“Mean, sir? Did I not warn you that the papists were likely to burn their fingers? And we are in the thick of such fire and fright and fury because of them that we are all afraid to catechize our own souls. News, my good John! The Protestants raging, informers making Ananias seem a simpleton, Catholic peers in the Tower, hundreds in jail, Coleman the Jesuit tried and executed, a warrant out against your father, who has taken to his heels and fled.”
“Good God, Sam! Where?”
“That is what certain people would like to know, sir. I pity your innocence, John, but we are all of us shaking in our shoes. Even the Queen has not been pitied.”
John Gore sat forward in his chair, his hands on his knees, his eyes looking into the distance. He was silent a moment, while Mr. Pepys fidgeted with his feet and glanced nervously at both door and window.
“I have not seen my—Lord Gore since I left London with you, Sam.”
“No?”
“I have heard nothing of all this. What is more, I have had matters of my own.”
Mr. Pepys stroked his chin.
“There is yet another piece of news, John.”
“Well?”