"And you, mistress—do I understand that you have the effrontery to call yourself a married woman, after having been the professed spouse of Christ?" "An apostate nun. Worse and worse," said my lady. "Apostate I can not be, since I never was professed, as you, Sir Priest, very well know," said I. "As to the rest I am proud to call myself Walter Corbet's wife, and the mother of his child." "You are—" said the priest, and he called me by a vile name I will not write here. Walter resembled some other very good-tempered people. He was like one of our long-horned Devon bulls, very quiet and even stolid to a certain point of provocation, after which it were best to get out of the way. He walked up to Father Simon, and with one sound cuff sent him sprawling and tumbling over my lady's embroidery frame and into a basket holding a slut and a litter of puppies. It was an ill-judged blow; I do not justify him in it, and it had terrible consequences for us. The offended mother-dog seized Father Barnaby by the ear and bit him furiously, the pups meantime all yelling in concert—the lady squalled and Sir John swore, while a crowd of serving men rushing into the room, added to the confusion. How it all came about, I hardly know myself, but I presently found myself lying on the street, outside the door, my head supported on the lap of a poor woman, who was fanning me with her apron. "What has happened?" said I, starting up. "Where is my husband?" "Hush, hush, poor thing! They will not let you go after him," said the woman, and with that she fell a-weeping. "They have taken him to prison, and serve him right for a fool," said a queer, cracked voice beside me. "Only he does not know enough to let his folly make him a living, I would even give him my cap and bauble." I looked up and saw a man in the garb of a fool, or jester, whom I had before remarked, in Sir John's presence chamber. "Good fool," said I, "tell me what they have done with my husband." "Nay, how can I tell; I am but a fool," he answered, tossing up his bauble and catching it with many extravagant gestures; "but fool as I am, I know you should not sit here." "Harry speaks truth, madam, this is no place for you," said one of the serving men who had come up with us from Devon. He helped me to my feet, and whispered in my ear: "Go you to your lodging, and so soon as I can, I will bring you news of your husband. This woman, who is mine own sister, will conduct you thither." There was no other counsel, so I went. Once alone, I sat down and strove to collect my scattered thoughts. Walter had been carried to prison—that I was sure of—but where and how long was he like to stay there? I remembered all I had heard of Father Simon's relentless character, and I felt that Walter's chance was a slender one. "Oh, had I but staid at home," was my thought. "Had we but kept quiet in Devon."