So Martin Lightfoot was sent for. He came in straight into the lady’s bedchamber, after the simple fashion of those days. He was a tall, lean, bony man, as was to be expected from his nickname, with a long hooked nose, a scanty brown beard, and a high conical head. His only garment was a shabby gray woollen tunic, which served him both as coat and kilt, and laced brogues of untanned hide. He might have been any age from twenty to forty; but his face was disfigured with deep scars and long exposure to the weather. He dropped on one knee, holding his greasy cap in his hand, and looked, not at his lady’s face, but at her feet, with a stupid and frightened expression. She knew very little of him, save that her husband had picked him up upon the road as a wanderer some five years since; and that he had been employed as a doer of odd jobs and runner of messages, and that he was supposed, from his taciturnity and strangeness, to have something uncanny about him. “Martin,” said the lady, “they tell me that you are a silent and a prudent man.” “That am I. ‘Tongue speaketh bane, Though she herself hath nane.’” “I shall try you: do you know your way to London?” “Yes.” “To your lord’s lodgings in Westminster?” “Yes.” “How long shall you be going there with this letter?” “A day and a half.” “When shall you be back hither?” “On the fourth day.” “And you will go to my lord and deliver this letter safely?” “Yes, your Majesty.” “Why do you call me Majesty? The King is Majesty.” “You are my Queen.” “What do you mean, man?” “You can hang me.” “I hang thee, poor soul! Who did I ever hang, or hurt for a moment, if I could help it?” “But the Earl may.” “He will neither hang nor hurt thee if thou wilt take this letter safely, and bring me back the answer safely.” “They will kill me.” “Who?” “They,” said Martin, pointing to the bower maidens,--young ladies of good family who stood round, chosen for their good looks, after the fashion of those times, to attend on great ladies. There was a cry of angry and contemptuous denial, not unmixed with something like laughter, which showed that Martin had but spoken the truth. Hereward, in spite of all his sins, was the darling of his mother’s bower; and there was not one of the damsels but would have done anything short of murder to have prevented Martin carrying the letter. “Silence, man!” said Lady Godiva, so sternly that Martin saw that he had gone too far. “How know’st such as thou what is in this letter?” “Those others will know,” said Martin, sullenly, without answering the last question. “Who?” “His housecarles outside there.” “He has promised that they shall not touch thee. But how knowest thou what is in this letter?” “I will take it,” said Martin: he held out his hand, took it and looked at it, but upside down, and without any attempt to read it. “His own mother,” said he, after a while. “What is that to thee?” said Lady Godiva, blushing and kindling.