“What is it?” says she.
“’Tis a stranger,” says I, “that has news of grave import for Mistress Anne Varley, whom I beg you will call.”
“She cannot hear you,” said she. “’Tis her wedding night.”
“What!” said I in amazement, and instantly there flowed in on me the meaning of this.
“Curse all women save one or two!” thinks I. And I turned to the maid again with my mind made up.
“Look you, wench,” said I. “This is urgent. I have an instant message that presses. And if so be your mistress will bear with me a moment and hold discourse, I’ll warrant she shall not regret it—nor you,” says I, with a crown piece in my palm.
She hesitated and then, “Maybe she will refuse,” says she. “She hath but these few hours been wed.”
“Not she,” said I, “if you will tell her that I bring good news, great news—news that will ease her spirit and send her to her bridal bed with a happy heart.”
At that she seemed to assent, and with my crown in her hand she disappeared into the darkening of the house. It must have been some ten minutes later that a light flashed in the hall and a voice called to me.
“Who is it?” it asked, “and what want you at this hour?”