They found Sir Thomas Cave’s house in some disorder of frightened domestics. The knight himself was raging at the garden door.
“A nice thing,” he roared at the girls, “gadding about among the bushes and gilliflowers when men’s lives are at stake. Here be arquebusiers by the score come from Whitehall—”
“Where is Sainton?” demanded Mowbray, wishful to cut short any discussion that threatened to waste time.
“Gone to don his suit of leather. He says he has no mind to see his mother’s good homespun cut by steel bodkins. Gad! he is a proper man. But this is a bad business, Master Mowbray. I pray you demand fair trial, yet anger not the King by repartee. He is fair enough when the harpies about him leave him to his pleasure. I have some little favor at court. It shall be exerted to the utmost, and backed by my last penny if need be. Never shall it be said that I left my daughter’s protectors to languish in gaol, maimed for life, without striving with all my power—”
“Never fash yourself about us, most excellent host,” roared Sainton, appearing behind the distressed old gentleman. “Friend Mowbray and I can win our way out of London as we won our way into it. Methinks ’tis a place that has little liking for honest men, saving those who, like your worship, are forced to bide in it.”
Seizing the cue thus unconsciously given by Roger, Walter said hurriedly:—
“We bid you Godspeed, my worthy friend, and hope some day to see you again. Farewell, Mistress Anna. Come, Roger. I think I hear the clank of steel in the distance.”
“My soul, whither will you hie yourselves at this hour?” gasped Sir Thomas.
“We can strive to avoid arrest, and that is a point gained. Forgive me! Lights are dangerous.”