MAY EVE
“The rich, the poor, the old, the young,
Beyond the seas though born and bred,
By prentices they suffered wrong,
When armed thus, they gather’d head.”
_Ill May Day_.
May Eve had come, and little Dennet Headley was full of plans for going
out early with her young playfellows to the meadow to gather May dew in
the early morning, but her grandmother, who was in bed under a heavy
attack of rheumatism, did not like the reports brought to her, and
deferred her consent to the expedition.
In the afternoon there were tidings that the Lord Mayor, Sir Thomas
Rest had been sent for to my Lord Cardinal, who just at this time,
during the building at York House, was lodging in his house close to
Temple Bar. Some hours later a message came to Master Alderman Headley
to meet the Lord Mayor and the rest of the Council at the Guildhall. He
shook himself into his scarlet gown, and went off, puffing and blowing,
and bidding Giles and Stephen take heed that they kept close, and ran
into no mischief.
But they agreed, and Kit Smallbones with them, that there could be no
harm in going into the open space of Cheapside and playing out a match
with bucklers between Giles and Wat Ball, a draper’s prentice who had
challenged him. The bucklers were huge shields, and the weapons were
wooden swords. It was an exciting sport, and brought out all the youths
of Cheapside in the summer evening, bawling out encouragement, and
laying wagers on either side. The curfew rang, but there were special
privileges on May Eve, and the game went on louder than ever.
There was far too much noise for any one to hear the town crier, who
went along jingling his bell, and shouting, “O yes! O yes! O yes! By
order of the Lord Mayor and Council, no householder shall allow any one
of his household to be abroad beyond his gate between the hours of nine
o’clock at night and seven in the morning,” or if any of the outermost
heard it, as did Ambrose who was on his way home to his night quarters,
they were too much excited not to turn a deaf ear to it.
Suddenly, however, just as Giles was preparing for a master-stroke, he
was seized roughly by the shoulder and bidden to give over. He looked
round. It was an alderman, not his master, but Sir John Mundy, an
unpopular, harsh man.
“Wherefore?” demanded Giles.
“Thou shalt know,” said the alderman, seizing his arm to drag him to
the Counter prison, but Giles resisted. Wat Ball struck at Sir John’s
arm with his wooden sword, and as the alderman shouted for the watch
and city-guard, the lads on their side raised their cry, “Prentices and
Clubs! Flat-caps and Clubs!” Master Headley, struggling along, met his
colleague, with his gown torn into shreds from his back, among a host
of wildly yelling lads, and panting, “Help, help, brother Headley!”
With great difficulty the two aldermen reached the door of the Dragon,
whence Smallbones sallied out to rescue them, and dragged them in.
“The boys!—the boys!” was Master Headley’s first cry, but he might as
well have tried to detach two particular waves from a surging ocean as
his own especial boys from the multitude on that wild evening. There
was no moon, and the twilight still prevailed, but it was dark enough
to make the confusion greater, as the cries swelled and numbers flowed
into the open space of Cheapside. In the words of Hall, the chronicler,
“Out came serving-men, and watermen, and courtiers, and by XI of the
chock there were VI or VII hundreds in Cheap. And out of Pawle’s
Churchyard came III hundred which wist not of the others.” For the most
part all was invoked in the semi-darkness of the summer night, but here
and there light came from an upper window on some boyish face, perhaps
full of mischief, perhaps somewhat bewildered and appalled. Here and
there were torches, which cast a red glare round them, but whose smoke
blurred everything, and seemed to render the darkness deeper.
Perhaps if the tumult had only been of the apprentices, provoked by
Alderman Mundy’s interference, they would soon have dispersed, but the
throng was pervaded by men with much deeper design, and a cry arose—no
one knew from whence—that they would break into Newgate and set free
Studley and Bates.
By this time the torrent of young manhood was quite irresistible by any
force that had yet been opposed to it. The Mayor and Sheriffs stood at
the Guildhall, and read the royal proclamation by the light of a wax
candle, held in the trembling hand of one of the clerks; but no one
heard or heeded them, and the uproar was increased as the doors of
Newgate fell, and all the felons rushed out to join the rioters.
At the same time another shout rose, “Down with the aliens!” and there
was a general rush towards St. Martin’s gate, in which direction many
lived. There was, however, a pause here, for Sir Thomas More, Recorder
of London, stood in the way before St. Martin’s gate, and with his full
sweet voice began calling out and entreating the lads to go home,
before any heads were broken more than could be mended again. He was
always a favourite, and his good humour seemed to be making some
impression, when, either from the determination of the more evil
disposed, or because the inhabitants of St. Martin’s Lane were
beginning to pour down hot water, stones, and brickbats on the dense
mass of heads below them, a fresh access of fury seized upon the mob.
