I bade my friend farewell, and hurried after my companions.
“Ask no questions,” I said; “it will be the safest; but I have a clue at length to the object of which we are in search, and I trust that we may be able to carry out the Lady Anne’s beneficent designs.”
Having concluded our rambles about the city, and James Brocktrop having gained all the information he required, we returned to our hostelry. I begged that I might go forth alone when it was dark. I had full confidence in the faithfulness of Brocktrop, as well as in the discretion of A’Dale; but yet I was sure that the fewer who knew Overton’s secret the better. One who like him had left the Church of Rome, if discovered, would be sure to meet with no mercy.
I accordingly set out by myself through the streets of Norwich. I had noted the house where I had seen him, and fully believed that I should find it again. There are, however, so many ups and downs in the city, and the streets wind about so much, that it is no easy matter to find the way, especially dark as it then was. Here and there only a light gleamed forth from some artisan’s workshop, making the obscurity in other places still more dense. At last I recognised a building I had seen in the morning, and knew that Master Overton’s house was not far on one side of it. I hastened on and knocked. A voice told me to come in, and I saw him, as before, with a small lamp by his side, working away at his loom.
“I thank you very much, my young friend, for coming,” he said; “I am anxious, as you are, to try and discover my niece. I have no doubt, however, that she will be found. We will soon go forth in search of the worthy Flemings in whose company I saw her.”
Saying this, he threw a cloak round him such as was worn by the Flemings, and taking me by the arm we together left the house, which he locked carefully behind him. My eyes had now become accustomed to the darkness of the streets, and I could without difficulty walk on by the side of my companion. We had not gone far, when he stopped at the door of a low cottage. We listened, for a sweet, low hymn was being sung by some one within. It was one of Marot’s, such as my own dear parents had delighted in. The sound melted me almost to tears. Now another voice joined in: it was that of a woman. And now a man’s tones were heard, full and rich. I would not for much have interrupted that hymn. Perhaps the singers scarcely knew the risk they ran, for had any Romish priests heard them they might have recognised the hymns as those of the Protestant poet of France; he whose verses had afforded consolation to many a persecuted Christian, to many an exile from his native land. At length the hymn ceased. Overton knocked gently at the door. It was opened by a woman, the light from within falling on her person, showing by her costume that she was a Fleming.
“I am a friend,” said Overton; “you know me. I have come to see you, and ask a few questions.”
“You are welcome, Master Holt,” she said in broken English. “Come in, for I know you to be a friend to the people of our faith.”
We entered. The woman looked at me. “He is trustworthy,” said Overton. “I saw a young girl in your company the other day,” he continued; “I am anxious to talk with her, for a strange communication has been made me, and I think I know more about her than you may suppose.” The woman listened attentively.
“She is in the back room,” she said; “I will call her. I told you that she is not my child, but I love her as if she were. I would not part with her, unless it was greatly to her benefit.”