“I’m not a saint myself,” she said with unwonted gravity, “and I never set up for one, but many has been the time when I have warned those about me that God would not stand aside for ever looking on at these abominations.  The means were ready to His hand, and He has taken them and used them as a scourge.  And He will scourge this wicked city yet again, if men will not amend their evil practices.”

Next minute Gertrude and Dorcas came running in together, and Gertrude almost flung herself into Joseph’s arms in her eager gratitude to him for his news, and her desire to hear everything he could tell her.

Such a clamour of voices then arose as fairly drowned any remark that Lady Scrope tried from time to time to throw in.  Her old face took a suddenly softened look as she watched the little scene, and heard the words that passed amongst the young people.  Presently she went tapping away on her high-heeled shoes, and was absent for some ten or fifteen minutes.  When she came back she held in her hands a small iron-bound box, which seemed to be very heavy for its size.

“Well,” she asked in her clear, sharp tones, “and what is going to be done next?”

“O madam, I am going to him.  I can do naught else,” answered Gertrude, whose face was like an April morning, all smiles and tears blended together.  “I cannot let him lie wanting me and wearying for me.”

“Humph!  I thought you had shown yourself a girl of spirit, and had sent him about his business when he came a-wooing, eh?”

“O madam, I did so.  I thought that duty bid me; but I have repented so bitterly since!  They say that ’twas since then he fell into the melancholy which was like to make him fall ill of the distemper.  Oh, if he were to die, I should feel his blood on my head.  I should never hold it up again.  I cannot let anything keep me from him now.  I must go to him in my poverty and tell him all.  He must be the judge!”

Lady Scrope uttered a little snort, although her face bore no unkindly look.

“Child, child, thou art a veritable woman!  I had thought better things of thee, but thou art just like the rest.  Thou wilt gladly lie down in the dust, so as the one man shall trample upon thee, whilst thou dost adore him the more for it.  Go to! go to!  Maids and lovers be all alike.  Fools every one of them!  But for all that I like thee.  I have an old woman’s fancy for thee.  And since in these days none may reckon on seeing the face of a departing friend again, I give now into thine hands the wedding gift I have had in mine eyes for thee.

“Nay, thank me not; and open it not save at the bedside of thy betrothed husband—­if thou art fool enough to betroth thyself to one who as like as not will die of the plague before the week is out.

“And now off with you both.  If you tarry too long, the watch will not believe you to be honest market folks, and will hinder your flight.  Good luck go with you; and when ye be come to the city again—­if ever that day arrive—­come hither and tell me all the tale of your folly and love.  Although a wise woman myself, I have a wondrous love of hearing tales of how other folks make havoc of their lives by their folly.”