would have overtaken her; but I
withheld him, shaking my head, and himself seeing 'twas in vain, he
dropped into a chair, and, spreading his arms upon the table, hides his
face in them with a groan of despair.

Moll totters down the dark stairs, and finds her husband standing in the
doorway, his figure revealed against the patch of grey light beyond, for
the moon was risen, though veiled by a thick pall of cloud. He sees, as
she comes to his side, that she has neither cloak nor hood to protect
her from the winter wind, and in silence he takes off his own cloak and
lays it on her shoulder. At this act of mercy a ray of hope animates
Moll's numbed soul, and she catches at her husband's hand to press it to
her lips, yet can find never a word to express her gratitude. But his
hand is cold as ice, and he draws it away from her firmly, with obvious
repugnance. There was no love in this little act of giving her his
cloak; 'twas but the outcome of that chivalry in gentlemen which doth
exact lenience even to an enemy.

So he goes on his way, she following like a whipped dog at his heels,
till they reach the Court gates, and these being fast locked, on a
little further, to the wicket gate. And there, as Mr. Godwin is about to
enter, there confronts him Peter, that sturdy Puritan hireling of old
Simon's.

"Thee canst not enter here, friend," says he, in his canting voice, as
he sets his foot against the gate.

"Know you who I am?" asks Mr. Godwin.

"Yea, friend; and I know who thy woman is also. I am bidden by friend
Simon, the true and faithful steward of Mistress Godwin in Barbary, to
defend her house and lands against robbers and evil-doers of every kind,
and without respect of their degree; and, with the Lord's help," adds
he, showing a stout cudgel, "that will I do, friend."

"'Tis true, fellow," returns Mr. Godwin. "I have no right to enter
here."

And then, turning about, he stands irresolute, as not knowing whither he
shall go to find shelter for his wife. For very shame, he does not take
her to the village inn, to be questioned by gaping servants and
landlord, who, ere long, must catch the flying news of her shameful
condition and overthrow. A faint light in the lattice of Anne Fitch's
cottage catches his eye, and he crosses to her door, still humbly
followed by poor Moll. There he finds the thumb-piece gone from the
latch, to him a well-known sign that Mother Fitch has gone out
a-nursing; so, pulling the hidden