“Peace, Lady,” he said, retreating before her; “I only learned it at eleven of the clock last night, when you were fast asleep. Yesterday is not this same day, and therefore ’tis the other day, is it not?” “Surely you might have woke me. But, swift, where is he now?” “How can I know? Not here, at least. But the writing said----” “Well, what did the writing say?” “I am trying to think--my memory fails me at times; perhaps you will find the same thing when you have my years, should it please Heaven----” “Oh! that it might please Heaven to make you speak! What said the writing?” “Ah! I have it now. It said, in a note appended amidst other news, for--did I tell you this was a letter from his Grace’s ambassador in Spain? and, oh! his is the vilest scrawl to read. Nay, hurry me not--it said that this ‘Sir Huflit’--the ambassador has put a query against his name--and his servant--yes, yes, I am sure it said his servant too--well, that they both of them, being angry at the treatment they had met with from the infidel Turks--no, I forgot to add there were three of them, one a priest, who did otherwise. Well, as I said, being angry, they stopped there to serve with the Spaniards against the Turks till the end of that campaign. There, that is all.” “How little is your all!” exclaimed Cicely. “Yet, ‘tis something. Oh! why should a married man stop across the seas to be revenged on poor ignorant Turks?” “Why should he not?” interrupted Emlyn, “when he deems himself a widower, as does your lord?” “Yes, I forgot; he thinks me dead, who doubtless himself will be dead, if he is not so already, seeing that those wicked, murderous Turks will kill him,” and she began to weep. “I should have added,” said Jacob hastily, “that in a second letter, of later date, the ambassador declares that the Emperor’s war against the Turks is finished for this season, and that the Englishmen who were with him fought with great honour and were all escaped unharmed, though this time he gives no names.” “All escaped! If my husband were dead, who could not die meanly or without fame, how could he say that they were all escaped? Nay, nay; he lives, though who knows if he will return? Perchance he will wander off elsewhere, or stay and wed again.” “Impossible,” said old Jacob, bowing to her; “having called you wife--impossible.” “Impossible,” echoed Emlyn, “having such a score to settle with yonder Maldon! A man may forget his love, especially if he deems her buried. But as he stayed foreign to fight the Turk, who wronged him, so he’ll come home to fight the Abbot, who ruined him and slew his bride.” There followed a silence, which the goldsmith, who felt it somewhat painful, hastened to break, saying--