“Speak,” says he, thickly, after a moment of horrible silence broken only by the sound of the knife striking the floor.  “If this is your daughter,—­if she has lied to me,—­what in God’s name is the truth?  Who are you, I ask?”

“John Dawson, a player,” answers he, seeing the time is past for lying.

Mr. Godwin makes no response, but turns his eyes upon Moll, who stands before him with bowed head and clasped hands, wrung to her innermost fibre with shame, remorse, and awful dread, and for a terrible space I heard nothing but the deep, painful breathing of this poor, overwrought man.

“You are my wife,” says he, at length.  “Follow me,” and with that he turns about and goes from the room.  Then Moll, without a look at us, without a word, her face ghastly pale and drawn with agony, with faltering steps, obeys, catching at table and chair, as she passes, for support.

Dawson made a step forward, as if he would have overtaken her; but I withheld him, shaking my head, and himself seeing ’twas in vain, he dropped into a chair, and, spreading his arms upon the table, hides his face in them with a groan of despair.

Moll totters down the dark stairs, and finds her husband standing in the doorway, his figure revealed against the patch of grey light beyond, for the moon was risen, though veiled by a thick pall of cloud.  He sees, as she comes to his side, that she has neither cloak nor hood to protect her from the winter wind, and in silence he takes off his own cloak and lays it on her shoulder.  At this act of mercy a ray of hope animates Moll’s numbed soul, and she catches at her husband’s hand to press it to her lips, yet can find never a word to express her gratitude.  But his hand is cold as ice, and he draws it away from her firmly, with obvious repugnance.  There was no love in this little act of giving her his cloak; ’twas but the outcome of that chivalry in gentlemen which doth exact lenience even to an enemy.

So he goes on his way, she following like a whipped dog at his heels, till they reach the Court gates, and these being fast locked, on a little further, to the wicket gate.  And there, as Mr. Godwin is about to enter, there confronts him Peter, that sturdy Puritan hireling of old Simon’s.

“Thee canst not enter here, friend,” says he, in his canting voice, as he sets his foot against the gate.

“Know you who I am?” asks Mr. Godwin.

“Yea, friend; and I know who thy woman is also.  I am bidden by friend Simon, the true and faithful steward of Mistress Godwin in Barbary, to defend her house and lands against robbers and evil-doers of every kind, and without respect of their degree; and, with the Lord’s help,” adds he, showing a stout cudgel, “that will I do, friend.”

“’Tis true, fellow,” returns Mr. Godwin.  “I have no right to enter here.”