"No!" replied Mortimer; "but it might stead him. A good friend, sir, to a man in danger, may stand like a barbican, as it were, before a fortress, encountering the first attack of the enemy. I say not that I know where Sir John Grey is to be found; but I do say, and at once, that I would not tell, if I did, till I had heard the motive of him who seeks him. He has been a wronged and persecuted man, sir; and it is fit that no indiscretion should lay him open to further injury." Woodville fixed his eyes intently upon his companion's countenance; and, after a moment's pause, he said, in an assured tone, "I speak to Sir John Grey even now. Concealment is vain, sir, and needless; for I do but bring you a letter from the young King of England, which I promised to deliver with all speed; and if things be as I think, it will not prove so ungrateful to you as you may expect. Am I not right?--for I must have your own admission ere I give the letter." "The letter!" repeated the other; and again a look of eagerness came over his countenance. "You bear a letter, then? You are keen, young man," he added; "but yet you look honest." "I do assure you, sir," replied Woodville, "that I have no end or object on earth, but to give the letter with which I am charged to Sir John Grey himself. I am anxious, moreover, to do it speedily, for so I was directed; and I have therefore come to-night, without waiting for repose. If you be he, as I do believe, you may tell me so in safety, and rest upon the honour of an English gentleman." "Honour!" said his companion, with a sad and bitter shake of the head. "I have no cause to trust in honour: it has become but a mere name, the meaning of which has been lost long ago, and each man interprets it as he likes best. In former times, honour was a thing as immutable as the diamond, which nought could change to any other form. 'Twas truth,--'twas right,--'twas the pure gold of the high heart. Now, alas! men have devised alloy; and the metal, be it as base as copper, passes current for the value that is stamped upon it by society. Honour is no longer independent of man's will; 'tis that which people call it, and no more. The liar, who, with a smooth face, wrongs his friend in the most tender point, is still a man of honour with the world: the traitor, who betrays his country or his king, so that it be for passion, and not gold, is still a man of honour, and will cut your throat if you deny it: the calumniator, who blasts another's reputation with a sneer, is still a man of honour if he's brave. Honour's a name that changes colour, like the Indian beast, according to the light it is viewed in. Now it is courage; now it is rank; now it is riches; now it is fine raiment, or a swaggering air. Once it was Truth, young sir."