“You are to come to his Grace,” said the steward, looking at him in silence.
Anthony nodded without speaking, and turned away.
“Then you cannot tell me anything?” said Mr. Scot. The other shook his head impatiently, and walked towards the inner door.
The Archbishop was sincerely shocked at the sight of his young officer, as he came in and stood before the table, staring with bewildered eyes, with his dress splashed and disordered, and his hands still holding the whip and gloves. He made him sit down at once, and after Anthony had drunk a glass of wine, he made him tell his story and what he had done that day.
He had been to the Marshalsea; it was true Mr. Oldham was there, and had been examined. Mr. Young had conducted it.—The house at Newman’s Court was guarded: the house behind Bow Church was barred and shut up, and the people seemed gone away.—He could not get a word through to Mr. Oldham, though he had tried heavy bribery.—And that was all.
Anthony spoke with the same dazed air, in short broken sentences; but became more himself as the wine and the fire warmed him; and by the time he had finished he had recovered himself enough to entreat the Archbishop to help him.
“It is useless,” said the old man. “What can I do? I have no power. And—and he is a popish priest! How can I interfere?”
“My lord,” cried Anthony desperately, flushed and entreating, “all has been done through treachery. Do you not see it? I have been a brainless fool. That man behind Bow Church was a spy. For Christ’s sake help us, my lord!”
Grindal looked into the lad’s great bright eyes; sighed; and threw out his hands despairingly.
“It is useless; indeed it is useless, Mr. Norris. But I will tell you all that I can do. I will give you to-morrow a letter to Sir Francis Walsingham. I was with him abroad as you know, in the popish times of Mary: and he is still in some sort a friend of mine—but you must remember that he is a strong Protestant; and I do not suppose that he will help you. Now go to bed, dear lad; you are worn out.”