'I was standing at the wicket waiting for my basket to be taken in.'
It was at this time that I made the acquaintance of Mr. George Penne. This creature—a villain, as I afterwards discovered, of the deepest dye—was to external appearance a grave and sober merchant. He was dressed in brown cloth and laced shirt, and carried a gold-headed stick in his hand. He came to Ilminster about the end of August or the beginning of September, and began to inquire particularly into the names and the circumstances of the prisoners, pretending (such was his craftiness) a great tenderness for their welfare. He did the same thing, we heard afterwards, wherever the Monmouth prisoners were confined. At Ilminster, the fever being in the jail, he did not venture within, but stood outside and asked of any who seemed to know, who were the prisoners within, and what were their circumstances.
He accosted me one morning when I was standing at the wicket waiting for my basket to be taken in.
'Madam,' he said, 'you are doubtless a friend of some poor prisoner. Your father or your brother may unhappily be lying within?'
Now I was grown somewhat cautious by this time. Wherefore, fearing some kind of snare or trap, I replied gravely, that such, indeed, might be the case.
'Then, Madam,' he said, speaking in a soft voice and looking full of compassion, 'if that be so, suffer me, I pray you, to wish him a happy deliverance; and this, indeed, from the bottom of my heart.'
'Sir,' I said, moved by the earnestness of his manner, 'I know not who you may be, but I thank you. Such a wish, I hope, will not procure you the reward of a prison. Sir, I wish you a good day.'
So he bowed and left me, and passed on.
But next day I found him in the same place. And his eyes were more filled with compassion than before and his voice was softer.
'I cannot sleep, Madam,' he said, 'for thinking of these poor prisoners; I hear that among them is none other than Sir Christopher Challis, a gentleman of great esteem and well stricken in years. And there is also the pious and learned—but most unfortunate—Dr. Comfort Eykin, who rode with the army and preached daily, and is now, I hear, grievously wounded and bedridden.'