"Since I am so fortunate," said he, "may I beg you to direct me how I shall find the house when I get to the town? I have a letter for him, as you may see."
He took out a letter, and held it so that, if she liked, she might read the superscription—"To my loving good friend Master William Shakespeare: Deliver these." But Judith merely glanced at the writing.
"'Tis from Master Ben Jonson—that you know of, doubtless, madam—commending me to your father. But perhaps," he added, directing toward her a curious timid look of inquiry, "it were as well that I did not deliver it?"
"How so, sir?" she asked.
"I am one that is in misfortune," said he, simply; "nay, in peril."
"Truly I am sorry for that, sir," said she, regarding him with frank eyes of sympathy, for indeed there was a kind of sadness in his air, that otherwise was distinguished enough, and even noble. And then she added: "But surely that is the greater reason you should seek my father."
"If I dared—if I knew," he said, apparently to himself. And then he addressed her: "If I make so bold, sweet lady, as to ask you if your father be of the ancient faith—or well disposed toward that, even if he do not openly profess it—I pray you set it down to my need and hard circumstances."
She did not seem to understand.
"I would ask if he be not at heart with the Catholic gentlemen that are looking for better times—for indeed I have heard it stated of him."
"Oh no, sir—surely not," said Judith, in some alarm, for she knew quite enough about the penal laws against priests and recusants, and would not have her father associated in any way with these, especially as she was talking with a stranger.