“Talk of it no more,” said she. “He will not return; or if he does, the sight of me—to whom he owes all these troubles, who tempted him to desert his duty and ruined his life—will drive him hence. Jeannette,” said she, taking my little mistress’ hand in hers, “why must one live when it would be so happy to die?”
“Maiden,” said Jeannette, boldly, “you do wrong to talk so, and I shall love you less if you say it again. Of course he will come, and of course he loves you, and of course all will be happy yet. Is the God you pray to less kind and strong than ours?”
The maiden said nothing, but her cheeks flushed as she lifted Jeannette’s little hand to her lips. And after that we seldom spoke together of Ludar. Yet he was in all our thoughts.
As for me, I wandered about the town night by night for many a week, hoping to hear of him. But never a word could I hear. And in time people ceased even to talk of the Scotch Queen and all the troublous times which had ended at her death. And a leaden weight was falling on my heart, as I wondered if I was never again to hold my friend’s hand in mine; when one day I chanced to stumble on news of him in the strangest way.
It was near midsummer that a journeyman came urgently one day to my master from Master Barker’s, her Majesty’s printer, desiring his aid in the setting up in type of certain matter which was to be printed forthwith, but which Master Barker (being crowded with other work), must needs hire out to be done. My master, who desired by all means to keep the good graces of the Queen’s printer, undertook to give the help asked for, and handed to me the paper to put in type. I opened it, and found it headed thus:—“A List of Persons who in these late grievous times have suffered punishment for treasonable acts against the state and person of her Most Gracious Majesty. To wit—”
Then followed a goodly list of names of persons suffering death in the ill cause; headed by that of the Scotch Queen herself. Afterwards came the names of certain persons imprisoned, together with a note of the place where each was imprisoned, and the term of his punishment.
Amongst these, towards the end, was a line which made my blood suddenly run cold, and set the stick a trembling in my hand. It ran thus:—
“One, Ludar, an Irishman, who carried certain Letters abroad. He lieth in ye Tower of London, waiting Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
The summer passed, and each week the maiden’s cheek grew paler. She had said little when Jeannette showed her the name on the proof which I had kept. But she quietly took the paper and hid it in her bosom, and for a day kept herself to her chamber.
After that she rarely mentioned Ludar’s name, and when we spoke of him to her, she always changed the talk to something else. Once or twice, in the late summer evenings, I took her and Jeannette to row on the river. And on each occasion we dropped on the tide to below London Bridge, where standing out in the gloom of twilight we could see the great frowning Tower which held still, as we hoped, a life dear to us all.