Yells of “Down with the strangers!” echoed through the narrow streets,
drowning Sir Thomas’s voice. A lawyer who stood with him was knocked
down and much hurt, the doors were battered down, and the household
stuff thrown from the windows. Here, Ambrose, who had hitherto been
pushed helplessly about, and knocked hither and thither, was driven up
against Giles, and, to avoid falling and being trampled down, clutched
hold of him breathless and panting.
“Thou here!” exclaimed Giles. “Who would have thought of sober Ambrose
in the midst of the fray? See here, Stevie!”
“Poor old Ambrose!” cried Stephen, “keep close to us! We’ll see no harm
comes to thee. ’Tis hot work, eh?”
“Oh, Stephen! could I but get out of the throng to warn my master and
Master Michael!”
Those words seemed to strike Giles Headley. He might have cared little
for the fate of the old printer, but as he heard the screams of the
women in the houses around, he exclaimed, “Ay! there’s the old man and
the little maid! We will have her to the Dragon!”
“Or to mine aunt’s,” said Ambrose.
“Have with thee then,” said Giles: “Take his other arm, Steve;” and
locking their arms together the three fought and forced their way from
among the plunderers in St. Martin’s with no worse mishap than a shower
of hot water, which did not hurt them much through their stout woollen
coats. They came at last to a place where they could breathe, and stood
still a moment to recover from the struggle, and vituperate the hot
water.
Then they heard fresh howls and yells in front as well as behind.
“They are at it everywhere,” exclaimed Stephen. “I hear them somewhere
out by Cornhill.”
“Ay, where the Frenchmen live that calender worsted,” returned Giles.
“Come on; who knows how it is with the old man and little maid?”
“There’s a sort in our court that are ready for aught,” said Ambrose.
On they hurried in the darkness, which was now at the very deepest of
the night; now and then a torch was borne across the street, and most
of the houses had lights in the upper windows, for few Londoners slept
on that strange night. The stained glass of the windows of the Churches
beamed in bright colours from the Altar lights seen through them, but
the lads made slower progress than they wished, for the streets were
never easy to walk in the dark, and twice they came on mobs assailing
houses, from the windows of one of which, French shoes and boots were
being hailed down. Things were moderately quiet around St. Paul’s, but
as they came into Warwick Lane they heard fresh shouts and wild cries,
and at the archway heading to the inner yard they could see that there
was a huge bonfire in the midst of the court—of what composed they
could not see for the howling figures that exulted round it.
“George Bates, the villain!” cried Stephen, as his enemy in exulting
ferocious delight was revealed for a moment throwing a book on the
fire, and shouting, “Hurrah! there’s for the old sorcerer, there’s for
the heretics!”
That instant Giles was flying on Bates, and Stephen, with equal, if not
greater fury, at one of his comrades; but Ambrose dashed through the
outskirts of the wildly screaming and shouting fellows, many of whom
were the miscreant population of the mews, to the black yawning doorway
of his master. He saw only a fellow staggering out with the screw of
the press to feed the flame, and hurried on in the din to call “Master,
art thou there?”
There was no answer, and he moved on to the next door, calling again
softly, while all the spoilers seemed absorbed in the fire and the
combat. “Master Michael! ’Tis I, Ambrose!”
“Here, my son,” cautiously answered a voice he knew for Lucas Hansen’s.
“Oh, master! master!” was his low, heart-stricken cry, as by the
leaping light of a flame he saw the pale face of the old printer, who
drew him in.
“Yea! ’tis ruin, my son,” said Lucas. “And would that that were the
worst.”
The light flashed and flickered through the broken window so that
Ambrose saw that the hangings had been torn down and everything
wrecked, and a low sound as of stifled weeping directed his eyes to a
corner where Aldonza sat with her father’s head on her lap. “Lives he?
Is he greatly hurt?” asked Ambrose, awe-stricken.
“The life is yet in him, but I fear me greatly it is passing fast,”
said Lucas, in a low voice. “One of those lads smote him on the back
with a club, and struck him down at the poor maid’s feet, nor hath he
moved since. It was that one young Headley is fighting with,” he added.
