“This is Saint Alban Hall,” said he, “and Master Penry lives over my lodging.”
Then I thought it better to be civil to the fellow, as he guessed I had no business there in a college gown. So I gave him a groat, and bad him take me up forthwith.
Master Penry was a lean, wrathful-visaged Welshman, with deep grey eyes, and a large forehead, and a mass of straight black hair down his neck. As I entered his room, which was disordered and dirty, he was pacing to and fro, talking or praying aloud in his native tongue. He let me stand there a minute or two, amazed at his jargon, and scarcely knowing whether I had lit upon a sane man or not. Then he stopped suddenly in front of me and scanned me.
“Well?” said he, in good English.
“Are you Master Penry?” I asked.
“I am. You have a message for me?”
“I have; from Master Walgrave. Here it is,” said I, putting the letter into his hand.
He tore it open and read it eagerly, and, as he did so, his face relaxed into a grim smile.
“That is well, so far,” said he. Then, looking hard at me, he added, “Have you ridden from London in that disguise?”
“No,” said I, “this gown was lent me by a friend to protect me against annoyance from the wild men of the town.”