They entered at the door of that portion of the prison building where the Weavers made their residence, as this would excite no suspicion on the part of the few pedestrians in the street. The nature of their business being partially secret, they chose to interview the jailer in the room which answered for his parlor.
Weaver was a man who constantly raised and lowered his eyebrows—a habit he had gained through years of alternately scowling at his guests and then looking puzzled or surprised that, being so innocent as they always were, they should still be brought to such a place. He listened to Adam’s flowery and courtly address, in which he announced the advent of Goody’s pardon, with at least a hundred of these eyebrow contortions.
“But the Governor never pardons before a trial,” he said. “Else, how should he know but what he was pardoning a very guilty person indeed? If he had pardoned her, or if he will pardon her, after the trial, I shall be glad to give her freedom, poor soul. But you see she hasn’t even been tried, and moreover this pardon comes from the Governor’s good lady.”
Garde’s heart sank. The man was so unanswerably logical.
“But, my good man,” said Adam, “I tell you this would be the Governor’s pleasure. And the Governor stands in the shoes of the King, in matters of grave importance. Now call in any one and ask if I am not the Governor’s friend—his secretary, indeed.”
“I know your face,” said Weaver, who remembered Adam well enough, as a former guest of the house, but who chose to say nothing on delicate subjects. “I saw you with Sir William the day he landed. Oh, aye, you are his friend, I know that well. But——”
“Good!” Adam interrupted. “Then, the Governor—who stands, mind you, in the King’s shoes, in this matter, is away. I, being his friend, for the moment take his place. Therefore I stand in the King’s shoes myself, and I desire this woman’s pardon! Bring forth your ink, and I shall add my signature to the document, in the King’s name.”
Weaver was bewildered. This reasoning was as clear as a bell, yet he knew what the angry mobs would soon be demanding from his stronghold.
“But—but there can be no pardon, as I said, till after trial,” he stammered.
“What!” said Rust striding back and forth, while Garde looked on and trembled, “do you refuse to obey your King?”