“Bates! ah! Would that we had come sooner! What! more of this work—”
For just then a tremendous outcry broke forth, and there was a rush and
panic among those who had been leaping round the fire just before. “The
guard!—the King’s men!” was the sound they presently distinguished.
They could hear rough abusive voices, shrieks and trampling of feet. A
few seconds more and all was still, only the fire remained, and in the
stillness the suppressed sobs and moans of Aldonza were heard.
“A light! Fetch a light from the fire!” said Lucas.
Ambrose ran out. The flame was lessening, but he could see the dark
bindings, and the blackened pages of the books he loved so well. A
corner of a page of St. Augustine’s Confessions was turned towards him
and lay on a singed fragment of Aldonza’s embroidered curtain, while a
little red flame was licking the spiral folds of the screw, trying, as
it were, to gather energy to do more than blacken it. Ambrose could
have wept over it at any other moment, but now he could only catch up a
brand—it was the leg of his master’s carved chair—and run back with it.
Lucas ventured to light a lamp, and they could then see the old man’s
face pale, but calm and still, with his long white beard flowing over
his breast. There was no blood, no look of pain, only a set look about
the eyes; and Aldonza cried “Oh, father, thou art better! Speak to me!
Let Master Lucas lift thee up!”
“Nay, my child. I cannot move hand or foot. Let me be thus till the
Angel of Death come for me. He is very near.” He spoke in short
sentences. “Water—nay—no pain,” he added then, and Ambrose ran for some
water in the first battered fragment of a tin pot he could find. They
bathed his face and he gathered strength after a time to say “A
priest!—oh for a priest to shrive and housel me.”
“I will find one,” said Ambrose, speeding out into the court over
fragments of the beautiful work for which Abenali was hated, and over
the torn, half-burnt leaves of the beloved store of Lucas. The fire had
died down, but morning twilight was beginning to dawn, and all was
perfectly still after the recent tumult, though for a moment or two
Ambrose heard some distant cries.
Where should he go? Priests indeed were plentiful, but both his friends
were in bad odour with the ordinary ones. Lucas had avoided both the
Lenten shrift and Easter Communion, and what Miguel might have done,
Ambrose was uncertain. Some young priests had actually been among the
foremost in sacking the dwellings of the unfortunate foreigners, and
Ambrose was quite uncertain whether he might not fall on one of that
stamp—or on one who might vex the old man’s soul—perhaps deny him the
Sacraments altogether. As he saw the pale lighted windows of St.
Paul’s, it struck him to see whether any one were within. The light
might be only from some of the tapers burning perpetually, but the pale
light in the north-east, the morning chill, and the clock striking
three, reminded him that it must be the hour of Prime, and he said to
himself, “Sure, if a priest be worshipping at this hour, he will be a
good and merciful man. I can but try.”
The door of the transept yielded to his hand. He came forward, lighted
through the darkness by the gleam of the candles, which cast a huge and
awful shadow from the crucifix of the rood-screen upon the pavement.
Before it knelt a black figure in prayer. Ambrose advanced in some awe
and doubt how to break in on these devotions, but the priest had heard
his step, rose and said, “What is it, my son? Dost thou seek sanctuary
after these sad doings?”
“Nay, reverend sir,” said Ambrose. “’Tis a priest for a dying man I
seek;” and in reply to the instant question, where it was, he explained
in haste who the sufferer was, and how he had received a fatal blow,
and was begging for the Sacraments. “And oh, sir!” he added, “he is a
holy and God-fearing man, if ever one lived, and hath been cruelly and
foully entreated by jealous and wicked folk, who hated him for his
skill and industry.”
“Alack for the unhappy lads; and alack for those who egged them on,”
said the priest. “Truly they knew not what they did. I will come with
thee, my good youth. Thou hast not been one of them?”
“No, truly sir, save that I was carried along and could not break from
the throng. I work for Lucas Hansen, the Dutch printer, whom they have
likewise plundered in their savage rage.”
“’Tis well. Thou canst then bear this,” said the priest, taking a thick
wax candle. Then reverently advancing to the Altar, whence he took the
pyx, or gold case in which the Host was reserved, he lighted the
candle, which he gave, together with his stole, to the youth to bear
before him.
