ctor?" said she. "I have seen many afore."

"Dost mark it?" inquired he.

"Ay," she answered, marvelling what he meant.

"Well," pursued he, "thou art not to speak evil of it."

"I am not like," said she, innocently, "for these new shillings be
lesser and neater than the broad shilling, and they like me the rather."

"Well," responded he, "take thou heed. `Forewarned is forearmed.'"

"But what mean you. Dr Thorpe?" asked the puzzled Isoult.

"Nay, nay, now!" answered the old man. "This dolt, my Lord of
Northumberland--they must have missed rocking of him in his cradle!--
this patch, look thou, hath taken offence at the canting name men have
given to these new shillings."

"Why," said she, "what name gave they them?"

"Forsooth," replied he, "`ragged staffs;' and thou wist what that
meaneth."

"What, a quip on my Lord of Northumberland's arms?" answered Isoult.

"Yea, justly," said he; "and this sweet companion loveth not to have his
arms spoke about. So here is a proclamation--come out of the Court of
Fools, as I live!--that no man henceforward shall speak evil of the new
coin upon penalty. Didst ever hear such a piece of folly?"

"Ay," interposed John, who sat reading in the chimney-corner, "and heard
you how Master Latimer hath offended? Some time agone, preaching before
the King, he chanced to repeat the device of the new shilling (that
coming pat, I take it, to his matter) to wit, `_Timor Domini fons
vitae_.' And here quoth he, `We have now a pretty little shilling, in
deed a very pretty one. I have but one, I think, in my purse; and the
last day I had put it away almost for an old groat.' And so plucked it
out of his purse, and read the device to the people, with the
signification thereof. Now (would you crede it?) there was murmuring
against Mr Latimer of my Lord of Northumberland's following, that he had
reviled the new shilling, and contemned it for no better than an old
groat."

"I do protest!" cried Dr Thorpe, "the world is gone mad!"

"Saving you and me," said John, gravely.

"I scantly know, Jack," answered he, shaking his white head. "Methinks
I shall not save you nor me long."

One of the strangest things in this strange world is the contrasts
perpetually to be found in it. While Somerset lay thus under sentence
of death, the Lord of Misrule passed through London. He was George
Ferris, an old friend of the Hot Gospeller, and a warm Protestant
himself; yet it would be a tole