"Back!" he cried. "Would you hinder me? I am on my way to the Queen with tidings of the victory. If you value your heads, you will not delay me."
At this they gave way, for they cared not to arouse the imperious Elizabeth, and we passed through the mob, a little band of soldiers following. Many were the curious glances that were cast at me, but no one recognized my face. It would have been strange if they had. I had left London a care-free, gay, and laughing gallant; I returned gray, haggard, and old.
I could hear the murmur of the crowd as they looked at me.
"It is a Spanish nobleman!" one fat old woman cried to her neighbor.
"Nonsense!" said a butcher in his greasy apron, who stood near her. "It is Sir Henry Cobden, who commanded one of our ships. I know his face."
"Thou art mad!" another shouted. "It is the commander of the Spanish fleet; he goes even now to the Queen to implore mercy and save his neck."
"It is the Earl of Essex," said a tradesman, as I passed him. "Look at his bloody sword."
"Fool, it is the Bishop of Dunham," said a burly baker. "Do not I know his gray beard and pious face? Right bravely has he borne himself, look at his dented breastplate." And he bared his head as I passed.
At the next corner Sir William halted and spoke to me in a low tone.
"I will send some of my men with thee to the Tower," he whispered. "I grieve that I should have to do this, but those are my orders, and I durst not disobey them. I trust it is only for a short time, and when the Queen hears how thou hast borne thyself in the fight, she will pardon thee."