"Ods-fish, man. For pity's sake, let us have no more of this," interrupted the king. "The lad means honestly enough, no doubt. But he has been picking up some ale-house tale, and got a nightmare of it, depend on't. Stay you, my dear brother, if you will, to hear it out. And hark you, when 'tis ended, don't forget to see the lad falls to and picks up a good breakfast for his melancholy entertainment of your grace. Do you propose to accompany us this morning, Catharine?" he continued, turning to the queen. "If your majesty commands," she answered, in slow almost hesitating tones, and as if her thoughts were elsewhere engaged. "Nay, not command, Catharine," said the king; "but we do not forget it is your patron saint's day," he added, in tones that conveyed also a strong intimation of his will; "and it is our pleasure." "And that is mine," said the queen, too well content to hesitate longer. CHAPTER XXIII. "DID YOU NOT KNOW?" SHE SAID. Slowly the gatehouse clock tolled out the hours succeeding Lawrence's departure. Terrible and solemn ones they were for Ruth, maintaining her solitary watch beside the secret panel where the wounded man lay, with eyes closed, and now breathing heavily, now catching feeble gasping breaths, so feeble that more than once Ruth thought life had left him. She had done her best, poor Ruth, and like any Lady Bountiful of treble her years, had got out her little stock of salves and simples and old linen rag, and gently and tenderly dressed the gaping wound; but it was all of just as much and no more use than the endeavours of the skilfullest doctors would have been. "I am past thy surgery, child," he said in feeble but distinct tones, when towards two o'clock he stirred a little and opened his eyes. "The knife did its work. But give me a drink--ay, a cordial if you have it in your store. So," and he eagerly drank the contents of the little cup which Ruth filled from a flask upon the table, and shouldering himself feebly on his right side, his eyes wandered wistfully round the shadowy chamber as if in search of something, and rested at last on a little table of carved oak, bearing materials for writing. "Bring it here," he said. "Yes, that is well," he went on, as Ruth, marking his wish, even before he had given it utterance, brought the table beside the panel and set it close within his reach. "For I have a message to leave behind me, and my hours are numbered. My minutes belike," and his eyes closed; but in a few seconds he opened them again, and stretched out a trembling hand. "Quick!" he went on. "Pen and paper, dear child, as thou'rt a God-fearing maiden, and hop'st for heaven at last." [Sidenote: The dying man.] "As you do," gently murmured Ruth, spreading the paper as well as she could out upon the narrow bed, and placing the pen in his hand. "As you do, dear Master Goodenough." "Nay," moaned the dying man. "Sin lies heavy on my soul."