“John, even the unhappy have friends. Yes, the queen herself has a few; and so chance, or it may be even God’s will, has so arranged matters, that Anne Askew is occupying, just at this time, that small room in which the secret passage terminates.”
“Is she alone in that room?”
“Yes, all alone. The guard stands without before the door.”
“And should they hear you, and open the door?”
“Then without doubt I am lost, unless God supports me.”
They walked on in silence, both too much occupied with their own thoughts to interrupt them by conversation.
But this long, extended walk at length wearied Catharine. She leaned exhausted against the wall.
“Will you do me a favor, queen?” asked John Heywood. “Permit me to carry you. Your little feet can bear you no farther; make me your feet, your majesty!”
She refused with a friendly smile. “No, John, these are the passion-stations of a saint; and you know one must make the round of them in the sweat of his face, and on his knees.”
“Oh, queen, how noble and how courageous you are!” exclaimed John Heywood. “You do good without display, and you shun no danger, if it avails toward the accomplishment of noble work.”