"REMEMBER!"
Mr Ewring only returned Wastborowe's uncivil farewell by a nod, as he
walked up High Street towards East Gate. At the corner of Tenant's Lane
he turned to the left, and went up to the Castle. A request to see the
prisoner there brought about a little discussion between the porter and
the gaoler, and an appeal was apparently made to some higher authority.
At length the visitor was informed that permission was granted, on
condition that he would not mention the subject of religion.
The condition was rejected at once. Mr Ewring had come to talk about
that and nothing else.
"Then you'd best go home," said Bartle. "Can't do to have matters set
a-crooked again when they are but now coming straight. Margaret
Thurston's reconciled, and we've hopes for John, though he's been harder
of the two to bring round. Never do to have folks coming and setting
'em all wrong side up. Do you want to see 'em burned, my master?"
"I want to see them true," was Mr Ewring's answer, "The burning doesn't
much matter."
"Oh, doesn't it?" sneered Bartle. "You'll sing another tune, Master
Ewring, the day you're set alight."
"Methinks, friend, those you have burned sang none other. But how about
a thousand years hence? Bartholomew Crane, what manner of tune wilt
thou be singing then?"
"Time enough to say when I've got it pricked, Master," said Bartle: but
Mr Ewring saw from his uneasiness that the shot had told.
People were much more musical in England three hundred years ago than
now. Nearly everybody could sing, or read music at sight: and a lady
was thought very poorly educated if she could not "set"--that is, write
down a tune properly on hearing it played. Writing music they called
"pricking" it.
Mr Ewring did not stay to talk with Bartle; he bade him good-bye, and
walked up Tenant's Lane on his way home. But before he had gone many
yards, an idea struck him, and he turned round and went back to the
Castle.
Bartle was still in the court, and he peeped through the wicket to see
who was there.
"Good lack! you're come again!"
"I'm come again," said Mr Ewring, smiling. "Bartle, wilt take a
message to the Thurstons for me?"
"Depends," said Bartle with a knowing nod. "What's it about? If you
want to tell 'em price of flour, I don't mind."
"I only want you to say one word to either of them."
"Come, that's jolly! What's the word?"
"Remember!"