Sir Thomas paused, overcome by his feelings, and was unable to utter another word.
“My dear Sir Thomas,” said Kingston, amazed, “what means this? Even if you refuse to take this oath they will doubtless set you at liberty. Cromwell has said as much to the secretary. But what should prevent you from taking it, if the priests do not refuse?”
“Dear Kingston,” replied Sir Thomas, “I cannot explain that to you now, as it is one of the things I keep between God and myself. I know right well, also, that these prison walls have ears, that they re-echo all they hear, and that one cannot even sigh here without it being reported.”
“You are dissatisfied, then, with being under my care!” exclaimed Kingston, who was extremely narrow-minded, and whose habit of living, and still more of commanding, in the Tower had brought him to regard it as a habitation by no means devoid of attractions.
“You may very well believe, Sir Thomas,” he continued, “that I have not forgotten the many favors and proofs of friendship I have received from you; that I am entirely devoted to you; and what I most regret is not having it in my power to treat you as I would wish in giving you better fare at my table. Fear of the king’s anger alone prevents me, and I at least would be glad to feel that you were satisfied with the good-will I have shown.”
More smiled kindly: for the delicate sensibility and exquisite tact which in an instant discovered to him how entirely it was wanting in others never permitted from him other expressions than those of a
pleasantry as gentle as it was refined.
“In good sooth, my dear lieutenant, I am quite contented with you; you are a good friend, and would most certainly like to treat me well. If, then, I should ever happen to show any dissatisfaction with your table, you must instantly turn me out of your house.” And he smiled at the idea.
“You jest, Sir Thomas,” said Kingston.
“In truth, my dear friend, I have nevertheless but little inclination to jest,” replied More.