Then, when the light fell full on his features, Ambrose with a strange
thrill of joy and trust perceived that it was no other than Dean Colet,
who had here been praying against the fury of the people. He was very
thankful, feeling intuitively that there was no fear but that Abenali
would be understood, and for his own part, the very contact with the
man whom he revered seemed to calm and soothe him, though on that
solemn errand no word could be spoken. Ambrose went on slowly before,
his dark head uncovered, the priestly stole hanging over his arm, his
hands holding aloft the tall candle of virgin wax, while the Dean
followed closely with feeble steps, looking frail and worn, but with a
grave, sweet solemnity on his face. It was a perfectly still morning,
and as they slowly paced along, the flame burnt steadily with little
flickering, while the pure, delicately-coloured sky overhead was
becoming every moment lighter, and only the larger stars were visible.
The houses were absolutely still, and the only person they met, a lad
creeping homewards after the fray, fell on his knees bareheaded as he
perceived their errand. Once or twice again sounds came up from the
city beneath, like shrieks or wailing breaking strangely on that fair
peaceful May morn; but still that pair went on till Ambrose had guided
the Dean to the yard, where, except that the daylight was revealing
more and more of the wreck around, all was as he had left it. Aldonza,
poor child, with her black hair hanging loose like a veil, for she had
been startled from her bed, still sat on the ground making her lap a
pillow for the white-bearded head, nobler and more venerable than ever.
On it lay, in the absolute immobility produced by the paralysing blow,
the fine features already in the solemn grandeur of death, and only the
movement of the lips under the white flowing beard and of the dark eyes
showing life.
Dean Colet said afterwards that he felt as if he had been called to the
death-bed of Israel, or of Barzillai the Gileadite, especially when the
old man, in the Oriental phraseology he had never entirely lost, said,
“I thank Thee, my God, and the God of my fathers, that Thou hast
granted me that which I had prayed for.”
The Dutch printer was already slightly known to the Dean, having sold
him many books. A few words were exchanged with him, but it was plain
that the dying man could not be moved, and that his confession must he
made on the lap of the young girl. Colet knelt over him so as to be
able to hear, while Lucas and Ambrose withdraw, but were soon called
back for the remainder of the service for the dying. The old man’s face
showed perfect peace. All worldly thought and care seemed to have been
crushed out of him by the blow, and he did not even appear to think of
the unprotected state of his daughter, although he blessed her with
solemn fervour immediately after receiving the Viaticum—then lay
murmuring to himself sentences which Ambrose, who had learnt much from
him, knew to be from his Arabic breviary about palm-branches, and the
twelve manner of fruits of the Tree of Life.
It was a strange scene—the grand, calm, patriarchal old man, so
peaceful on his dark-haired daughter’s lap in the midst of the
shattered home in the old feudal stable. All were silent a while in
awe, but the Dean was the first to move and speak, calling Lucas
forward to ask sundry questions of him.
“Is there no good woman,” he asked, “who could be with this poor child
and take her home, when her father shall have passed away?”
“Mine uncle’s wife, sir,” said Ambrose, a little doubtfully. “I trow
she would come—since I can certify her that your reverence holds him
for a holy man.”
“I had thy word for it,” said the Dean. “Ah! reply not, my son, I see
well how it may be with you here. But tell those who will take the word
of John Colet that never did I mark the passing away of one who had
borne more for the true holy Catholic faith, nor held it more to his
soul’s comfort.”
For the Dean, a man of vivid intelligence, knew enough of the Moresco
persecutions to be able to gather from the words of Lucas and Ambrose,
and the confession of the old man himself, a far more correct estimate
of Abenali’s sufferings, and constancy to the truth, than any of the
more homebred wits could have divined. He knew, too, that his own
orthodoxy was so called in question by the narrower and more
unspiritual section of the clergy that only the appreciative friendship
of the King and the Cardinal kept him securely in his position.
Ambrose sped away, knowing that Perronel would be quite satisfied. He
was sure of her ready compassion and good-will, but she had so often
bewailed his running after learning and possibly heretical doctrine,
that he had doubted whether she would readily respond to a summons, on
his own authority alone, to one looked on with so much suspicion as
Master Michael. Colet intimated his intention of remaining a little
longer to pray with the dying man, and further wrote a few words on his
tablets, telling Ambrose to leave them with one of the porters at his
house as he went past St. Paul’s.
