'Thus the race of Lutherans should die out,' he laughed. 'Why they are hiding their maidens in pigeon-houses in Holborn. A boy called Hugh hath gone out and never come home, and it is said that masked men in black stuff gowns were seen to put him into a sack in Moorfields.' 'Well, here be great marvels,' Margot laughed. He shook his red sides, and his blue eyes grew malicious and teasing: 'Such a strumpet as thy lady,' he uttered. 'A Papist Howard that is known to have been loved by twenty men in Lincoln.' Margot passed from laughter into hot anger: 'It is a marvel God strikes not their tongues with palsy that said that,' she said swiftly. 'Why do you not kill some of them if you be a man?' 'Why, be calmed,' he said. 'You have heard such tales before now. It is no more than saying that a woman goes not to their churches to pray.' A young Marten Pewtress, half page, half familiar to the Earl of Surrey, came towards them calling, 'Hal Poins.' He had black down upon his chin and a roving eye. He wore a purple coat like a tabard, and a cap with his master's arms upon a jewelled brooch. 'They say there's a Howard wench come to Court,' he cried from a distance, 'and thy sister in her service.' 'We talk of her,' Poins answered. 'Here is my sister.' The young Pewtress kissed the girl upon the cheek. 'Pray, you, sweetheart, unfold,' he said. 'You are a pretty piece, and have a good brother that's my friend.' He asked all of a breath whether this lady had yet had the small-pox? whether her hair were her own? how tall she stood without high heels to her shoon? whether her breath were sweet or her language unpleasing in the Lincolnshire jargon? whether the King had sent her many presents?