tut, man, you need not mind me, say what you like. I care for the burning no more than you do and no finger of mine would ever be stirred to get a man into trouble.”
“Well, neighbour,” said Margrove, “you speak fair, neither would I. If George Wishart had come to me I should not have told them where to find him.”