It was broad daylight now, a lovely May morning, such as generally
called forth the maidens, small and great, to the meadows to rub their
fresh cheeks with the silvery dew, and to bring home kingcups, cuckoo
flowers, blue bottles, and cowslips for the Maypoles that were to be
decked. But all was silent now, not a house was open, the rising sun
made the eastern windows of the churches a blaze of light, and from the
west door of St. Paul’s the city beneath seemed sleeping, only a wreath
or two of smoke rising. Ambrose found the porter looking out for his
master in much perturbation. He groaned as he looked at the tablets,
and heard where the Dean was, and said that came of being a saint on
earth. It would be the death of him ere long! What would old Mistress
Colet, his mother, say? He would have detained the youth with his
inquiries, but Ambrose said he had to speed down to the Temple on an
errand from the Dean, and hurried away. All Ludgate Hill was now quiet,
every house closed, but here and there lay torn shreds of garments, or
household vessels.
As he reached Fleet Street, however, there was a sound of horses’ feet,
and a body of men-at-arms with helmets glancing in the sun were seen.
There was a cry, “There’s one! That’s one of the lewd younglings! At
him!”
And Ambrose to his horror and surprise saw two horsemen begin to gallop
towards him, as if to ride him down. Happily he was close to a narrow
archway leading to an alley down which no war-horse could possibly make
its way, and dashing into it and round a corner, he eluded his
pursuers, and reached the bank of the river, whence, being by this time
experienced in the by-ways of London, he could easily reach Perronel’s
house.
She was standing at her door looking out anxiously, and as she saw him
she threw up her hands in thanksgiving to our Lady that here he was at
last, and then turned to scold him. “O lad, lad, what a night thou hast
given me! I trusted at least that thou hadst wit to keep out of a fray
and to let the poor aliens alone, thou that art always running after
yonder old Spaniard. Hey! what now? Did they fall on him! Fie! Shame on
them!—a harmless old man like that.”
“Yea, good aunt, and what is more, they have slain him, I fear me,
outright.”
Amidst many a “good lack” and exclamation of pity and indignation from
Perronel, Ambrose told his tale of that strange night, and entreated
her to come with him to do what was possible for Abenali and his
daughter. She hesitated a little; her kind heart was touched, but she
hardly liked to leave her house, in case her husband should come in, as
he generally contrived to do in the early morning, now that the
Cardinal’s household was lodged so near her. Sheltered as she was by
the buildings of the Temple, she had heard little or nothing of the
noise of the riot, though she had been alarmed at her nephew’s absence,
and an officious neighbour had run in to tell her first that the
prentice lads were up and sacking the houses of the strangers, and next
that the Tower was firing on them, and the Lord Mayor’s guard and the
gentlemen of the Inns of Court were up in arms to put them down. She
said several times, “Poor soul!” and “Yea, it were a shame to leave her
to the old Dutchkin,” but with true Flemish deliberation she continued
her household arrangements, and insisted that the bowl of broth, which
she set on the table, should be partaken of by herself and Ambrose
before she would stir a step. “Not eat! Now out on thee, lad! what good
dost thou think thou or I can do if we come in faint and famished,
where there’s neither bite nor sup to be had? As for me, not a foot
will I budge, till I have seen thee empty that bowl. So to it, my lad!
Thou hast been afoot all night, and lookst so grimed and ill-favoured a
varlet that no man would think thou camest from an honest wife’s house.
Wash thee at the pail! Get thee into thy chamber and put on clean
garments, or I’ll not walk the street with thee! ’Tis not safe—thou
wilt be put in ward for one of the rioters.”
Everybody who entered that little house obeyed Mistress Randall, and
Ambrose submitted, knowing it vain to resist, and remembering the
pursuit he had recently escaped; yet the very refreshment of food and
cleanliness revealed to him how stiff and weary were his limbs, though
he was in no mood for rest. His uncle appeared at the door just as he
had hoped Perronel was ready.
“Ah! there’s one of you whole and safe!” he exclaimed. “Where is the
other?”
“Stephen?” exclaimed Ambrose. “I saw him last in Warwick Inner Yard.”
And in a few words he explained. Hal Randall shook his head. “May all
be well,” he exclaimed, and then he told how Sir Thomas Parr had come
at midnight and roused the Cardinal’s household with tidings that all
the rabble of London were up, plundering and murdering all who came in
their way, and that he had then ridden on to Richmond to the King with
the news. The Cardinal had put his house into a state of defence, not
knowing against whom the riot might be directed—and the jester had not
been awakened till too late to get out to send after his wife, besides
which, by that time, intelligence had come in that the attack was
directed entirely on the French and Spanish merchants and artificers in
distant parts of the city and suburbs, and was only conducted by lads
with no better weapons than sticks, so that the Temple and its
precincts were in no danger at all.
