“But let us set our best foot foremost, Jack,” says I, “for I do think we have done more mischief to-night than any we have before, and I shall not be greatly surprised if we are called to account for the death of old Simon or some of his hirelings.”

“I know not how that may be,” says he, “but I must answer for knocking of somebody’s teeth out.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

We take Moll to Greenwich; but no great happiness for her there.

In the midst of our heroics I was greatly scared by perceiving a cloaked figure coming hurriedly towards us in the dim light.

“’Tis another, come to succour his friends,” whispers I.  “Let us step into this hedge.”

“Too late,” returns he.  “Put on a bold face, ’tis only one.”

With a swaggering gait and looking straight before us, we had passed the figure, when a voice calls “Father!” and there turning, we find that ’tis poor Moll in her husband’s cloak.

“Where is thy husband, child?” asks Dawson, as he recovers from his astonishment, taking Moll by the hand.

“I have no husband, father,” answers she, piteously.

“Why, sure he hath not turned you out of doors?”

“No, he’d not do that,” says she, “were I ten times more wicked than I am.”

“What folly then is this?” asks her father.

“’Tis no folly.  I have left him of my own free will, and shall never go back to him.  For he’s no more my husband than that house is mine” (pointing to the Court), “Both were got by the same means, and both are lost.”

Then briefly she told how they had been turned from the gate by Peter, and how Mr. Godwin was now as poor and homeless as we.  And this news throwing us into a silence with new bewilderment, she asks us simply whither we are going.

“My poor Moll!” is all the answer Dawson can make, and that in a broken, trembling voice.

“’Tis no good to cry,” says she, dashing aside her tears that had sprung at this word of loving sympathy, and forcing herself to a more cheerful tone.  “Why, let us think that we are just awake from a long sleep to find ourselves no worse off than when we fell a-dreaming.  Nay, not so ill,” adds she, “for you have a home near London.  Take me there, dear.”

“With all my heart, chuck,” answers her father, eagerly.  “There, at least, I can give you a shelter till your husband can offer better.”

She would not dispute this point (though I perceived clearly her mind was resolved fully never to claim her right to Mr. Godwin’s roof), but only begged we should hasten on our way, saying she felt chilled; and in passing Mother Fitch’s cottage she constrained us to silence and caution; then when we were safely past she would have us run, still feigning to be cold, but in truth (as I think) to avoid being overtaken by Mr. Godwin, fearing, maybe, that he would overrule