He was drifting perilously near an argument, and the mad peer’s eyes began to sparkle. The crowd settled itself to enjoy the drama.
“Why, my lord bishop is a heretic!”
“The recusant, the Fifth Monarchy maniac! Pull his bibs off!”
Tom Temple found himself in the midst of a dilemma. On the one hand was this silent, swarthy-face girl who looked as unapproachable as a Minerva; on the other, my Lord of Pembroke, ready to explode at the slightest opposition.
“I accept your mandate, my lord.”
“Forward, then, sainted sir; I am the church militant to support the conversion.”
Tom Temple plucked up his impertinence, and approached Barbara with an air of grim solemnity. All eyes were turned in her direction. She found herself the cynosure of this mocking, sneering, mischief-loving crowd.
“My daughter, I am authorized by his Majesty, Pope of Whitehall, and by my Lord Cardinal Pembroke, here, to initiate you into the one true church. Are you, my daughter, in a fit and ready state to be converted?”
Barbara looked the young man straight in the face and said nothing.
“Have you no answer for me, my child?”