The mob had dispersed of its own accord by about three or four o’clock,
but by that hour the Mayor had got together a force, the Gentlemen of
the Inns of Court and the Yeomen of the Tower were up in arms, and the
Earl of Shrewsbury had come in with a troop of horse. They had met the
rioters, and had driven them in herds like sheep to the different
prisons, after which Lord Shrewsbury had come to report to the Cardinal
that all was quiet, and the jester having gathered as much intelligence
as he could, had contrived to slip into the garments that concealed his
motley, and to reach home. He gave ready consent to Perronel’s going to
the aid of the sufferers in Warwick Inner Yard, especially at the
summons of the Dean of St. Paul’s, and even to her bringing home the
little wench. Indeed, he would escort her thither himself for he was
very anxious about Stephen, and Ambrose was so dismayed by the account
he gave as to reproach himself extremely for having parted company with
his brother, and never having so much as thought of him as in peril,
while absorbed in care for Abenali. So the three set out together, when
no doubt the sober, solid appearance which Randall’s double suit of
apparel and black gown gave him, together with his wife’s matronly and
respectable look, were no small protection to Ambrose, for men-at-arms
were prowling about the streets, looking hungry to pick up straggling
victims, and one actually stopped Randall to interrogate him as to who
the youth was, and what was his errand.
Before St. Paul’s they parted, the husband and wife going towards
Warwick Inner Yard, whither Ambrose, fleeter of foot, would follow, so
soon as he had ascertained at the Dragon court whether Stephen was at
home.
Alas! at the gate he was hailed with the inquiry whether he had seen
his brother or Giles. The whole yard was disorganised, no work going
on. The lads had not been seen all night, and the master himself had in
the midst of his displeasure and anxiety been summoned to the
Guildhall. The last that was known was Giles’s rescue, and the assault
on Alderman Mundy. Smallbones and Steelman had both gone in different
directions to search for the two apprentices, and Dennet, who had flown
down unheeded and unchecked at the first hope of news, pulled Ambrose
by the sleeve, and exclaimed, “Oh! Ambrose, Ambrose! they can never
hurt them! They can never do any harm to our lads, can they?”
Ambrose hoped for the same security, but in his dismay, could only
hurry after his uncle and aunt.
He found the former at the door of the old stable—whence issued wild
screams and cries. Several priests and attendants were there now, and
the kind Dean with Lucas was trying to induce Aldonza to relax the
grasp with which she embraced the body, whence a few moments before the
brave and constant spirit had departed. Her black hair hanging over
like a veil, she held the inanimate head to her bosom, sobbing and
shrieking with the violence of her Eastern nature. The priest who had
been sent for to take care of the corpse, and bear it to the mortuary
of the Minster, wanted to move her by force; but the Dean insisted on
one more gentle experiment, and beckoned to the kindly woman, whom he
saw advancing with eyes full of tears. Perronel knelt down by her,
persevered when the poor girl stretched out her hand to beat her off,
crying, “Off! go! Leave me my father! O father, father, joy of my life!
my one only hope and stay, leave me not! Wake! wake, speak to thy
child, O my father!”
Though the child had never seen or heard of Eastern wailings over the
dead, yet hereditary nature prompted her to the lamentations that
scandalised the priests and even Lucas, who broke in with “Fie, maid,
thou mournest as one who hath no hope.” But Dr. Colet still signed to
them to have patience, and Perronel somehow contrived to draw the
girl’s head on her breast and give her a motherly kiss, such as the
poor child had never felt since she, when almost a babe, had been
lifted from her dying mother’s side in the dark stifling hold of the
vessel in the Bay of Biscay. And in sheer surprise and sense of being
soothed she ceased her cries, listened to the tender whispers and
persuasions about holy men who would care for her father, and his
wishes that she should be a good maid—till at last she yielded, let her
hands be loosed, allowed Perronel to lift the venerable head from her
knee, and close the eyes—then to gather her in her arms, and lead her
to the door, taking her, under Ambrose’s guidance, into Lucas’s abode,
which was as utterly and mournfully dismantled as their own, but where
Perronel, accustomed in her wandering days to all sorts of
contrivances, managed to bind up the streaming hair, and, by the help
of her own cloak, to bring the poor girl into a state in which she
could be led through the streets.
The Dean meantime had bidden Lucas to take shelter at his own house,
and the old Dutchman had given a sort of doubtful acceptance.
Ambrose, meanwhile, half distracted about his brother, craved counsel
of the jester where to seek him.