“Well, well, sweetheart,” he said, “I trow thou must have the twain of them, though,” he added to the Cardinal, who smiled broadly, “it might perchance be more for the maid’s peace than she wots of now, were we to leave this same knight of the whistle to be strung up at once, ere she have found her heart; but in sooth that I cannot do, owing well nigh a life to him and his brother. Moreover, we may not have old Headley’s skill in weapons lost!” Dennet held her hands close clasped while these words were spoken apart. She felt as if her hope, half granted, were being snatched from her, as another actor appeared on the scene, a gentleman in a lawyer’s gown, and square cap, which he doffed as he advanced and put his knee to the ground before the King, who greeted him with “Save you, good Sir Thomas, a fair morning to you.” “They told me your Grace was in Council with my Lord Cardinal,” said Sir Thomas More; “but seeing that there was likewise this merry company, I durst venture to thrust in, since my business is urgent.” Dennet here forgot court manners enough to cry out, “O your Grace! your Grace, be pleased for pity’s sake to let me have the pardon for them first, or they’ll be hanged and dead. I saw the gallows in Cheapside, and when they are dead, what good will your Grace’s mercy do them?” “I see,” said Sir Thomas. “This little maid’s errand jumps with mine own, which was to tell your Grace that unless there be speedy commands to the Howards to hold their hands, there will be wailing like that of Egypt in the City. The poor boys, who were but shouting and brawling after the nature of mettled youth—the most with nought of malice—are penned up like sheep for the slaughter—ay, and worse than sheep, for we quarter not our mutton alive, whereas these poor younglings—babes of thirteen, some of them—be indicted for high treason! Will the parents, shut in from coming to them by my Lord of Norfolk’s men, ever forget their agonies, I ask your Grace?” Henry’s face grew red with passion. “If Norfolk thinks to act the King, and turn the city into a shambles,”—with a mighty oath—“he shall abye it. Here, Lord Cardinal—more, let the free pardon be drawn up for the two lads. And we will ourselves write to the Lord Mayor and to Norfolk that though they may work their will on the movers of the riot—that pestilent Lincoln and his sort—not a prentice lad shall be touched till our pleasure be known. There now, child, thou hast won the lives of thy lads, as thou callest them. Wilt thou rue the day, I marvel? Why cannot some of their mothers pluck up spirit and beg them off as thou hast done?” “Yea,” said Wolsey. “That were the right course. If the Queen were moved to pray your Grace to pity the striplings then could the Spaniards make no plaint of too much clemency being shown.”