“So much as that is possible.”
Englefield, leaving him seated, staring, took himself three turns between thorn and oak, by ash and beach. The forest was gold, the day was gold, the morrow gold and he the smith. He returned. “Have you a piece of wax, fine and smooth, such as might be held secretly in palm of hand, softening just enough with heat of body?”
Bettany gave an abrupt small laugh. “I’ve read of that in a book from the Italian! But if John Cobb were bold enough and skilful enough to take—Godfrey’s face being buried in tankard—impress of keys, what then, beseech you, unless you had all the fairies?”
“Sun is an hour high. If I could have that mould here ere he rises again! But it must be well done, well taken, with pains. Our keys must turn in our locks.”
“In the greenwood? I know that Brother Richard made wondrous things! But this were to make wondrously!”
“I planned through the night—this plan, that and the other. But this one is best. When the moon rose and again at first dawn I went softly about that house yonder. None saw nor heard; they were sleeping. The man has burned charcoal, and surely they have oven or hearth. Gold in this purse may buy them, seeing they cannot know whom I am nor what we do. You say they are old and losing wit.”
“Furnace and fuel and print of keys in wax and smith—”
“Do you bring me iron and the tools. I shall show you.”
“Thou’rt a bold man!”