I gathered together my scattered senses, and held them, as it were, tightly with both hands. I saw, as a dream, figures lying stretched out or walking listlessly to and fro. I saw one disengage himself from the crowd and come toward me, and in a moment I was in my husband's arms.
"But what is this?" said he, touching my forehead, which had been cut and bruised by the fall.
"Nothing," said I, hastily. "Waste no time on me. Tell me what I can do for you."
"Naught in the world, dear heart, but pray for me and take care of yourself. Come not here again—they will set a trap for you. Go to her Grace of Suffolk. She will shelter you for old sake's sake, and her husband is a wise gentleman, and will tell you if there is aught possible for me. If you ever loved your husband, dear heart, obey now what may be his last command. You have ever been a dutiful wife."
"I will. I will," I answered, though the words seemed to choke me.
Other things we said, too sacred to write here, and then the parting time came. I gave my husband what money I had about me, and the little Latin Psalter I had been accustomed to carry in my pocket ever since I left Dartford. Then we bade farewell. I must not dwell on the anguish of that hour.
The turnkey and his wife detained me when I would have gone forth. The good woman—for good she was, I am sure, though rude and rough in manner—arranged my dress and made me decent again.
"Now, an' you will, you shall go out with me to the market, and then you can easily find your way home," said she.
I felt the kindness under the rough exterior, and still, as it were, holding my senses together by main force, I followed the turnkey's wife to the market, feeling all the time like one in a bad dream. Presently a decent old serving man ran against me.
"I crave pardon," said a familiar voice, hastily, and then in a tone of utmost wonder: "Can it be—surely it is Mistress Loveday, who used to wait upon my lady."