But late in the year, chance put in my way what all my pains had failed to procure.
I remember, it was that same day that the news came to town that Mary Queen of Scots was condemned to die. London went mad with joy at the news. For our pity of the woman was swallowed up in joy that the evil destiny of our country was mastered, and that our gracious Queen was to be freed at one stroke from all her enemies. Be that as it may, we burned bonfires that night in Moorfields, and I had my mistress’ leave to take Jeannette with me to see the sport. For by this time the sweet maid’s lameness was nearly cured, and, like a prisoner newly uncaged, she loved to spread her wings a bit and go abroad.
Had the arm she leaned on been that of Peter Stoupe instead of mine, I wondered if she would have mended as fast as she did? I was a vain coxcomb those days, and thought, no. Yet, for anything she said to me or I to her, we were still ’prentice and young mistress. Only, the duty I owed her was my great joy; and the service she had a right to claim of me, she sometimes prettily asked as a gift.
’Twas a wild, weird scene—those hundreds of citizens lit up by the fierce glare of the bonfires, whose roar mingled with the shoutings, and whose heat was less than the loyal fires which blazed in our bosoms. I could feel Jeannette’s hand tighten on my arm as the rabble surged closer round; and presently, seeing her tired and frightened, I made a way for her through the crowd.
As we reached the skirts there reeled against us a drunken man who, had I not caught him in my arm, would have fallen against my young mistress and done her some hurt. He was not so drunk but that, when I set him on his feet and gave him a kick or two, he was able to stand upright and talk. And at the first word he uttered, I recognised the voice of my old acquaintance, Tom Price, the Captain’s man; whom I had seen last with his master the day Alexander McDonnell fell outside Dunluce.
So dark was it away from the fire, that but for his voice I might not have known him. Certainly he, as he then was, could hardly know me.
“Patience,” whispered I to Jeannette, “here is a man can give us some news. He shall not hurt you; only I must speak with him. Hold close to me.”
And to guard her better, I put an arm around her, while I parleyed with the sergeant.
“Come, comrade,” said I, concealing my voice as best I could, “’tis time you were in quarters. The Captain will be calling for thee.”
“Captain me no captains. Stand thee still, steady—when came he—ugh?”