“I was looking for you, Master Smith, and for the Lady Harflete,” the man said, bowing to her.  “You have an appointment with his Grace, have you not? but God knows if it can be kept.  The ante-chambers are full of folk bringing news about the rebellion in the north, and of great lords and councillors who wait for commands or money, most of them for money.  In short the King has given order that all appointments are cancelled; he can see no one to-day.  The Lord Cromwell told me so himself.”

Jacob took a golden angel from his pouch and began to play with it between his fingers.

“I understand, noble herald,” he said.  “Still, do you think that you could find me a messenger to the Lord Cromwell?  If so, this trifle——­”

“I’ll try, Master Smith,” he answered, stretching out his hand for the piece of money.  “But what is the message?”

“Oh, say that Pink Pearl would learn from his Lordship where he can lay hands upon L1000 without interest.”

“A strange message, to which I will hazard an answer—­nowhere,” said the herald, “yet I’ll find some one to deliver it.  Step within this archway and wait out of the rain.  Fear not, I will be back presently.”

They did as he bid them, gladly enough, for it had begun to drizzle and Cicely was afraid lest her boy, with whom London did not agree too well, should take cold.  Here, then, they stood amusing themselves in watching the motley throng that came and went.  Bolle, to whom the scene was strange, gaped at them with his mouth open; Emlyn took note of every one with her quick eyes, while old Jacob Smith whispered tales concerning individuals as they passed, most of which were little to their credit.

As for Cicely, soon her thoughts were far away.  She knew that she was at a crisis of her fortune; that if things went well with her this day she might look to be avenged upon her enemies, and to spend the rest of her life in wealth and honour.  But it was not of such matters that she dreamed, whose heart was set on Christopher, without whom naught availed.  Where was he, she wondered.  If Jacob’s tale were true, after passing many dangers, but a little while ago he lived and had his health.  Yet in those times death came quickly, leaping like the lightning from unexpected clouds or even out of a clear sky, and who could say?  Besides, he believed her gone, and that being so would be careless of himself, or perchance, worst thought of all, would take some other wife, as was but right and natural.  Oh! then indeed——­

At this moment a sound of altercation woke her to the world again, and she looked up to see that Thomas Bolle was bringing trouble on them.  A coarse fat lout with a fiery and a knotted nose, being somewhat in liquor, had amused himself by making mock of his country looks and red hair, and asking whether they used him for a scarecrow in his native fields.

Thomas bore it for a while, only answering with another question:  whether he, the fat fellow, hired out his nose to London housewives to light their fires.  The man, feeling that the laugh was against him, and noticing the child in Cicely’s arms pointed it out to his friends, inquiring whether they did not think it was exactly like its dad.  Then Thomas’s rage burnt up, although the jest was silly and aimless enough.