"Here is the baby," she said, smiling rather sadly. "See, I have not done him any harm! And it has done me good. You will let me have him again some day?--some time when you all want to go out, and it will be a convenience to you. Farewell, my pretty bird!"

And she held out the boy to Agnes. Little Rudolph had shown signs of pleasure at the sight of his mother; but it soon appeared that he was not pleased by any means at the prospect of parting with his new friend.

Countess had kept him well amused, and he had no inclination to see an abrupt end put to his amus.e.m.e.nt. He struggled and at last screamed his disapprobation, until it became necessary for Gerhardt to interfere, and show the young gentleman decidedly that he must not always expect to have his own way.

"I t'ank you"--Agnes began to say, in her best English, which was still imperfect, though Ermine spoke it fluently now. But Countess stopped her, rather to her surprise, by a few hurried words in her own tongue.

"Do not thank me," she said, with a flash of the black eyes. "It is I who should thank you."

And running quickly across Fish Street, the Jewish maiden disappeared inside her father's door.

All European nations at that date disliked and despised the hapless sons of Israel: but the little company to whom Gerhardt and Agnes belonged were perhaps a shade less averse to them than others. They were to some extent companions in misfortune, being themselves equally despised and detested by many; and they were much too familiar with the Word of G.o.d not to recognise that His blessing still rested on the seed of Abraham His friend, hidden "for a little moment" by a cloud, but one day to burst into a refulgence of heavenly sunlight. When, therefore, Flemild asked Ermine, as they were laying aside their out-door garb--"Don't you hate those horrid creatures?" it was not surprising that Ermine paused before replying.

"Don't you?" repeated Flemild.

"No," said Ermine, "I do not think I do."

"_Don't_ you?" echoed Flemild for the third time, and with emphasis.

"Why, Ermine, they crucified our Lord."

"So did you and I, Flemild; and He bids us love one another."

Flemild stood struck with astonishment, her kerchief half off her head.

"I crucified our Lord!" she exclaimed. "Ermine, what can you mean?"

"Sin crucified Him," said Ermine quietly; "your sins and mine, was it not? If He died not for our sins, we shall have to bear them ourselves.

And did He not die for Countess too?"

"I thought He died for those who are in holy Church; and Countess is a wicked heathen Jew."

"Yes, for holy Church, which means those whom G.o.d has chosen out of the world. How can you know that Countess is not some day to be a member of holy Church?"

"Ermine, they are regular wicked people!"

"We are all wicked people, till G.o.d renews us by His Holy Spirit."

"I'm not!" cried Flemild indignantly; "and I don't believe you are either."

"Ah, Flemild, that is because you are blind. Sin has darkened our eyes; we cannot see ourselves."

"Ermine, do you mean to say that you see me a wicked creature like a Jew?"

"By nature, I am as blind as you, Flemild."

"'By nature'! What do you mean? _Do_ you see me so?"

"Flemild, dear friend, what if G.o.d sees it?"

Ermine had spoken very softly and tenderly, but Flemild was not in a mood to appreciate the tenderness.

"Well!" she said in a hard tone. "If we are so dreadfully wicked, I wonder you like to a.s.sociate with us."

"But if I am equally wicked?" suggested Ermine with a smile.

"I wonder how you can hold such an opinion of yourself. I should not like to think myself so bad. I could not bear it."

Flemild entertained the curious opinion--it is astonishing how many people unwittingly hold it--that a fact becomes annihilated by a man shutting his eyes to it. Ermine regarded her with a look of slight amus.e.m.e.nt.

"What difference would it make if I did not think so?" she asked.

Flemild laughed, only then realising the absurdity of her own remark.

It augured well for her good sense that she could recognise the absurdity when it was pointed out to her.

Coming down the ladder, they found Anania seated below.

"Well, girls! did you see the Queen?"

"Oh, we had a charming view of her," said Flemild.

"Folks say she's not so charming, seen a bit nearer. You know Veka, the wife of Chembel? She told me she'd heard Dame Ediva de Gathacra say the Queen's a perfect fury when she has her back up. Some of the scenes that are to be seen by nows and thens in Westminster Palace are enough to set your hair on end. And her extravagance! Will you believe it, Dame Ediva said, this last year she gave over twenty pounds for one robe. How many gowns would that buy you and me, Aunt Isel?"

At the present value of money, Her Majesty's robe cost rather more than 500.

"Bless you, I don't know," was Isel's answer. "Might be worth cracking my head over, if I were to have one of 'em when I'd done. But there's poor chance of that, I reckon; so I'll let it be."

"They say she sings superbly," said Flemild.

"Oh, very like. Folks may well sing that can afford to give twenty pound for a gown. If she'd her living to earn, and couldn't put a bit of bread in her mouth, nor in her children's, till she'd worked for it, she'd sing o' t'other side her mouth, most likely."

"Anania, don't talk so unseemly. I'm sure you've a good enough place."

"Oh, are you? I dress in samite, like the Queen, don't I?--and eat sturgeon and peac.o.c.ks to my dinner?--and drive of a gilt char when I come to see folks? I should just like to know why she must have all the good things in life, and I must put up with the hard ones? I'm as good a woman as she is, I'm sure of that."

"Cousin Anania," said Derette in a scandalised tone, "you should not tell us you're a good woman; you should wait till we tell you."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" snapped Anania.

"_I_ didn't tell you so because I don't think so," replied Derette with severity, "if you say such things of the Queen."

"Much anybody cares what you think, child. Why, just look!--tuns and tuns of Gascon wine are sent to Woodstock for her: and here must I make shift with small ale and thin mead that's half sour. She's only to ask and have."

"Well, I don't know," said Isel. "I wouldn't give my quiet home for a sup of Gascon wine--more by reason I don't like it. 'Scenes at Westminster Palace' are not things I covet. My poor Manning was peaceable enough, and took a many steps to save me, and I doubt if King Henry does even to it. Eh dear! if I did but know what had come of my poor man! I should have thought all them Saracens 'd have been dead and buried by now, when you think what lots of folks has gone off to kill 'em. And as to 'asking and having'--well, that hangs on what you ask for. There's a many folks asks for the moon, but I never heard tell as any of 'em had it."

"Why do folks go to kill the Saracens?" demanded Derette, still unsatisfied on that point.

"Saints know!" said her mother, using her favourite comfortable expletive. "I wish _he_ hadn't ha' gone--I do so!"

"It's a good work, child," explained Anania.